"THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD\n\nA TALE\n\nSupposed to be written by Himself\n\nBy Oliver Goldsmith\n\n\n\n     Sperate miseri, cavete faelices\n\n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT\n\nThere are an hundred faults in this Thing, and an hundred things might\nbe said to prove them beauties. But it is needless. A book may be\namusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single\nabsurdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest\ncharacters upon earth; he is a priest, an husbandman, and the father of\na family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready to obey, as simple\nin affluence, and majestic in adversity. In this age of opulence and\nrefinement whom can such a character please? Such as are fond of\nhigh life, will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his country\nfire-side. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his\nharmless conversation; and such as have been taught to deride religion,\nwill laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity.\n\nOLIVER GOLDSMITH\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n     1. The description of the family of Wakefield; in which a\n     kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons\n\n     2. Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to\n     increase the pride of the worthy\n\n     3. A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are\n     generally found at last to be of our own procuring\n\n     4. A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant\n     happiness, which depends not on circumstance, but\n     constitution 5. A new and great acquaintance introduced.\n     What we place most hopes upon generally proves most fatal\n\n     6. The happiness of a country fire-side\n\n     7. A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be\n     comical for a night or two\n\n     8. An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be\n     productive of much\n\n     9. Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior\n     finery ever seems to confer superior breeding\n\n     10. The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The\n     miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their\n     circumstances\n\n     11. The family still resolve to hold up their heads\n\n     12. Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of\n     Wakefield. Mortifications are often more painful than real\n     calamities\n\n     13. Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the\n     confidence to give disagreeable advice\n\n     14. Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming\n     calamities may be real blessings\n\n     15. All Mr Burchell's villainy at once detected. The folly\n     of being-over-wise\n\n     16. The Family use art, which is opposed with still greater\n\n     17. Scarce any virtue found to resist the power of long and\n     pleasing temptation 18. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a\n     lost child to virtue\n\n     19. The description of a Person discontented with the\n     present government, and apprehensive of the loss of our\n     liberties\n\n     20. The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty,\n     but losing content\n\n     21. The short continuance of friendship among the vicious,\n     which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction\n\n     22. Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at\n     bottom\n\n     23. None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable\n\n     24. Fresh calamities\n\n     25. No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some\n     sort of comfort attending it\n\n     26. A reformation in the gaol. To make laws complete, they\n     should reward as well as punish\n\n     27. The same subject continued\n\n     28. Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than\n     of virtue in this life. Temporal evils or felicities being\n     regarded by heaven as things merely in themselves trifling\n     and unworthy its care in the distribution\n\n     29. The equal dealings of providence demonstrated with\n     regard to the happy and the miserable here below. That from\n     the nature of pleasure and pain, the wretched must be repaid\n     the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter\n\n     30. Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible,\n     and fortune will at last change in our favour\n\n     31. Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest\n\n     32. The Conclusion\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 1\n\nThe description of the family of Wakefield; in which a kindred likeness\nprevails as well of minds as of persons\n\nI was ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up\na large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only\ntalked of population. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year\nbefore I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she\ndid her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surfaces but such qualities\nas would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable\nwoman; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could shew\nmore. She could read any English book without much spelling, but for\npickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided\nherself also upon being an excellent contriver in house-keeping; tho' I\ncould never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However,\nwe loved each other tenderly, and our fondness encreased as we grew old.\nThere was in fact nothing that could make us angry with the world or\neach other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country, and a\ngood neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements; in\nvisiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no\nrevolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by\nthe fire-side, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown.\n\nAs we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit\nus to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation; and\nI profess with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of\nthem find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove,\nall remembered their affinity, without any help from the Herald's\noffice, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great\nhonour by these claims of kindred; as we had the blind, the maimed, and\nthe halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that as\nthey were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same\ntable. So that if we had not, very rich, we generally had very happy\nfriends about us; for this remark will hold good thro' life, that the\npoorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated: and\nas some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing\nof a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces.\nHowever, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very\nbad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of,\nupon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a riding coat,\nor a pair of boots, or sometimes an horse of small value, and I always\nhad the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By\nthis the house was cleared of such as we did not like; but never was the\nfamily of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent\nout of doors.\n\nThus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that\nwe sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the\nvalue of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my\nwife's custards plundered by the cats or the children. The 'Squire would\nsometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his\nlady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated curtesy. But\nwe soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in\nthree or four days began to wonder how they vext us.\n\nMy children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without\nsoftness, so they were at once well formed and healthy; my sons hardy\nand active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the\nmidst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my\ndeclining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count\nAbensberg, who, in Henry II's progress through Germany, while other\ncourtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children,\nand presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had\nto bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a\nvery valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked upon\nit as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who\nleft us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to\ncall after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who during her pregnancy had\nbeen reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less\nthan another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined that\nGrissel should be her name; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand\ngodmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia; so that we\nhad two romantic names in the family; but I solemnly protest I had no\nhand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years,\nwe had two sons more.\n\nIt would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones\nabout me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even\ngreater than mine. When our visitors would say, 'Well, upon my word,\nMrs Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country.'--'Ay,\nneighbour,' she would answer, 'they are as heaven made them, handsome\nenough, if they be good enough; for handsome is that handsome does.'\nAnd then she would bid the girls hold up their heads; who, to conceal\nnothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling\na circumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to mention\nit, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country.\nOlivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which\npainters generally draw Hebe; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's\nfeatures were not so striking at first; but often did more certain\nexecution; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished\nby a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated.\n\nThe temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features,\nat least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers,\nSophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great a desire\nto please. Sophia even represt excellence from her fears to offend. The\none entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with\nher sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to\nexcess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a\nwhole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquet into a\nprude, and a new set of ribbands has given her younger sister more than\nnatural vivacity. My eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended\nhim for one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I\ndesigned for business, received a sort of a miscellaneous education at\nhome. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular characters\nof young people that had seen but very little of the world. In short, a\nfamily likeness prevailed through all, and properly speaking, they\nhad but one character, that of being all equally generous, credulous,\nsimple, and inoffensive.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 2\n\nFamily misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to encrease the\npride of the worthy\n\n\nThe temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's\nmanagement, as to the spiritual I took them entirely under my own\ndirection. The profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five\npounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of\nour diocese; for having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless\nof temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without\nreward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being\nacquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to\ntemperance and the bachelors to matrimony; so that in a few years it\nwas a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield,\na parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses wanting\ncustomers. Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote\nseveral sermons to prove its happiness: but there was a peculiar tenet\nwhich I made a point of supporting; for I maintained with Whiston, that\nit was unlawful for a priest of the church of England, after the death\nof his first wife, to take a second, or to express it in one word, I\nvalued myself upon being a strict monogamist. I was early innitiated\ninto this important dispute, on which so many laborious volumes have\nbeen written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as\nthey never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by the\nhappy Few. Some of my friends called this my weak side; but alas! they\nhad not like me made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I\nreflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went a step\nbeyond Whiston in displaying my principles: as he had engraven upon his\nwife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston; so I wrote\na similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled\nher prudence, oeconomy, and obedience till death; and having got\nit copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the\nchimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It\nadmonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her; it\ninspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of\nher end.\n\nIt was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that\nmy eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the\ndaughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church,\nand in circumstances to give her a large fortune: but fortune was her\nsmallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all,\nexcept my two daughters, to be completely pretty. Her youth, health,\nand innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and\nsuch an happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with\nindifference. As Mr Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome\nsettlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so both families\nlived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected\nalliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of courtship\nare the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the\nperiod; and the various amusements which the young couple every day\nshared in each other's company, seemed to encrease their passion. We\nwere generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a\nhunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to\ndress and study: they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves\nin the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page\nof greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead; for as she always\ninsisted upon carving every thing herself, it being her mother's way,\nshe gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we had\ndined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table\nto be removed; and sometimes, with the music master's assistance, the\ngirls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea,\ncountry dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without the\nassistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon,\nat which my old friend and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I\nhere pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we\nplayed together: I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce\nace five times running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till\nat last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the\nyoung couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations\nfor the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife,\nnor the sly looks of my daughters: in fact, my attention was fixed\non another object, the completing a tract which I intended shortly to\npublish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a\nmaster-piece both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my\nheart avoid shewing it to my old friend Mr Wilmot, as I made no doubt\nof receiving his approbation; but not till too late I discovered that\nhe was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good\nreason; for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This,\nas may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony,\nwhich threatened to interrupt our intended alliance: but on the day\nbefore that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject\nat large. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides: he asserted\nthat I was heterodox, I retorted the charge: he replied, and I rejoined.\nIn the mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by\none of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up\nthe dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. 'How,' cried\nI, 'relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be an husband, already\ndriven to the very verge of absurdity. You might as well advise me to\ngive up my fortune as my argument.' 'Your fortune,' returned my friend,\n'I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town,\nin whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute\nof bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound.\nI was unwilling to shock you or the family with the account till\nafter the wedding: but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the\nargument; for, I suppose, your own prudence will enforce the necessity\nof dissembling at least till your son has the young lady's fortune\nsecure.'--'Well,' returned I, 'if what you tell me be true, and if I am\nto be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to\ndisavow my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the company of my\ncircumstances; and as for the argument, I even here retract my former\nconcessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow him now to\nbe an husband in any sense of the expression.'\n\nIt would be endless to describe the different sensations of both\nfamilies when I divulged the news of our misfortune; but what others\nfelt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr Wilmot, who\nseemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by\nthis blow soon determined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was\nprudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 3\n\nA migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are generally\nfound at last to be of our own procuring\n\n\nThe only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortunes\nmight be malicious or premature: but a letter from my agent in town soon\ncame with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune to\nmyself alone would have been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was\nfor my family, who were to be humble without an education to render them\ncallous to contempt.\n\nNear a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their\naffliction; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of sorrow.\nDuring this interval, my thoughts were employed on some future means of\nsupporting them; and at last a small Cure of fifteen pounds a year was\noffered me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my\nprinciples without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed,\nhaving determined to encrease my salary by managing a little farm.\n\nHaving taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the\nwrecks of my fortune; and all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen\nthousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention\ntherefore was now to bring down the pride of my family to their\ncircumstances; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness\nitself. 'You cannot be ignorant, my children,' cried I, 'that no\nprudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence\nmay do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings,\nand wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without\nrepining, give up those splendours with which numbers are wretched, and\nseek in humbler circumstances that peace with which all may be happy.\nThe poor live pleasantly without our help, why then should not we learn\nto live without theirs. No, my children, let us from this moment give up\nall pretensions to gentility; we have still enough left for happiness\nif we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of\nfortune.' As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him\nto town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his\nown. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most\ndistressful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on\nwhich we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking leave\nof his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses,\ncame to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and\nwhich, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow.\n'You are going, my boy,' cried I, 'to London on foot, in the manner\nHooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me\nthe same horse that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, this staff,\nand take this book too, it will be your comfort on the way: these two\nlines in it are worth a million, I have been young, and now am old; yet\nnever saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.\nLet this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be\nthy fortune let me see thee once a year; still keep a good heart, and\nfarewell.' As he was possest of integrity and honour, I was under no\napprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life; for\nI knew he would act a good part whether vanquished or victorious. His\ndeparture only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few days\nafterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many\nhours of tranquility, was not without a tear, which scarce fortitude\nitself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family\nthat had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with\napprehension, and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles,\ncontributed to encrease it. The first day's journey brought us in safety\nwithin thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the night\nat an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shewn a room, I\ndesired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his company,\nwith which he complied, as what he drank would encrease the bill next\nmorning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was\nremoving, particularly 'Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and\nwho lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described\nas one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures,\nbeing particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He\nobserved that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and\nthat scarce a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but what had\nfound him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some\npain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features\nseemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph, nor\nwas my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue.\nWhile our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to\ninform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in\nthe house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning.\n'Want money!' replied the host, 'that must be impossible; for it was no\nlater than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an\nold broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for\ndog-stealing.' The hostess, however, still persisting in her first\nassertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be\nsatisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce\nme to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he\ncomplied, shewing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, drest in\ncloaths that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face\nmarked with the lines of thinking. He had something short and dry in his\naddress, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon\nthe landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern\nto the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered\nhim my purse to satisfy the present demand. 'I take it with all my\nheart, Sir,' replied he, 'and am glad that a late oversight in giving\nwhat money I had about me, has shewn me that there are still some men\nlike you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the\nname and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as\npossible.' In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name\nand late misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove.\n'This,' cried he, 'happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I\nam going the same way myself, having been detained here two days by the\nfloods, which, I hope, by to-morrow will be found passable.' I testified\nthe pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters\njoining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The\nstranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive,\ninduced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time to\nretire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day.\n\nThe next morning we all set forward together: my family on horseback,\nwhile Mr Burchell, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by\nthe road-side, observing, with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he\nwould be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods\nwere not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted\non before, Mr Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the\nfatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to\nunderstand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he was\na money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as\nif he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the\ndifferent seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road.\n'That,' cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at\nsome distance, 'belongs to Mr Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a\nlarge fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle,\nSir William Thornhill, a gentleman, who content with a little himself,\npermits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.'\n'What!' cried I, 'is my young landlord then the nephew of a man whose\nvirtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known? I have\nheard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most generous,\nyet whimsical, men in the kingdom; a man of consumate\nbenevolence'--'Something, perhaps, too much so,' replied Mr Burchell,\n'at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young; for his\npassions were then strong, and as they all were upon the side of virtue,\nthey led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the\nqualifications of the soldier and scholar; was soon distinguished in\nthe army and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation\never follows the ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from\nflattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one side of\ntheir character; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest\nin universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him\nfrom knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder\nin which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest\ntouch gives pain: what some have thus suffered in their persons, this\ngentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or\nfictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a\nsickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve,\nit will be easily conjectured, he found numbers disposed to solicit: his\nprofusions began to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature; that,\nindeed, was seen to encrease as the other seemed to decay: he grew\nimprovident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of sense,\nhis actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with\nimportunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made\nhim, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow,\nand he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial.\nBy this he drew round him crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to\ndisappoint; yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and\nleft him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he\nbecame contemptable to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind\nhad leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he could\nfind no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never\nlearnt to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect;\nthe flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation.\nApprobation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when\nrejected produced their reproaches. He now, therefore found that such\nfriends as benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable: he\nnow found that a man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of\nanother. I now found, that--that--I forget what I was going to observe:\nin short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of\nrestoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical\nmanner he travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has\nscarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent\nthan ever. At present, his bounties are more rational and moderate than\nbefore; but still he preserves the character of an humourist, and finds\nmost pleasure in eccentric virtues.'\n\nMy attention was so much taken up by Mr Burchell's account, that I\nscarce looked forward as we went along, til we were alarmed by the cries\nof my family, when turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the\nmidst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with the\ntorrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself\nin time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent to\npermit my attempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished had\nnot my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her\nrelief, and with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite\nshore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the\nfamily got safely over; where we had an opportunity of joining our\nacknowledgments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined\nthan described: she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words,\nand continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive\nassistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning\nhis kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next\ninn, and had dined together, as Mr Burchell was going to a different\npart of the country, he took leave; and we pursued our journey. My wife\nobserving as we went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that\nif he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family\nas our's, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but\nsmile to hear her talk in this lofty strain: but I was never much\ndispleased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more\nhappy.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 4\n\nA proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which\ndepends not on circumstance, but constitution\n\n\nThe place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting\nof farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to\nopulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniencies of life\nwithin themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of\nsuperfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primaeval\nsimplicity of manners, and frugal by habit, they scarce knew that\ntemperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of\nlabour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure.\nThey kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine\nmorning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first of\nApril, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprized of\nour approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister,\ndrest in their finest cloaths, and preceded by a pipe and tabor: A feast\nalso was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down;\nand what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter.\n\nOur little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill,\nsheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a pratling river\nbefore; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of\nabout twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound\nfor my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my\nlittle enclosures: the elms and hedge rows appearing with inexpressible\nbeauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with\nthatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside\nwere nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with\npictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for\nparlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was\nkept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being\nwell scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye\nwas agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were\nthree other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two\ndaughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of\nthe children.\n\nThe little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following\nmanner: by sun-rise we all assembled in our common appartment; the fire\nbeing previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each\nother with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some\nmechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys\nfriendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another\nday. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual\nindustry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in\nproviding breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed\nhalf an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken\nup in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical\narguments between my son and me.\n\nAs we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it was\ngone down, but returned home to the expecting family; where smiling\nlooks, a treat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our\nreception. Nor were we without guests: sometimes farmer Flamborough, our\ntalkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit,\nand taste our gooseberry wine; for the making of which we had lost\nneither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had\nseveral ways of being good company, while one played, the other would\nsing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the\ncruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began\nthe morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of\nthe day, and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have an\nhalf-penny on Sunday to put in the poor's box.\n\nWhen Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary\nedicts could not restrain. How well so ever I fancied my lectures\nagainst pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters; yet I still\nfound them secretly attached to all their former finery: they still\nloved laces, ribbands, bugles and catgut; my wife herself retained a\npassion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it\nbecame her.\n\nThe first Sunday in particular their behaviour served to mortify me: I\nhad desired my girls the preceding night to be drest early the next day;\nfor I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the\ncongregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were to\nassemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters,\ndrest out in all their former splendour: their hair plaistered up with\npomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up into an\nheap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at\ntheir vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more\ndiscretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order\nmy son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were\namazed at the command; but I repeated it with more solemnity than\nbefore.--'Surely, my dear, you jest,' cried my wife, 'we can walk it\nperfectly well: we want no coach to carry us now.' 'You mistake, child,'\nreturned I, 'we do want a coach; for if we walk to church in this trim,\nthe very children in the parish will hoot after us.'--'Indeed,' replied\nmy wife, 'I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his\nchildren neat and handsome about him.'--'You may be as neat as you\nplease,' interrupted I, 'and I shall love you the better for it, but all\nthis is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings,\nand patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of all our\nneighbours. No, my children,' continued I, more gravely, 'those gowns\nmay be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is very\nunbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether\nsuch flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we\nconsider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the\nindigent world may be cloathed from the trimmings of the vain.'\n\nThis remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure,\nthat very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the\nsatisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request employed in\ncutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the\ntwo little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed\nimproved by this curtailing.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 5\n\nA new and great acquaintance introduced. What we place most hopes upon,\ngenerally proves most fatal\n\n\nAt a small distance from the house my predecessor had made a seat,\novershaded by an hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the\nweather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we usually sate\ntogether, to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm of the evening.\nHere too we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet; and\nas we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for\nit being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these\noccasions, our two little ones always read for us, and they were\nregularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our\namusements, the girls sung to the guitar; and while they thus formed a\nlittle concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that\nwas embellished with blue bells and centaury, talk of our children with\nrapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony.\n\nIn this manner we began to find that every situation in life might bring\nits own peculiar pleasures: every morning waked us to a repetition of\ntoil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.\n\nIt was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as\nintervals of relaxation from labour, that I had drawn out my family to\nour usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual\nconcert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within\nabout twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting, it\nseemed prest by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the\npoor animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come\nsweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it\nhad taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family; but either\ncuriosity or surprize, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and\ndaughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, past us with\ngreat swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in\nequal haste. At last, a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance\nthan the rest, came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of\npursuing the chace, stopt short, and giving his horse to a servant who\nattended, approached us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want\nno introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain\nof a kind reception; but they had early learnt the lesson of looking\npresumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know that his name\nwas Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate that lay for some\nextent round us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part\nof the family, and such was the power of fortune and fine cloaths, that\nhe found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy,\nwe soon became more familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying\nnear, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such\ndisproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in order to\nprevent their compliance; but my hint was counteracted by one from their\nmother; so that with a chearful air they gave us, a favourite song of\nDryden's. Mr Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their performance\nand choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very\nindifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause\nwith interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even\nthose of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she\nreturned with a curtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his\nunderstanding: an age could not have made them better acquainted.\nWhile the fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's\nstepping in, and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family\nseemed earnest to please him: my girls attempted to entertain him with\ntopics they thought most modern, while Moses, on the contrary, gave him\na question or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction\nof being laughed at: my little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck\nclose to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarce keep their dirty\nfingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his cloaths, and\nlifting up the flaps of his pocket holes, to see what was there. At\nthe approach of evening he took leave; but not till he had requested\npermission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most\nreadily agreed to.\n\nAs soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the\nday. She was of opinion, that it was a most fortunate hit; for that she\nhad known even stranger things at last brought to bear. She hoped again\nto see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of\nthem; and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two\nMiss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children get none.\nAs this last argument was directed to me, I protested I could see no\nreason for it neither, nor why Mr Simpkins got the ten thousand pound\nprize in the lottery, and we sate down with a blank. 'I protest,\nCharles,' cried my wife, 'this is the way you always damp my girls and\nme when we are in Spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think\nof our new visitor? Don't you think he seemed to be\ngood-natured?'--'Immensely so, indeed, Mamma,' replied she. 'I think he\nhas a great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at a loss; and\nthe more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.'--'Yes,' cried\nOlivia, 'he is well enough for a man; but for my part, I don't much like\nhim, he is so extremely impudent and familiar; but on the guitar he is\nshocking.' These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found\nby this, that Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly\nadmired him.--'Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children,'\ncried I, 'to confess a truth, he has not prepossest me in his favour.\nDisproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust; and I thought,\nnotwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible of the\ndistance between us. Let us keep to companions of our own rank. There is\nno character more contemptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter, and\nI can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be contemptible\ntoo. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honourable;\nbut if they be otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that! It\nis true I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my children, but I\nthink there are some from his character.'--I would have proceeded,\nbut for the interruption of a servant from the 'Squire, who, with his\ncompliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us\nsome days after. This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his\nfavour, than any thing I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued\nsilent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to\ntheir own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever\nguarded, is scarce worth the centinel.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 6\n\nThe happiness of a country fire-side\n\n\nAs we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order\nto accommodate matters, it was universally agreed, that we should have\na part of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task with\nalacrity. 'I am sorry,' cried I, 'that we have no neighbour or stranger\nto take a part in this good cheer: feasts of this kind acquire a double\nrelish from hospitality.'--'Bless me,' cried my wife, 'here comes our\ngood friend Mr Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down\nfairly in the argument'--'Confute me in argument, child!' cried I. 'You\nmistake there, my dear. I believe there are but few that can do that:\nI never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pye, and I beg you'll\nleave argument to me.'--As I spoke, poor Mr Burchell entered the house,\nand was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the hand,\nwhile little Dick officiously reached him a chair.\n\nI was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons; because I\nknew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he\nwas able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the poor\nGentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet\nthirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense; but in general\nhe was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless\nlittle men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and\ntelling them stories; and seldom went out without something in his\npockets for them, a piece of gingerbread, or an halfpenny whistle. He\ngenerally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a year, and\nlived upon the neighbours hospitality. He sate down to supper among us,\nand my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went round;\nhe sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck\nof Beverland, with the history of Patient Grissel, the adventures of\nCatskin, and then Fair Rosamond's bower. Our cock, which always crew at\neleven, now told us it was time for repose; but an unforeseen difficulty\nstarted about lodging the stranger: all our beds were already taken up,\nand it was too late to send him to the next alehouse. In this dilemma,\nlittle Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would\nlet him lie with him; 'And I,' cried Bill, 'will give Mr Burchell\nmy part, if my sisters will take me to theirs.'--'Well done, my good\nchildren,' cried I, 'hospitality is one of the first Christian duties.\nThe beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies to its nest; but\nhelpless man can only find refuge from his fellow creature. The greatest\nstranger in this world, was he that came to save it. He never had an\nhouse, as if willing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst\nus. Deborah, my dear,' cried I, to my wife, 'give those boys a lump of\nsugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first.'\n\nIn the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving\nan after-growth of hay, and, our guest offering his assistance, he was\naccepted among the number. Our labours went on lightly, we turned\nthe swath to the wind, I went foremost, and the rest followed in due\nsuccession. I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr\nBurchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When\nhe had finished his own, he would join in her's, and enter into a close\nconversation: but I had too good an opinion of Sophia's understanding,\nand was too well convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness\nfrom a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr\nBurchell was invited as on the night before; but he refused, as he was\nto lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a\nwhistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late\nunfortunate guest. 'What a strong instance,' said I, 'is that poor man\nof the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He by no\nmeans wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor\nforlorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that\nhe could once inspire and command! Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio\npander, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and\nnow they applaud the pander: their former raptures at his wit, are now\nconverted into sarcasms at his folly: he is poor, and perhaps deserves\npoverty; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the\nskill to be useful.' Prompted, perhaps, by some secret reasons, I\ndelivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia\ngently reproved. 'Whatsoever his former conduct may be, pappa, his\ncircumstances should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence\nis a sufficient punishment for former folly; and I have heard my pappa\nhimself say, that we should never strike our unnecessary blow at a\nvictim over whom providence holds the scourge of its resentment.'--'You\nare right, Sophy,' cried my son Moses, 'and one of the ancients finely\nrepresents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay\nMarsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stript off by\nanother.' Besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be so bad\nas my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings\nof others by what we might feel if in their place. However dark the\nhabitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the\napartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess a truth, this man's\nmind seems fitted to his station; for I never heard any one more\nsprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you.'--This was\nsaid without the least design, however it excited a blush, which she\nstrove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring him, that she scarce took\nany notice of what he said to her; but that she believed he might once\nhave been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she undertook\nto vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not\ninternally approve; but I represt my suspicions.\n\nAs we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the\nvenison pasty; Moses sate reading, while I taught the little ones: my\ndaughters seemed equally busy with the rest; and I observed them for\na good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they\nwere assisting their mother; but little Dick informed me in a whisper,\nthat they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a\nnatural antipathy to; for I knew that instead of mending the complexion\nthey spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the\nfire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by\naccident, overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to begin\nanother.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 7\n\nA town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be comical for a\nnight or two\n\n\nWhen the morning arrived on which we were to entertain our young\nlandlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were exhausted\nto make an appearance. It may also be conjectured that my wife and\ndaughters expanded their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr Thornhill\ncame with a couple of friends, his chaplain, and feeder. The servants,\nwho were numerous, he politely ordered to the next ale-house: but my\nwife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all;\nfor which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after.\nAs Mr Burchell had hinted to us the day before, that he was making some\nproposals of marriage, to Miss Wilmot, my son George's former mistress,\nthis a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception: but accident,\nin some measure, relieved our embarrasment; for one of the company\nhappening to mention her name, Mr Thornhill observed with an oath, that\nhe never knew any thing more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty:\n'For strike me ugly,' continued he, 'if I should not find as much\npleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the\nclock at St Dunstan's.' At this he laughed, and so did we:--the jests\nof the rich are ever successful. Olivia too could not avoid whispering,\nloud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. After\ndinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church; for this I was thanked\nby the chaplain, as he said the church was the only mistress of his\naffections.--'Come tell us honestly, Frank,' said the 'Squire, with his\nusual archness, 'suppose the church, your present mistress, drest in\nlawnsleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on\nthe other, which would you be for?' 'For both, to be sure,' cried\nthe chaplain.--'Right Frank,' cried the 'Squire; 'for may this glass\nsuffocate me but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the\ncreation. For what are tythes and tricks but an imposition, all a\nconfounded imposture, and I can prove it.'--'I wish you would,' cried my\nson Moses, 'and I think,' continued he, 'that I should be able to answer\nyou.'--'Very well, Sir,' cried the 'Squire, who immediately smoaked\nhim,' and winking on the rest of the company, to prepare us for the\nsport, if you are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready\nto accept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it\nanalogically, or dialogically?' 'I am for managing it rationally,' cried\nMoses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. 'Good again,' cried\nthe 'Squire, 'and firstly, of the first. I hope you'll not deny\nthat whatever is is. If you don't grant me that, I can go no\nfurther.'--'Why,' returned Moses, 'I think I may grant that, and make\nthe best of it.'--'I hope too,' returned the other, 'you'll grant that\na part is less than the whole.' 'I grant that too,' cried Moses, 'it is\nbut just and reasonable.'--'I hope,' cried the 'Squire, 'you will\nnot deny, that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right\nones.'--'Nothing can be plainer,' returned t'other, and looked round\nwith his usual importance.--'Very well,' cried the 'Squire, speaking\nvery quick, 'the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe,\nthat the concatenation of self existences, proceeding in a reciprocal\nduplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical dialogism, which in\nsome measure proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to\nthe second predicable'--'Hold, hold,' cried the other, 'I deny that:\nDo you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox\ndoctrines?'--'What,' replied the 'Squire, as if in a passion, 'not\nsubmit! Answer me one plain question: Do you think Aristotle right\nwhen he says, that relatives are related?' 'Undoubtedly,' replied the\nother.--'If so then,' cried the 'Squire, 'answer me directly to what I\npropose: Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first\npart of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and give\nme your reasons: give me your reasons, I say, directly.'--'I protest,'\ncried Moses, 'I don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning;\nbut if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have\nan answer.'--'O sir,' cried the 'Squire, 'I am your most humble servant,\nI find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No,\nsir, there I protest you are too hard for me.' This effectually raised\nthe laugh against poor Moses, who sate the only dismal figure in a\ngroupe of merry faces: nor, did he offer a single syllable more during\nthe whole entertainment.\n\nBut though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different effect\nupon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of the\nmemory. She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman; and such as\nconsider what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine cloaths, and\nfortune, are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr Thornhill,\nnotwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could\nexpatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is not\nsurprising then that such talents should win the affections of a girl,\nwho by education was taught to value an appearance in herself, and\nconsequently to set a value upon it in another.\n\nUpon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of\nour young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia,\nit was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to\nbe our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent\nraillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah\nherself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her\ndaughter's victory as if it were her own. 'And now, my dear,' cried\nshe to me, 'I'll fairly own, that it was I that instructed my girls to\nencourage our landlord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and\nyou now see that I was right; for who knows how this may end?' 'Ay, who\nknows that indeed,' answered I, with a groan: 'for my part I don't much\nlike it; and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor and\nhonest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infidelity; for\ndepend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no free-thinker shall ever\nhave a child of mine.' 'Sure, father,' cried Moses, 'you are too severe\nin this; for heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for\nwhat he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise\nwithout his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion, may be\ninvoluntary with this gentleman: so that allowing his sentiments to be\nwrong, yet as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to be\nblamed for his errors than the governor of a city without walls for the\nshelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy.'\n\n'True, my son,' cried I; 'but if the governor invites the enemy, there\nhe is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who\nembrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they\nsee; but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that,\nthough our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we have\nbeen wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, we deserve\npunishment for our vice, or contempt for our folly.' My wife now kept\nup the conversation, though not the argument: she observed, that several\nvery prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very\ngood husbands; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to\nmake converts of their spouses: 'And who knows, my dear,' continued she,\n'what Olivia may be able to do. The girl has a great deal to say upon\nevery subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled in controversy.'\n\n'Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?' cried I. 'It does\nnot occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands: you certainly\nover-rate her merit.' 'Indeed, pappa,' replied Olivia, 'she does not: I\nhave read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between\nThwackum and Square; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and\nFriday the savage, and I am now employed in reading the controversy in\nReligious courtship'--'Very well,' cried I, 'that's a good girl, I find\nyou are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your\nmother to make the gooseberry-pye.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 8\n\nAn amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be productive of\nmuch\n\n\nThe next morning we were again visited by Mr Burchell, though I began,\nfor certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return;\nbut I could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It is true his\nlabour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us\nwith vigour, and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself\nforemost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened\nour toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that\nI loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an\nattachment he discovered to my daughter: he would, in a jesting manner,\ncall her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a\nset of ribbands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day\nseemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to\nassume the superior airs of wisdom.\n\nOur family dined in the field, and we sate, or rather reclined, round a\ntemperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr Burchell gave\ncheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two blackbirds\nanswered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came\nand pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the\necho of tranquillity. 'I never sit thus,' says Sophia, 'but I think of\nthe two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck dead in\neach other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description,\nthat I have read it an hundred times with new rapture.'--'In my\nopinion,' cried my son, 'the finest strokes in that description are much\nbelow those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands\nthe use of contrast better, and upon that figure artfully managed\nall strength in the pathetic depends.'--'It is remarkable,' cried Mr\nBurchell, 'that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to\nintroduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all\ntheir lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily\nimitated in their defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter\nempire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant\nimages, without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that improve the\nsound, without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I\nthus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an\nopportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to\nhave an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which,\nwhatever be its other defects, is I think at least free from those I\nhave mentioned.'\n\n\nA BALLAD.\n\n'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon\ntaper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray.\n\n'For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where\nwilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.'\n\n'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'To tempt the dangerous gloom; For\nyonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.\n\n'Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; And tho' my\nportion is but scant, I give it with good will.\n\n'Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy\ncouch, and frugal fare, My blessing and repose.\n\n'No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn: Taught by\nthat power that pities me, I learn to pity them.\n\n'But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip\nwith herbs and fruits supply'd, And water from the spring.\n\n'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong:\nMan wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.'\n\nSoft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell: The\nmodest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell.\n\nFar in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the\nneighbouring poor, And strangers led astray.\n\nNo stores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care; The wicket\nopening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair.\n\nAnd now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit\ntrimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest:\n\nAnd spread his vegetable store, And gayly prest, and smil'd; And skill'd\nin legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil'd.\n\nAround in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket\nchirrups in the hearth; The crackling faggot flies.\n\nBut nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger's woe; For grief\nwas heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow.\n\nHis rising cares the hermit spy'd, With answering care opprest: 'And\nwhence, unhappy youth,' he cry'd, 'The sorrows of thy breast?\n\n'From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove; Or grieve\nfor friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love?\n\n'Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those\nwho prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they.\n\n'And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade\nthat follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep?\n\n'And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest: On\nearth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest.\n\n'For shame fond youth thy sorrows hush And spurn the sex,' he said: But\nwhile he spoke a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd.\n\nSurpriz'd he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like\ncolours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too.\n\nThe bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms: The lovely\nstranger stands confest A maid in all her charms.\n\n'And, ah,'forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,' she cry'd; 'Whose\nfeet unhallowed thus intrude Where heaven and you reside.\n\n'But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks\nfor rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.\n\n'My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy Lord was he; And all his\nwealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me.\n\n'To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who prais'd me\nfor imputed charms, And felt or feign'd a flame.\n\n'Each hour a mercenary crowd, With richest proffers strove: Among the\nrest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.\n\n'In humble simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and\nworth were all he had, But these were all to me.\n\n'The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin'd, Could\nnought of purity display, To emulate his mind.\n\n'The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their\ncharms were his, but woe to me, Their constancy was mine.\n\n'For still I try'd each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his\npassion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain.\n\n'Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a\nsolitude forlorn, In secret where he died.\n\n'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll\nseek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay.\n\n'And there forlorn despairing hid, I'll lay me down and die: 'Twas so\nfor me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.'\n\n'Forbid it heaven!' the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast: The\nwondering fair one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest.\n\n'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see, Thy own, thy\nlong-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee.\n\n'Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign: And shall we\nnever, never part, My life,--my all that's mine.\n\n'No, never, from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The\nsigh that tends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too.'\n\nWhile this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness\nwith her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by\nthe report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen\nbursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This\nsportsman was the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds\nthat so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near,\nstartled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in the fright\nhad thrown herself into Mr Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman\ncame up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he\nwas ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sate down by my youngest\ndaughter, and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed that\nmorning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother\nsoon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though\nwith some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a\nwhisper, observing, that Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain, as\nwell as her sister had of the 'Squire. I suspected, however, with more\nprobability, that her affections were placed upon a different object.\nThe chaplain's errand was to inform us, that Mr Thornhill had provided\nmusic and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies\na ball by moon-light, on the grass-plot before our door. 'Nor can I\ndeny,' continued he, 'but I have an interest in being first to deliver\nthis message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with miss Sophy's\nhand as a partner.' To this my girl replied, that she should have no\nobjection, if she could do it with honour: 'But here,' continued she,\n'is a gentleman,' looking at Mr Burchell, 'who has been my companion in\nthe task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements.'\nMr Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions; but resigned\nher up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five miles,\nbeing invited to an harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a\nlittle extraordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as\nmy youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one\nwhose expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of\ndistinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest\njudgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and\nare furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 9\n\nTwo ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior finery ever seems\nto confer superior breeding\n\n\nMr Burchell had scarce taken leave, and Sophia consented to dance with\nthe chaplain, when my little ones came running out to tell us that the\n'Squire was come, with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we found our\nlandlord, with a couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly\ndrest, whom he introduced as women of very great distinction and fashion\nfrom town. We happened not to have chairs enough for the whole company;\nbut Mr Thornhill immediately proposed that every gentleman should sit in\na lady's lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of\ndisapprobation from my wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to borrow a\ncouple of chairs; and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set at\ncountry dances, the two gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of\npartners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. The gentlemen returned\nwith my neighbour Flamborough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red\ntop-knots, but an unlucky circumstance was not adverted to; though the\nMiss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish,\nand understood the jig and the round-about to perfection; yet they were\ntotally unacquainted with country dances.' This at first discomposed us:\nhowever, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily\non. Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon\nshone bright, Mr Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to\nthe great delight of the spectators; for the neighbours hearing what was\ngoing forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much grace\nand vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride of her\nheart, by assuring me, that though the little chit did it so cleverly,\nall the steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove\nhard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled,\nlanguished, and frisked; but all would not do: the gazers indeed owned\nthat it was fine; but neighbour Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy's\nfeet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance had\ncontinued about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive of\ncatching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought,\nexpressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse manner,\nwhen she observed, that by the living jingo, she was all of a muck\nof sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very elegant cold\nsupper, which Mr Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. The\nconversation at this time was more reserved than before. The two ladies\nthrew my girls quite into the shade; for they would talk of nothing but\nhigh life, and high lived company; with other fashionable topics, such\nas pictures, taste, Shakespear, and the musical glasses. 'Tis true they\nonce or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an oath; but that\nappeared to me as the surest symptom of their distinction, (tho' I am\nsince informed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable.) Their finery,\nhowever, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My\ndaughters seemed to regard their superior accomplishments with envy; and\nwhat appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top quality breeding. But\nthe condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other\naccomplishments. One of them observed, that had miss Olivia seen a\nlittle more of the world, it would greatly improve her. To which the\nother added, that a single winter in town would make her little Sophia\nquite another thing. My wife warmly assented to both; adding, that there\nwas nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a single\nwinter's polishing. To this I could not help replying, that their\nbreeding was already superior to their fortune; and that greater\nrefinement would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give\nthem a taste for pleasures they had no right to possess.--'And what\npleasures,' cried Mr Thornhill, 'do they not deserve to possess, who\nhave so much in their power to bestow? As for my part,' continued he,\n'my fortune is pretty large, love, liberty, and pleasure, are my maxims;\nbut curse me if a settlement of half my estate could give my charming\nOlivia pleasure, it should be hers; and the only favour I would ask in\nreturn would be to add myself to the benefit.' I was not such a stranger\nto the world as to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to\ndisguise the insolence of the basest proposal; but I made an effort\nto suppress my resentment. 'Sir,' cried I, 'the family which you now\ncondescend to favour with your company, has been bred with as nice a\nsense of honour as you. Any attempts to injure that, may be attended\nwith very dangerous consequences. Honour, Sir, is our only possession at\npresent, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful.'--I\nwas soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the\nyoung gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, though\nhe disapproved my suspicions. 'As to your present hint,' continued he,\n'I protest nothing was farther from my heart than such a thought. No,\nby all that's tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular siege was\nnever to my taste; for all my amours are carried by a coup de main.'\n\nThe two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly\ndispleased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet\nand serious dialogue upon virtue: in this my wife, the chaplain, and I,\nsoon joined; and the 'Squire himself was at last brought to confess a\nsense of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the pleasures of\ntemperance, and of the sun-shine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I\nwas so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the usual\ntime to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr Thornhill even went\nbeyond me, and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I\njoyfully embraced the proposal, and in this manner the night was passed\nin a most comfortable way, till at last the company began to think of\nreturning. The ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my daughters;\nfor whom they had conceived a particular affection, and joined in a\nrequest to have the pleasure of their company home. The 'Squire seconded\nthe proposal, and my wife added her entreaties: the girls too looked\nupon me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made two or three\nexcuses, which my daughters as readily removed; so that at last I was\nobliged to give a peremptory refusal; for which we had nothing but\nsullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 10\n\nThe family endeavours to cope with their betters. The miseries of the\npoor when they attempt to appear above their circumstances\n\n\nI now began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon\ntemperance, simplicity, and contentment, were entirely disregarded. The\ndistinctions lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride which I\nhad laid asleep, but not removed. Our windows again, as formerly, were\nfilled with washes for the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an\nenemy to the skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the\ncomplexion within. My wife observed, that rising too early would hurt\nher daughters' eyes, that working after dinner would redden their noses,\nand she convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when they\ndid nothing. Instead therefore of finishing George's shirts, we now had\nthem new modelling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The\npoor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as\nmean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life and\nhigh lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakespear, and the musical\nglasses.\n\nBut we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling gypsey come\nto raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sybil no sooner appeared,\nthan my girls came running to me for a shilling a piece to cross her\nhand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of being always wise,\nand could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to see them\nhappy. I gave each of them a shilling; though, for the honour of\nthe family, it must be observed, that they never went without money\nthemselves, as my wife always generously let them have a guinea each, to\nkeep in their pockets; but with strict injunctions never to change it.\nAfter they had been closetted up with the fortune-teller for some time,\nI knew by their looks, upon their returning, that they had been promised\nsomething great.--'Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me, Livy, has\nthe fortune-teller given thee a pennyworth?'--'I protest, pappa,' says\nthe girl, 'I believe she deals with some body that's not right; for she\npositively declared, that I am to be married to a 'Squire in less than a\ntwelvemonth!'--'Well now, Sophy, my child,' said I, 'and what sort of a\nhusband are you to have?' 'Sir,' replied she, 'I am to have a Lord soon\nafter my sister has married the 'Squire.'--'How,' cried I, 'is that all\nyou are to have for your two shillings! Only a Lord and a 'Squire for\ntwo shillings! You fools, I could have promised you a Prince and a Nabob\nfor half the money.' This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended\nwith very serious effects: we now began to think ourselves designed\nby the stars for something exalted, and already anticipated our future\ngrandeur. It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it\nonce more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view, are more\npleasing than those crowned with fruition. In the first case we cook the\ndish to our own appetite; in the latter nature cooks it for us. It is\nimpossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up for\nour entertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising;\nand as the whole parish asserted that the 'Squire was in love with my\ndaughter, she was actually so with him; for they persuaded her into the\npassion. In this agreeable interval, my wife had the most lucky dreams\nin the world, which she took care to tell us every morning, with great\nsolemnity and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross bones,\nthe sign of an approaching wedding: at another time she imagined her\ndaughters' pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign of their being\nshortly stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They\nfelt strange kisses on their lips; they saw rings in the candle, purses\nbounced from the fire, and true love-knots lurked in the bottom of every\ntea-cup.\n\nTowards the end of the week we received a card from the town ladies;\nin which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our family at\nchurch the Sunday following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in\nconsequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference together,\nand now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot.\nTo be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was\npreparing for appearing with splendor the next day. In the evening they\nbegan their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife undertook\nto conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began\nthus.--'I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good\ncompany at our church to-morrow,'--'Perhaps we may, my dear,' returned\nI; 'though you need be under no uneasiness about that, you shall have a\nsermon whether there be or not.'--'That is what I expect,' returned she;\n'but I think, my dear, we ought to appear there as decently as possible,\nfor who knows what may happen?' 'Your precautions,' replied I, 'are\nhighly commendable. A decent behaviour and appearance in church is what\ncharms me. We should be devout and humble, chearful and serene.'--'Yes,'\ncried she, 'I know that; but I mean we should go there in as proper a\nmanner as possible; not altogether like the scrubs about us.' 'You are\nquite right, my dear,' returned I, 'and I was going to make the very\nsame proposal. The proper manner of going is, to go there as early\nas possible, to have time for meditation before the service\nbegins.'--'Phoo, Charles,' interrupted she, 'all that is very true; but\nnot what I would be at. I mean, we should go there genteelly. You\nknow the church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my\ndaughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed and red with walking,\nand, looking for all the world as if they had been winners at a smock\nrace. Now, my dear, my proposal is this: there are our two plow horses,\nthe Colt that has been in our family these nine years, and his companion\nBlackberry, that have scarce done an earthly thing for this month past.\nThey are both grown fat and lazy. Why should not they do something as\nwell as we? And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little,\nthey will cut a very tolerable figure.' To this proposal I objected,\nthat walking would be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry\nconveyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the Colt wanted a tail:\nthat they had never been broke to the rein; but had an hundred vicious\ntricks; and that we had but one saddle and pillion in the whole house.\nAll these objections, however, were over-ruled; so that I was obliged\nto comply. The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in\ncollecting such materials as might be necessary for the expedition; but\nas I found it would be a business of time, I walked on to the church\nbefore, and they promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour\nin the reading desk for their arrival; but not finding them come as\nexpected, I was obliged to begin, and went through the service, not\nwithout some uneasiness at finding them absent. This was encreased when\nall was finished, and no appearance of the family. I therefore walked\nback by the horse-way, which was five miles round, tho' the foot-way\nwas but two, and when got about half way home, perceived the procession\nmarching slowly forward towards the church; my son, my wife, and the two\nlittle ones exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters upon the other.\nI demanded the cause of their delay; but I soon found by their looks\nthey had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at\nfirst refused to move from the door, till Mr Burchell was kind enough to\nbeat them forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next the\nstraps of my wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop\nto repair them before they could proceed. After that, one of the horses\ntook it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties\ncould prevail with him to proceed. It was just recovering from this\ndismal situation that I found them; but perceiving every thing safe, I\nown their present mortification did not much displease me, as it would\ngive me many opportunities of future triumph, and teach my daughters\nmore humility.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 11\n\nThe family still resolve to hold up their heads\n\n\nMichaelmas eve happening on the next day, we were invited to burn nuts\nand play tricks at neighbour Flamborough's. Our late mortifications had\nhumbled us a little, or it is probable we might have rejected such an\ninvitation with contempt: however, we suffered ourselves to be\nhappy. Our honest neighbour's goose and dumplings were fine, and the\nlamb's-wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoiseur, was\nexcellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was not quite so\nwell. They were very long, and very dull, and all about himself, and we\nhad laughed at them ten times before: however, we were kind enough to\nlaugh at them once more.\n\nMr Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing some\ninnocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and girls to blind\nman's buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the diversion, and it\ngave me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the mean time, my\nneighbour and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own\ndexterity when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions\nand commands followed that, and last of all, they sate down to hunt\nthe slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with this primaeval\npastime, it may be necessary to observe, that the company at this play\nthemselves in a ring upon the ground, all, except one who stands in the\nmiddle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the company shove\nabout under their hams from one to another, something like a weaver's\nshuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who is up\nto face all the company at once, the great beauty of the play lies in\nhitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side least capable\nof making a defence. It was in this manner that my eldest daughter was\nhemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for\nfair play, fair play, with a voice that might deafen a ballad singer,\nwhen confusion on confusion, who should enter the room but our two great\nacquaintances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia\nSkeggs! Description would but beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to\ndescribe this new mortification. Death! To be seen by ladies of such\nhigh breeding in such vulgar attitudes! Nothing better could ensue from\nsuch a vulgar play of Mr Flamborough's proposing. We seemed stuck to the\nground for some time, as if actually petrified with amazement.\n\nThe two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding us from\nhome, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know what accident\ncould have kept us from church the day before. Olivia undertook to be\nour prolocutor, and delivered the whole in a summary way, only saying,\n'We were thrown from our horses.' At which account the ladies were\ngreatly concerned; but being told the family received no hurt, they were\nextremely glad: but being informed that we were almost killed by the\nfright, they were vastly sorry; but hearing that we had a very good\nnight, they were extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their\ncomplaisance to my daughters; their professions the last evening were\nwarm, but now they were ardent. They protested a desire of having a more\nlasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to Olivia;\nMiss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to give the whole name)\ntook a greater fancy to her sister. They supported the conversation\nbetween themselves, while my daughters sate silent, admiring their\nexalted breeding. But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond\nof high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights\nof the Garter, I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of\nthe present conversation. 'All that I know of the matter,' cried Miss\nSkeggs, 'is this, that it may be true, or it may not be true: but this I\ncan assure your Ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze; his Lordship\nturned all manner of colours, my Lady fell into a sound; but Sir Tomkyn,\ndrawing his sword, swore he was her's to the last drop of his blood.'\n'Well,' replied our Peeress, 'this I can say, that the Dutchess never\ntold me a syllable of the matter, and I believe her Grace would keep\nnothing a secret from me. This you may depend upon as fact, that the\nnext morning my Lord Duke cried out three times to his valet de chambre,\nJernigan, Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters.'\n\nBut previously I should have mentioned the very impolite behaviour of Mr\nBurchell, who, during this discourse, sate with his face turned to the\nfire, and at the conclusion of every sentence would cry out FUDGE!\nan expression which displeased us all, and in some measure damped the\nrising spirit of the conversation.\n\n'Besides, my dear Skeggs,' continued our Peeress, 'there is nothing\nof this in the copy of verses that Dr Burdock made upon the\noccasion.'--'FUDGE!'\n\n'I am surprised at that,' cried Miss Skeggs; 'for he seldom leaves\nany thing out, as he writes only for his own amusement. But can your\nLadyship favour me with a sight of them?'--'FUDGE!'\n\n'My dear creature,' replied our Peeress, 'do you think I carry such\nthings about me? Though they are very fine to be sure, and I think\nmyself something of a judge; at least I know what pleases myself. Indeed\nI was ever an admirer of all Doctor Burdock's little pieces; for except\nwhat he does, and our dear Countess at Hanover-Square, there's nothing\ncomes out but the most lowest stuff in nature; not a bit of high life\namong them.'--'FUDGE!'\n\n'Your Ladyship should except,' says t'other, 'your own things in the\nLady's Magazine. I hope you'll say there's nothing low lived there? But\nI suppose we are to have no more from that quarter?'--'FUDGE!'\n\n'Why, my dear,' says the Lady, 'you know my reader and companion has\nleft me, to be married to Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't\nsuffer me to write myself, I have been for some time looking out for\nanother. A proper person is no easy matter to find, and to be sure\nthirty pounds a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of\ncharacter, that can read, write, and behave in company; as for the chits\nabout town, there is no bearing them about one.'--'FUDGE!'\n\n'That I know,' cried Miss Skeggs, 'by experience. For of the three\ncompanions I had this last half year, one of them refused to do\nplain-work an hour in the day, another thought twenty-five guineas\na year too small a salary, and I was obliged to send away the third,\nbecause I suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear\nLady Blarney, virtue is worth any price; but where is that to be\nfound?'--'FUDGE!'\n\nMy wife had been for a long time all attention to this discourse; but\nwas particularly struck with the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and\ntwenty-five guineas a year made fifty-six pounds five shillings English\nmoney, all which was in a manner going a-begging, and might easily\nbe secured in the family. She for a moment studied my looks for\napprobation; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that two such places\nwould fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the 'Squire had any\nreal affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to make her\nevery way qualified for her fortune. My wife therefore was resolved that\nwe should not be deprived of such advantages for want of assurance,\nand undertook to harangue for the family. 'I hope,' cried she, 'your\nLadyships will pardon my present presumption. It is true, we have no\nright to pretend to such favours; but yet it is natural for me to wish\nputting my children forward in the world. And I will be bold to say my\ntwo girls have had a pretty good education, and capacity, at least the\ncountry can't shew better. They can read, write, and cast accompts; they\nunderstand their needle, breadstitch, cross and change, and all manner\nof plain-work; they can pink, point, and frill; and know something of\nmusic; they can do up small cloaths, work upon catgut; my eldest can cut\npaper, and my youngest has a very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon\nthe cards.'--'FUDGE!'\n\nWhen she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the two ladies\nlooked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and\nimportance. At last, Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs condescended\nto observe, that the young ladies, from the opinion she could form\nof them from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such\nemployments: 'But a thing of this kind, Madam,' cried she, addressing\nmy spouse, requires a thorough examination into characters, and a more\nperfect knowledge of each other. Not, Madam,' continued she, 'that I in\nthe least suspect the young ladies virtue, prudence and discretion; but\nthere is a form in these things, Madam, there is a form.'\n\nMy wife approved her suspicions very much, observing, that she was very\napt to be suspicious herself; but referred her to all the neighbours\nfor a character: but this our Peeress declined as unnecessary, alledging\nthat her cousin Thornhill's recommendation would be sufficient, and upon\nthis we rested our petition.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 12\n\nFortune seems resolved to humble the family of Wakefield. Mortifications\nare often more painful than real calamities\n\n\nWhen we were returned home, the night was dedicated to schemes of future\nconquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the\ntwo girls was likely to have the best place, and most opportunities\nof seeing good company. The only obstacle to our preferment was in\nobtaining the 'Squire's recommendation; but he had already shewn us too\nmany instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even in bed my\nwife kept up the usual theme: 'Well, faith, my dear Charles, between\nourselves, I think we have made an excellent day's work of it.'--'Pretty\nwell,' cried I, not knowing what to say.--'What only pretty well!'\nreturned she. 'I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come to\nmake acquaintances of taste in town! This I am assured of, that London\nis the only place in the world for all manner of husbands. Besides, my\ndear, stranger things happen every day: and as ladies of quality are so\ntaken with my daughters, what will not men of quality be! Entre nous, I\nprotest I like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. However, Miss\nCarolina Wilelmina Anielia Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, when they\ncame to talk of places in town, you saw at once how I nailed them.\nTell me, my dear, don't you think I did for my children there?'--'Ay,'\nreturned I, not knowing well what to think of the matter, 'heaven grant\nthey may be both the better for it this day three months!' This was one\nof those observations I usually made to impress my wife with an opinion\nof my sagacity; for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish\nfulfilled; but if any thing unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked\nupon as a prophecy. All this conversation, however, was only preparatory\nto another scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less\nthan, that as we were now to hold up our heads a little higher in the\nworld, it would be proper to sell the Colt, which was grown old, at a\nneighbouring fair, and buy us an horse that would carry single or double\nupon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or upon a\nvisit. This at first I opposed stoutly; but it was as stoutly defended.\nHowever, as I weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it\nwas resolved to part with him.\n\nAs the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going\nmyself, but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing\ncould prevail upon her to permit me from home. 'No, my dear,' said she,\n'our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good\nadvantage; you know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He\nalways stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a\nbargain.'\n\nAs I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to\nentrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his\nsisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair; trimming his\nhair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business\nof the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing\nhim mounted upon the Colt, with a deal box before him to bring home\ngroceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thunder and\nlightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be thrown\naway. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied his\nhair with a broad black ribband. We all followed him several paces, from\nthe door, bawling after him good luck, good luck, till we could see him\nno longer.\n\nHe was scarce gone, when Mr Thornhill's butler came to congratulate\nus upon our good fortune, saying, that he overheard his young master\nmention our names with great commendation.\n\nGood fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another footman from the\nsame family followed, with a card for my daughters, importing, that the\ntwo ladies had received such pleasing accounts from Mr Thornhill of us\nall, that, after a few previous enquiries, they hoped to be perfectly\nsatisfied. 'Ay,' cried my wife, I now see it is no easy matter to get\ninto the families of the great; but when one once gets in, then, as\nMoses says, one may go sleep.' To this piece of humour, for she intended\nit for wit, my daughters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In\nshort, such was her satisfaction at this message, that she actually put\nher hand in her pocket, and gave the messenger seven-pence halfpenny.\n\nThis was to be our visiting-day. The next that came was Mr Burchell,\nwho had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a pennyworth of\ngingerbread each, which my wife undertook to keep for them, and give\nthem by letters at a time. He brought my daughters also a couple of\nboxes, in which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money,\nwhen they got it. My wife was usually fond of a weesel skin purse, as\nbeing the most lucky; but this by the bye. We had still a regard for\nMr Burchell, though his late rude behaviour was in some measure\ndispleasing; nor could we now avoid communicating our happiness to him,\nand asking his advice: although we seldom followed advice, we were all\nready enough to ask it. When he read the note from the two ladies, he\nshook his head, and observed, that an affair of this sort demanded the\nutmost circumspection.--This air of diffidence highly displeased my\nwife. 'I never doubted, Sir,' cried she, 'your readiness to be against\nmy daughters and me. You have more circumspection than is wanted.\nHowever, I fancy when we come to ask advice, we will apply to persons\nwho seem to have made use of it themselves.'--'Whatever my own conduct\nmay have been, madam,' replied he, 'is not the present question; tho' as\nI have made no use of advice myself, I should in conscience give it to\nthose that will.'--As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on\na repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the\nsubject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so long at the\nfair, as it was now almost nightfall.--'Never mind our son,' cried my\nwife, 'depend upon it he knows what he is about. I'll warrant we'll\nnever see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy such\nbargains as would amaze one. I'll tell you a good story about that,\nthat will make you split your sides with laughing--But as I live, yonder\ncomes Moses, without an horse, and the box at his back.'\n\nAs she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal\nbox, which he had strapt round his shoulders like a pedlar.--'Welcome,\nwelcome, Moses; well, my boy, what have you brought us from the\nfair?'--'I have brought you myself,' cried Moses, with a sly look, and\nresting the box on the dresser.--'Ay, Moses,' cried my wife, 'that we\nknow, but where is the horse?' 'I have sold him,' cried Moses, 'for\nthree pounds five shillings and two-pence.'--'Well done, my good boy,'\nreturned she, 'I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three\npounds five shillings and two-pence is no bad day's work. Come, let us\nhave it then.'--'I have brought back no money,' cried Moses again. 'I\nhave laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is,' pulling out a bundle\nfrom his breast: 'here they are; a groce of green spectacles, with\nsilver rims and shagreen cases.'--'A groce of green spectacles!'\nrepeated my wife in a faint voice. 'And you have parted with the\nColt, and brought us back nothing but a groce of green paltry\nspectacles!'--'Dear mother,' cried the boy, 'why won't you listen to\nreason? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not have bought them. The\nsilver rims alone will sell for double money.'--'A fig for the silver\nrims,' cried my wife, in a passion: 'I dare swear they won't sell for\nabove half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an\nounce.'--'You need be under no uneasiness,' cried I, 'about selling the\nrims; for they are not worth six-pence, for I perceive they are only\ncopper varnished over.'--'What,' cried my wife, 'not silver, the rims\nnot silver!' 'No,' cried I, 'no more silver than your saucepan,'--'And\nso,' returned she, 'we have parted with the Colt, and have only got\na groce of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases! A\nmurrain take such trumpery. The blockhead has been imposed upon, and\nshould have known his company better.'--'There, my dear,' cried I, 'you\nare wrong, he should not have known them at all.'--'Marry, hang the\nideot,' returned she, 'to bring me such stuff, if I had them, I would\nthrow them in the fire.' 'There again you are wrong, my dear,' cried\nI; 'for though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper\nspectacles, you know, are better than nothing.'\n\nBy this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he\nhad indeed been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing\nhis figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the\ncircumstances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked\nthe fair in search of another. A reverend looking man brought him to a\ntent, under pretence of having one to sell. 'Here,' continued Moses, 'we\nmet another man, very well drest, who desired to borrow twenty pounds\nupon these, saying, that he wanted money, and would dispose of them\nfor a third of the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my\nfriend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an\noffer pass. I sent for Mr Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely\nas they did me, and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two groce\nbetween us.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 13\n\nMr Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the confidence to give\ndisagreeable advice\n\n\nOur family had now made several attempts to be fine; but some unforeseen\ndisaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take\nthe advantage of every disappointment, to improve their good sense in\nproportion as they were frustrated in ambition. 'You see, my children,'\ncried I, 'how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world,\nin coping with our betters. Such as are poor and will associate with\nnone but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and despised by these\nthey follow. Unequal combinations are always disadvantageous to\nthe weaker side: the rich having the pleasure, and the poor the\ninconveniencies that result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and\nrepeat the fable that you were reading to-day, for the good of the\ncompany.'.\n\n'Once upon a time,' cried the child, 'a Giant and a Dwarf were friends,\nand kept together. They made a bargain that they would never forsake\neach other, but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought was\nwith two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one\nof the champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little\ninjury, who lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf's\narm. He was now in a woeful plight; but the Giant coming to his\nassistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and\nthe Dwarf cut off the dead man's head out of spite. They then travelled\non to another adventure. This was against three bloody-minded Satyrs,\nwho were carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf was not quite so\nfierce now as before; but for all that, struck the first blow, which was\nreturned by another, that knocked out his eye: but the Giant was soon up\nwith them, and had they not fled, would certainly have killed them every\none. They were all very joyful for this victory, and the damsel who\nwas relieved fell in love with the Giant, and married him. They now\ntravelled far, and farther than I can tell, till they met with a company\nof robbers. The Giant, for the first time, was foremost now; but the\nDwarf was not far behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever the\nGiant came all fell before him; but the Dwarf had like to have been\nkilled more than once. At last the victory declared for the two\nadventurers; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf was now without an\narm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was without a single wound. Upon\nwhich he cried out to his little companion, My little heroe, this is\nglorious sport; let us get one victory more, and then we shall have\nhonour for ever. No, cries the Dwarf who was by this time grown wiser,\nno, I declare off; I'll fight no more; for I find in every battle that\nyou get all the honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.'\n\nI was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was called off\nto a warm dispute between my wife and Mr Burchell, upon my daughters\nintended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon\nthe advantages that would result from it. Mr Burchell, on the contrary,\ndissuaded her with great ardor, and I stood neuter. His present\ndissuasions seemed but the second part of those which were received with\nso ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high while poor Deborah,\ninstead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was obliged to\ntake shelter from a defeat in clamour. The conclusion of her harangue,\nhowever, was highly displeasing to us all: she knew, she said, of some\nwho had their own secret reasons for what they advised; but, for\nher part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the\nfuture.--'Madam,' cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which\ntended to enflame her the more, 'as for secret reasons, you are right:\nI have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you are not\nable to answer those of which I make no secret: but I find my visits\nhere are become troublesome; I'll take my leave therefore now, and\nperhaps come once more to take a final farewell when I am quitting the\ncountry.' Thus saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of\nSophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his\ngoing.\n\nWhen gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion.\nMy wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to hide her concern\nwith a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was willing to\nreprove: 'How, woman,' cried I to her, 'is it thus we treat strangers?\nIs it thus we return their kindness? Be assured, my dear, that these\nwere the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing that ever escaped\nyour lips!'--'Why would he provoke me then,' replied she; 'but I know\nthe motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my girls from\ngoing to town, that he may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter's\ncompany here at home. But whatever happens, she shall chuse better\ncompany than such low-lived fellows as he.'--'Low-lived, my dear, do\nyou call him,' cried I, 'it is very possible we may mistake this man's\ncharacter: for he seems upon some occasions the most finished gentleman\nI ever knew.--Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any secret\ninstances of his attachment?'--'His conversation with me, sir,' replied\nmy daughter, 'has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. As to aught\nelse, no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have heard him say he never\nknew a woman who could find merit in a man that seemed poor.' 'Such, my\ndear,' cried I, 'is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But\nI hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it\nwould be even madness to expect happiness from one who has been so\nvery bad an oeconomist of his own. Your mother and I have now better\nprospects for you. The next winter, which you will probably spend in\ntown, will give you opportunities of making a more prudent choice.'\nWhat Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion, I can't pretend to\ndetermine; but I was not displeased at the bottom that we were rid of a\nguest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went to my\nconscience a little: but I quickly silenced that monitor by two or three\nspecious reasons, which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself.\nThe pain which conscience gives the man who has already done wrong,\nis soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not\nstrength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 14\n\nFresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming calamities may be\nreal blessings\n\n\nThe journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, Mr Thornhill\nhaving kindly promised to inspect their conduct himself, and inform us\nby letter of their behaviour. But it was thought indispensably necessary\nthat their appearance should equal the greatness of their expectations,\nwhich could not be done without expence. We debated therefore in\nfull council what were the easiest methods of raising money, or,\nmore properly speaking, what we could most conveniently sell. The\ndeliberation was soon finished, it was found that our remaining horse\nwas utterly useless for the plow, without his companion, and equally\nunfit for the road, as wanting an eye, it was therefore determined\nthat we should dispose of him for the purposes above-mentioned, at the\nneighbouring fair, and, to prevent imposition, that I should go with him\nmyself. Though this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my\nlife, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself with reputation. The\nopinion a man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the\ncompany he keeps, and as mine was mostly in the family way, I had\nconceived no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife,\nhowever, next morning, at parting, after I had got some paces from the\ndoor, called me back, to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes\nabout me. I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my\nhorse through all his paces; but for some time had no bidders. At last\na chapman approached, and, after he had for a good while examined the\nhorse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say\nto him: a second came up; but observing he had a spavin, declared he\nwould not take him for the driving home: a third perceived he had a\nwindgall, and would bid no money: a fourth knew by his eye that he had\nthe botts: a fifth, wondered what a plague I could do at the fair with\na blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a\ndog kennel.' By this time I began to have a most hearty contempt for\nthe poor animal myself, and was almost ashamed at the approach of every\ncustomer; for though I did not entirely believe all the fellows told me;\nyet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a strong presumption\nthey were right, and St Gregory, upon good works, professes himself to\nbe of the same opinion.\n\nI was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergyman, an old\nacquaintance, who had also business to the fair, came up, and shaking me\nby the hand, proposed adjourning to a public-house and taking a glass of\nwhatever we could get. I readily closed with the offer, and entering an\nale-house, we were shewn into a little back room, where there was only a\nvenerable old man, who sat wholly intent over a large book, which he\nwas reading. I never in my life saw a figure that prepossessed me more\nfavourably. His locks of silver grey venerably shaded his temples, and\nhis green old age seemed to be the result of health and benevolence.\nHowever, his presence did not interrupt our conversation; my friend and\nI discoursed on the various turns of fortune we had met: the Whistonean\ncontroversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon's reply, and the hard\nmeasure that was dealt me. But our attention was in a short time taken\noff by the appearance of a youth, who, entering the room, respectfully\nsaid something softly to the old stranger. 'Make no apologies, my\nchild,' said the old man, 'to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow\ncreatures: take this, I wish it were more; but five pounds will relieve\nyour distress, and you are welcome.' The modest youth shed tears of\ngratitude, and yet his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. I could have\nhugged the good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He\ncontinued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until my companion,\nafter some time, recollecting that he had business to transact in the\nfair, promised to be soon back; adding, that he always desired to have\nas much of Dr Primrose's company as possible. The old gentleman, hearing\nmy name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention, for some time,\nand when my friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was any way\nrelated to the great Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had been\nthe bulwark of the church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than\nat that moment. 'Sir,' cried I, 'the applause of so good a man, as I am\nsure you are, adds to that happiness in my breast which your benevolence\nhas already excited. You behold before you, Sir, that Doctor Primrose,\nthe monogamist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see\nthat unfortunate Divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to\nsay, successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age.' 'Sir,'\ncried the stranger, struck with awe, 'I fear I have been too familiar;\nbut you'll forgive my curiosity, Sir: I beg pardon.' 'Sir,' cried\nI, grasping his hand, 'you are so far from displeasing me by your\nfamiliarity, that I must beg you'll accept my friendship, as you already\nhave my esteem.'--'Then with gratitude I accept the offer,' cried he,\nsqueezing me by the hand, 'thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy;\nand do I behold--' I here interrupted what he was going to say; for\ntho', as an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, yet now\nmy modesty would permit no more. However, no lovers in romance ever\ncemented a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several\nsubjects: at first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and\nbegan to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no way\nlessened him in my esteem; for I had for some time begun privately to\nharbour such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to observe,\nthat the world in general began to be blameably indifferent as to\ndoctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too much--'Ay, Sir,'\nreplied he, as if he had reserved all his learning to that moment, 'Ay,\nSir, the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or creation of\nthe world has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medly of opinions\nhave they not broached upon the creation of the world? Sanconiathon,\nManetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain.\nThe latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which\nimply that all things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho also,\nwho lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser, Asser being a Syriac word\nusually applied as a sirname to the kings of that country, as Teglat\nPhael-Asser, Nabon-Asser, he, I say, formed a conjecture equally absurd;\nfor as we usually say ek to biblion kubernetes, which implies that books\nwill never teach the world; so he attempted to investigate--But, Sir, I\nask pardon, I am straying from the question.'--That he actually was; nor\ncould I for my life see how the creation of the world had any thing to\ndo with the business I was talking of; but it was sufficient to shew me\nthat he was a man of letters, and I now reverenced him the more. I was\nresolved therefore to bring him to the touch-stone; but he was too mild\nand too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I made any observation\nthat looked like a challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake his\nhead, and say nothing; by which I understood he could say much, if\nhe thought proper. The subject therefore insensibly changed from the\nbusiness of antiquity to that which brought us both to the fair; mine I\ntold him was to sell an horse, and very luckily, indeed, his was to buy\none for one of his tenants. My horse was soon produced, and in fine we\nstruck a bargain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly\npulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in a\ncapacity of complying with his demand, he ordered his footman to be\ncalled up, who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. 'Here,\nAbraham,' cried he, 'go and get gold for this; you'll do it at neighbour\nJackson's, or any where.' While the fellow was gone, he entertained\nme with a pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I\nundertook to improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of gold; so\nthat by the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money was\nnever so hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned to inform us, that\nhe had been over the whole fair and could not get change, tho' he had\noffered half a crown for doing it. This was a very great disappointment\nto us all; but the old gentleman having paused a little, asked me if I\nknew one Solomon Flamborough in my part of the country: upon replying\nthat he was my next door neighbour, 'if that be the case then,' returned\nhe, 'I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draught upon him, payable\nat sight; and let me tell you he is as warm a man as any within five\nmiles round him. Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted for many\nyears together. I remember I always beat him at threejumps; but he could\nhop upon one leg farther than I.' A draught upon my neighbour was to me\nthe same as money; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability:\nthe draught was signed and put into my hands, and Mr Jenkinson, the old\ngentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off\nvery well pleased with each other.\n\nAfter a short interval being left to reflection, I began to recollect\nthat I had done wrong in taking a draught from a stranger, and so\nprudently resolved upon following the purchaser, and having back my\nhorse. But this was now too late: I therefore made directly homewards,\nresolving to get the draught changed into money at my friend's as fast\nas possible. I found my honest neighbour smoking his pipe at his own\ndoor, and informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he read\nit twice over. 'You can read the name, I suppose,' cried I, 'Ephraim\nJenkinson.' 'Yes,' returned he, 'the name is written plain enough, and I\nknow the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven.\nThis is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a\nvenerable looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes?\nAnd did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek and cosmogony,\nand the world?' To this I replied with a groan. 'Aye,' continued he, 'he\nhas but that one piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it\naway whenever he finds a scholar in company; but I know the rogue, and\nwill catch him yet.' Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my\ngreatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No\ntruant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to behold the\nmaster's visage, than I was of going home. I was determined, however, to\nanticipate their fury, by first falling into a passion myself.\n\nBut, alas! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed for battle.\nMy wife and girls were all in tears, Mr Thornhill having been there that\nday to inform them, that their journey to town was entirely over. The\ntwo ladies having heard reports of us from some malicious person about\nus, were that day set out for London. He could neither discover the\ntendency, nor the author of these, but whatever they might be, or\nwhoever might have broached them, he continued to assure our family of\nhis friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that they bore\nmy disappointment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the\ngreatness of their own. But what perplexed us most was to think who\ncould be so base as to asperse the character of a family so harmless as\nours, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 15\n\nAll, Mr Burchell's villainy at once detected. The folly of being\nover-wise\n\n\nThat evening and a part of the following day was employed in fruitless\nattempts to discover our enemies: scarce a family in the neighbourhood\nbut incurred our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our opinion\nbest known to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our\nlittle boys, who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case,\nwhich he found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr\nBurchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, contained\nsome hints upon different subjects; but what particularly engaged our\nattention was a sealed note, superscribed, 'The copy of a letter to be\nsent to the two ladies at Thornhill-castle.' It instantly occurred that\nhe was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note should not\nbe broke open. I was against it; but Sophia, who said she was sure\nthat of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness,\ninsisted upon its being read, In this she was seconded by the rest of\nthe family, and, at their joint solicitation, I read as follows:--\n\n'Ladies,--The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person\nfrom whom this comes: one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to\nprevent its being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have\nsome intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some\nknowledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither have\nsimplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as\nmy opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended with\ndangerous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous\nor the lewd with severity; nor should I now have taken this method of\nexplaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take\ntherefore the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on the\nconsequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace\nand innocence have hitherto resided.' Our doubts were now at an end.\nThere seemed indeed something applicable to both sides in this letter,\nand its censures might as well be referred to those to whom it was\nwritten, as to us; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no\nfarther. My wife had scarce patience to hear me to the end, but railed\nat the writer with unrestrained resentment. Olivia was equally severe,\nand Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it\nappeared to me one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude\nI had met with. Nor could I account for it in any other manner than\nby imputing it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the\ncountry, to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. In\nthis manner we all sate ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when\nour other little boy came running in to tell us that Mr Burchell was\napproaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than\ndescribe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of\na recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Tho' our\nintentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude; yet it was\nresolved to do it in a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For this\npurpose we agreed to meet him with our usual smiles, to chat in the\nbeginning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little;\nand then in the midst of the flattering calm to burst upon him like an\nearthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own baseness. This\nbeing resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself,\nas she really had some talents for such an undertaking. We saw him\napproach, he entered, drew a chair, and sate down.--'A fine day, Mr\nBurchell.'--'A very fine day, Doctor; though I fancy we shall have some\nrain by the shooting of my corns.'--'The shooting of your horns,' cried\nmy wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond\nof a joke.--'Dear madam,' replied he, 'I pardon you with all my heart;\nfor I protest I should not have thought it a joke had you not told\nme.'--'Perhaps not, Sir,' cried my wife, winking at us, 'and yet I dare\nsay you can tell us how many jokes go to an ounce.'--'I fancy, madam,'\nreturned Burchell, 'you have been reading a jest book this morning, that\nounce of jokes is so very good a conceit; and yet, madam, I had rather\nsee half an ounce of understanding.'--'I believe you might,' cried my\nwife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against her; 'and yet\nI have seen some men pretend to understanding that have very\nlittle.'--'And no doubt,' replied her antagonist, 'you have known ladies\nset up for wit that had none.'--I quickly began to find that my wife was\nlikely to gain but little at this business; so I resolved to treat him\nin a stile of more severity myself. 'Both wit and understanding,' cried\nI, 'are trifles, without integrity: it is that which gives value to\nevery character. The ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than\nthe philosopher with many; for what is genius or courage without an\nheart? An honest man is the noblest work of God.\n\n'I always held that hackney'd maxim of Pope,' returned Mr Burchell,\n'as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own\nsuperiority. As the reputation of books is raised not by their freedom\nfrom defect, but the greatness of their beauties; so should that of\nmen be prized not for their exemption from fault, but the size of\nthose virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the\nstatesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity; but shall we\nprefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through life,\nwithout censure or applause? We might as well prefer the tame correct\npaintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous, but sublime animations\nof the Roman pencil.'\n\n'Sir,' replied I, 'your present observation is just, when there are\nshining virtues and minute defects; but when it appears that great\nvices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a\ncharacter deserves contempt.' 'Perhaps,' cried he, 'there may be some\nsuch monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues;\nyet in my progress through life, I never yet found one instance of their\nexistence: on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the mind\nwas capacious, the affections were good. And indeed Providence\nseems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the\nunderstanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where\nthere is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to\nother animals: the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and\ncowardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are generous,\nbrave, and gentle.'\n\n'These observations sound well,' returned I, 'and yet it would be easy\nthis moment to point out a man,' and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon\nhim, 'whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir,'\ncontinued I, raising my voice, 'and I am glad to have this opportunity\nof detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know\nthis, Sir, this pocket-book?'--'Yes, Sir,' returned he, with a face of\nimpenetrable assurance, 'that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you\nhave found it.'--'And do you know,' cried I, 'this letter? Nay, never\nfalter man; but look me full in the face: I say, do you know this\nletter?'--'That letter,' returned he, 'yes, it was I that wrote that\nletter.'--'And how could you,' said I, 'so basely, so ungratefully\npresume to write this letter?'--'And how came you,' replied he, with\nlooks of unparallelled effrontery, 'so basely to presume to break open\nthis letter? Don't you know, now, I could hang you all for this? All\nthat I have to do, is to swear at the next justice's, that you have been\nguilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you all\nup at his door.' This piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a\npitch, that I could scare govern my passion. 'Ungrateful wretch, begone,\nand no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness. Begone, and never\nlet me see thee again: go from my doors, and the only punishment I wish\nthee is an allarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor!'\nSo saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a smile,\nand shutting the clasps with the utmost composure, left us, quite\nastonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly\nenraged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of\nhis villainies. 'My dear,' cried I, willing to calm those passions that\nhad been raised too high among us, 'we are not to be surprised that bad\nmen want shame; they only blush at being detected in doing good, but\nglory in their vices.\n\n'Guilt and shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, and in\nthe beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. But their\nunion was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both; guilt\ngave shame frequent uneasiness, and shame often betrayed the secret\nconspiracies of guilt. After long disagreeement, therefore, they at\nlength consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone,\nto overtake fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner:\nbut shame being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company with\nvirtue, which, in the beginning of their journey, they had left behind.\nThus, my children, after men have travelled through a few stages in\nvice, shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few virtues\nthey have still remaining.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 16\n\nThe family use art, which is opposed with, still greater\n\n\nWhatever might have been Sophia's sensations, the rest of the family\nwas easily consoled, for Mr Burchell's absence by the company of our\nlandlord, whose visits now became more frequent and longer. Though he\nhad been disappointed in procuring my daughters the amusements of the\ntown, as he designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them with\nthose little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usually\ncame in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations\nabroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describing\nthe town, with every part of which he was particularly acquainted. He\ncould repeat all the observations that were retailed in the atmosphere\nof the playhouses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rote\nlong before they made way into the jest-books. The intervals between\nconversation were employed in teaching my daughters piquet, or sometimes\nin setting my two little ones to box to make them sharp, as he called\nit: but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in some measure\nblinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned that my wife laid\na thousand schemes to entrap him, or, to speak it more tenderly, used\nevery art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea eat\nshort and crisp, they were made by Olivia: if the gooseberry wine was\nwell knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering: it was her fingers\nwhich gave the pickles their peculiar green; and in the composition of\na pudding, it was her judgment that mix'd the ingredients. Then the poor\nwoman would sometimes tell the 'Squire, that she thought him and Olivia\nextremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see which was\ntallest. These instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet\nwhich every body saw through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who\ngave every day some new proofs of his passion, which though they had not\narisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of\nit; and his slowness was attributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and\nsometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, however,\nwhich happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed\nto become one of our family, my wife even regarded it as an absolute\npromise.\n\nMy wife and daughters happening to return a visit to neighbour\nFlamborough's, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn\nby a limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen\nshillings a head. As this family and ours had long a sort of rivalry in\npoint of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us,\nand notwithstanding all I could say, and I said much, it was resolved\nthat we should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged\nthe limner, for what could I do? our next deliberation was to shew\nthe superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbour's\nfamily, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven\noranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition\nin the world. We desired to have something in a brighter style, and,\nafter many debates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of being\ndrawn together, in one large historical family piece. This would be\ncheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely\nmore genteel; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the same\nmanner. As we did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hit\nus, we were contented each with being drawn as independent historical\nfigures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was\ndesired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair.\nHer two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side, while I, in\nmy gown and band, was to present her with my books on the Whistonian\ncontroversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of\nflowers, drest in a green joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip\nin her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the\npainter could put in for nothing; and Moses was to be drest out with an\nhat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the 'Squire, that\nhe insisted on being put in as one of the family in the character of\nAlexander the great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as\nan indication of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor could\nwe refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work, and as he\nwrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole\nwas compleated. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did not\nspare his colours; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We\nwere all perfectly satisfied with his performance; but an unfortunate\ncircumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now\nstruck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the\nhouse to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is\ninconceivable; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The\npicture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped,\nleaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where the\ncanvas was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through any\nof the doors, and the jest of all our neighhours. One compared it to\nRobinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed; another thought\nit more resembled a reel in a bottle; some wondered how it could be got\nout, but still more were amazed how it ever got in.\n\nBut though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more\nmalicious suggestions in many. The 'Squire's portrait being found united\nwith ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers\nbegan to circulate at our expence, and our tranquility was continually\ndisturbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what was said of us\nby enemies. These reports we always resented with becoming spirit; but\nscandal ever improves by opposition.\n\nWe once again therefore entered into a consultation upon obviating the\nmalice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had\ntoo much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this: as our\nprincipal object was to discover the honour of Mr Thornhill's addresses,\nmy wife undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his advice in the\nchoice of an husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not found\nsufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to\nterrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no\nmeans give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances\nthat she would marry the person provided to rival him upon this\noccasion, if he did not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such was\nthe scheme laid, which though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not\nentirely approve.\n\nThe next time, therefore, that Mr Thornhill came to see us, my girls\ntook care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma an\nopportunity of putting her scheme in execution; but they only retired to\nthe next room, from whence they could over-hear the whole conversation:\nMy wife artfully introduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss\nFlamboroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr Spanker. To\nthis the 'Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who had\nwarm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands: 'But heaven\nhelp,' continued she, 'the girls that have none. What signifies\nbeauty, Mr Thornhill? or what signifies all the virtue, and all the\nqualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest? It is not,\nwhat is she? but what has she? is all the cry.'\n\n'Madam,' returned he, 'I highly approve the justice, as well as the\nnovelty, of your remarks, and if I were a king, it should be otherwise.\nIt should then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes:\nour two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide.' 'Ah,\nSir!' returned my wife, 'you are pleased to be facetious: but I wish I\nwere a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter should look for\nan husband. But now, that you have put it into my head, seriously Mr\nThornhill, can't you recommend me a proper husband for her? She is now\nnineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble\nopinion, does not want for parts.' 'Madam,' replied he, 'if I were to\nchuse, I would find out a person possessed of every accomplishment\nthat can make an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and\nsincerity, such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband.'\n'Ay, Sir,' said she, 'but do you know of any such person?'--'No, madam,'\nreturned he, 'it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be\nher husband: she's too great a treasure for one man's possession: she's\na goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think, she's an angel.'--'Ah, Mr\nThornhill, you only flatter my poor girl: but we have been thinking of\nmarrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and\nwho wants a manager: you know whom I mean, farmer Williams; a warm man,\nMr Thornhill, able to give her good bread; and who has several times\nmade her proposals: (which was actually the case) but, Sir,' concluded\nshe, 'I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice.'--'How,\nmadam,' replied he, 'my approbation! My approbation of such a choice!\nNever. What! Sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a\ncreature insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of\nsuch a piece of injustice And I have my reasons!'--'Indeed, Sir,' cried\nDeborah, 'if you have your reasons, that's another affair; but I should\nbe glad to know those reasons.'--'Excuse me, madam,' returned he, 'they\nlie too deep for discovery: (laying his hand upon his bosom) they remain\nburied, rivetted here.'\n\nAfter he was gone, upon general consultation, we could not tell what to\nmake of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of\nthe most exalted passion; but I was not quite so sanguine: it seemed to\nme pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them: yet,\nwhatever they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme\nof farmer Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in the\ncountry, had paid her his addresses.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 17\n\nScarce any virtue found to resist the power of long and pleasing\ntemptation\n\nAs I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of Mr\nWilliams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, and\nsincere. It required but very little encouragement to revive his former\npassion; so that in an evening or two he and Mr Thornhill met at our\nhouse, and surveyed each other for some time with looks of anger: but\nWilliams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indignation.\nOlivia, on her side, acted the coquet to perfection, if that might be\ncalled acting which was her real character, pretending to lavish all\nher tenderness on her new lover. Mr Thornhill appeared quite dejected\nat this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, though I own it\npuzzled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he\nhad it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by declaring an\nhonourable passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it\ncould easily be perceived that Olivia's anguish was still greater. After\nany of these interviews between her lovers, of which there were several,\nshe usually retired to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was\nin such a situation I found her one evening, after she had been for some\ntime supporting a fictitious gayety.--'You now see, my child,' said\nI, 'that your confidence in Mr Thornhill's passion was all a dream: he\npermits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he\nknows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a candid\ndeclaration.'--'Yes, pappa,' returned she, 'but he has his reasons for\nthis delay: I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words\nconvince me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the\ngenerosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him\nhas been more just than yours.'--'Olivia, my darling,' returned\nI, 'every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him to a\ndeclaration, has been proposed and planned by yourself, nor can you in\nthe least say that I have constrained you. But you must not suppose, my\ndear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest rival\nto be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you require to\nbring your fancied admirer to an explanation shall be granted; but\nat the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must\nabsolutely insist that honest Mr Williams shall be rewarded for his\nfidelity. The character which I have hitherto supported in life demands\nthis from me, and my tenderness, as a parent, shall never influence\nmy integrity as a man. Name then your day, let it be as distant as you\nthink proper, and in the mean time take care to let Mr Thornhill know\nthe exact time on which I design delivering you up to another. If he\nreally loves you, his own good sense will readily suggest that there is\nbut one method alone to prevent his losing you forever.'--This proposal,\nwhich she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily\nagreed to. She again renewed her most positive promise of marrying\nMr Williams, in case of the other's insensibility; and at the next\nopportunity, in Mr Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon\nfor her nuptials with his rival.\n\nSuch vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr Thornhill's anxiety:\nbut what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle\nbetween prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every\nopportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed\naway; but Mr Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The\nsucceeding week he was still assiduous; but not more open. On the\nthird he discontinued his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter\ntestifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive\ntranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I\nwas now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to\nbe secured in a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently\napplauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostentation.\n\nIt was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little\nfamily at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories\nof the past, and laying schemes for the future. Busied in forming a\nthousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came uppermost, 'Well,\nMoses,' cried I, 'we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family,\nwhat is your opinion of matters and things in general?'--'My opinion,\nfather, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just now\nthinking, that when sister Livy is married to farmer Williams, we\nshall then have the loan of his cyder-press and brewing tubs for\nnothing.'--'That we shall, Moses,' cried I, 'and he will sing us Death\nand the Lady, to raise our spirits into the bargain.'--'He has taught\nthat song to our Dick,' cried Moses; 'and I think he goes thro' it very\nprettily.'--'Does he so,' cried I, then let us have it: where's little\nDick? let him up with it boldly.'--'My brother Dick,' cried Bill my\nyoungest, 'is just gone out with sister Livy; but Mr Williams has taught\nme two songs, and I'll sing them for you, pappa. Which song do you\nchuse, the Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the death of a mad dog?' 'The\nelegy, child, by all means,' said I, 'I never heard that yet; and\nDeborah, my life, grief you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the\nbest gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at\nall sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure\nthis will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in\nwith the boy a little.'\n\nAn Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.\n\nGood people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find\nit wond'rous short, It cannot hold you long.\n\nIn Isling town there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still\na godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray.\n\nA kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked\nevery day he clad, When he put on his cloaths.\n\nAnd in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mungrel,\npuppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.\n\nThis dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog,\nto gain some private ends, Went mad and bit the man.\n\nAround from all the neighbouring streets, The wondering neighbours ran,\nAnd swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.\n\nThe wound it seem'd both sore and sad, To every Christian eye; And while\nthey swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.\n\nBut soon a wonder came to light, That shew'd the rogues they lied, The\nman recovered of the bite, The dog it was that dy'd.\n\n'A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that may truly be\ncalled tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one\nday be a bishop.'\n\n'With all my heart,' cried my wife; 'and if he but preaches as well\nas he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, by the\nmother's side, could sing a good song: it was a common saying in our\ncountry, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look strait\nbefore them, nor the Huginsons blow out a candle; that there were none\nof the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could\ntell a story.'--'However that be,' cried I, 'the most vulgar ballad\nof them all generally pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and\nthings that petrify us in a single stanza; productions that we at once\ndetest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, Moses.--The great\nfault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for griefs that\ngive the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her\nmuff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to\nversify the disaster.'\n\n'That may be the mode,' cried Moses, 'in sublimer compositions; but the\nRanelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast\nin the same mold: Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together;\nhe gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with\na nosegay; and then they go together to church, where they give good\nadvice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can.'\n\n'And very good advice too,' cried I, 'and I am told there is not a place\nin the world where advice can be given with so much propriety as there;\nfor, as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife; and\nsurely that must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what\nwe want, and supplied with it when wanting.'\n\n'Yes, Sir,' returned Moses, 'and I know but of two such markets for\nwives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain.' The\nSpanish market is open once a year, but our English wives are saleable\nevery night.'\n\n'You are right, my boy,' cried his mother, 'Old England is the only\nplace in the world for husbands to get wives.'--'And for wives to manage\ntheir husbands,' interrupted I. 'It is a proverb abroad, that if a\nbridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the Continent would\ncome over to take pattern from ours; for there are no such wives in\nEurope as our own. 'But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life,\nand Moses give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to heaven for\nthus bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence. I think myself\nhappier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such\nfire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now\ngrowing old; but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are\ndescended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good\nand virtuous race of children behind us. While we live they will be our\nsupport and our pleasure here, and when we die they will transmit our\nhonour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song: let\nus have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia? That little cherub's\nvoice is always sweetest in the concert.'--Just as I spoke Dick came\nrunning in. 'O pappa, pappa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us,\nmy sister Livy is gone from us for ever'--'Gone, child'--'Yes, she is\ngone off with two gentlemen in a post chaise, and one of them kissed\nher, and said he would die for her; and she cried very much, and was for\ncoming back; but he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise,\nand said, O what will my poor pappa do when he knows I am undone!'--'Now\nthen,' cried I, 'my children, go and be miserable; for we shall never\nenjoy one hour more. And O may heaven's everlasting fury light upon him\nand his! Thus to rob me of my child! And sure it will, for taking back\nmy sweet innocent that I was leading up to heaven. Such sincerity as my\nchild was possest of. But all our earthly happiness is now over! Go,\nmy children, go, and be miserable and infamous; for my heart is\nbroken within me!'--'Father,' cried my son, \"is this your\nfortitude?'--'Fortitude, child! Yes, he shall see I have fortitude!\nBring me my pistols. I'll pursue the traitor. While he is on earth I'll\npursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet. The villain!\nThe perfidious villain!'--I had by this time reached down my pistols,\nwhen my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong as mine, caught me\nin her arms. 'My dearest, dearest husband,' cried she, 'the bible is the\nonly weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my love,\nand read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived\nus.'--'Indeed, Sir,' resumed my son, after a pause, 'your rage is too\nviolent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and you\nencrease her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character thus to\ncurse your greatest enemy: you should not have curst him, villian as he\nis.'--'I did not curse him, child, did I?'--'Indeed, Sir, you did; you\ncurst him twice.'--'Then may heaven forgive me and him if I did. And\nnow, my son, I see it was more than human benevolence that first taught\nus to bless our enemies! Blest be his holy name for all the good he hath\ngiven, and for all that he hath taken away. But it is not, it is not, a\nsmall distress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that have not\nwept for so many years. My Child!--To undo my darling! May confusion\nseize! Heaven forgive me, what am I about to say! You may remember, my\nlove, how good she was, and how charming; till this vile moment all her\ncare was to make us happy. Had she but died! But she is gone, the honour\nof our family contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in other\nworlds than here. But my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he forced\nher away? If he forced her, she may 'yet be innocent.'--'Ah no, Sir!'\ncried the child; 'he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and\nshe wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very\nfast.'--'She's an ungrateful creature,' cried my wife, who could scarce\nspeak for weeping, 'to use us thus. She never had the least constraint\nput upon her affections. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her\nparents without any provocation, thus to bring your grey hairs to the\ngrave, and I must shortly follow.'\n\nIn this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent\nin the bitterness of complaint, and ill supported sallies of enthusiasm.\nI determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and\nreproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our wretched child at\nbreakfast, where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My\nwife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. 'Never,'\ncried she, 'shall that vilest stain of our family again darken those\nharmless doors. I will never call her daughter more. No, let the\nstrumpet live with her vile seducer: she may bring us to shame but she\nshall never more deceive us.'\n\n'Wife,' said I, 'do not talk thus hardly: my detestation of her guilt is\nas great as yours; but ever shall this house and this heart be open to\na poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns from her\ntransgression, the more welcome shall she be to me. For the first time\nthe very best may err; art may persuade, and novelty spread out its\ncharm. The first fault is the child of simplicity; but every other the\noffspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this\nheart and this house, tho' stained with ten thousand vices. I will\nagain hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her\nbosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my bible and\nmy staff, I will pursue her, wherever she is, and tho' I cannot save her\nfrom shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 18\n\nThe pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue\n\n\nTho' the child could not describe the gentleman's person who handed his\nsister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our\nyoung landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well\nknown. I therefore directed my steps towards Thornhill-castle, resolving\nto upbraid him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter: but before\nI had reached his seat, I was met by one of my parishioners, who said\nhe saw a young lady resembling my daughter in a post-chaise with\na gentleman, whom, by the description, I could only guess to be Mr\nBurchell, and that they drove very fast. This information, however, did\nby no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young 'Squire's, and\nthough it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately: he soon\nappeared with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at\nmy daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was quite\na stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspicions, and\ncould turn them only on Mr Burchell, who I recollected had of late\nseveral private conferences with her: but the appearance of another\nwitness left me no room to doubt of his villainy, who averred, that he\nand my daughter were actually gone towards the wells, about thirty miles\noff, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that state\nof mind in which we are more ready to act precipitately than to reason\nright, I never debated with myself, whether these accounts might not\nhave been given by persons purposely placed in my way, to mislead me,\nbut resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I\nwalked along with earnestness, and enquired of several by the way; but\nreceived no accounts, till entering the town, I was met by a person\non horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the 'Squire's, and he\nassured me that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty\nmiles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them; for he had seen them\ndance there the night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed with\nmy daughter's performance. Early the next day I walked forward to the\nraces, and about four in the afternoon I came upon the course. The\ncompany made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in one\npursuit, that of pleasure; how different from mine, that of reclaiming a\nlost child to virtue! I thought I perceived Mr Burchell at some distance\nfrom me; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him,\nhe mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no more. I now reflected that it\nwould be to no purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to\nreturn home to an innocent family, who wanted my assistance. But the\nagitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into\na fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the course.\nThis was another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles\ndistant from home: however, I retired to a little ale-house by the\nroad-side, and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence and\nfrugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my disorder.\nI languished here for near three weeks; but at last my constitution\nprevailed, though I was unprovided with money to defray the expences of\nmy entertainment. It is possible the anxiety from this last circumstance\nalone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a\ntraveller, who stopt to take a cursory refreshment. This person was no\nother than the philanthropic bookseller in St Paul's church-yard, who\nhas written so many little books for children: he called himself their\nfriend; but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted,\nbut he was in haste to be gone; for he was ever on business of the\nutmost importance, and was at that time actually compiling materials\nfor the history of one Mr Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this\ngood-natured man's red pimpled face; for he had published for me against\nthe Deuterogamists of the age, and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to\nbe paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak,\nI resolved to return home by easy journies of ten miles a day. My health\nand usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now condemned that\npride which had made me refractory to the hand of correction. Man little\nknows what calamities are beyond his patience to bear till he tries\nthem; as in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from\nbelow, every step we rise shews us some new and gloomy prospect of\nhidden disappointment; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure,\nthough the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet\nthe busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds as we descend\nsomething to flatter and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest\nobjects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its\ngloomy situation.\n\nI now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, when I\nperceived what appeared at a distance like a waggon, which I was\nresolved to overtake; but when I came up with it, found it to be a\nstrolling company's cart, that was carrying their scenes and other\ntheatrical furniture to the next village, where they were to exhibit.\nThe cart was attended only by the person who drove it, and one of the\ncompany, as the rest of the players were to follow the ensuing day.\nGood company upon the road, says the proverb, is the shortest cut, I\ntherefore entered into conversation with the poor player; and as I once\nhad some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics with my\nusual freedom: but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the present\nstate of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers\nin vogue, who the Drydens and Otways of the day.--'I fancy, Sir,' cried\nthe player, 'few of our modern dramatists would think themselves much\nhonoured by being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden and Row's\nmanner, Sir, are quite out of fashion; our taste has gone back a whole\ncentury, Fletcher, Ben Johnson, and all the plays of Shakespear, are the\nonly things that go down.'--'How,' cried I, 'is it possible the present\nage can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete\nhumour, those overcharged characters, which abound in the works you\nmention?'--'Sir,' returned my companion, 'the public think nothing about\ndialect, or humour, or character; for that is none of their business,\nthey only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy\na pantomime, under the sanction of Johnson's or Shakespear's name.'--'So\nthen, I suppose,' cried I, 'that our modern dramatists are rather\nimitators of Shakespear than of nature.'--'To say the truth,' returned\nmy companion, 'I don't know that they imitate any thing at all; nor,\nindeed does the public require it of them: it is not the composition of\nthe piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced\ninto it that elicits applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest\nin the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved by the poet's\nthrowing in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the works of Congreve and\nFarquhar have too much wit in them for the present taste; our modern\ndialect is much more natural.'\n\nBy this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived at the\nvillage, which, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, and was\ncome out to gaze at us; for my companion observed, that strollers always\nhave more spectators without doors than within. I did not consider the\nimpropriety of my being in such company till I saw a mob gather\nabout me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first\nale-house that offered, and being shewn into the common room, was\naccosted by a very well-drest gentleman, who demanded whether I was the\nreal chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be my masquerade\ncharacter in the play. Upon informing him of the truth, and that I did\nnot belong in any sort to the company, he was condescending enough to\ndesire me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which he\ndiscussed modern politics with great earnestness and interest. I set him\ndown in my mind for nothing less than a parliament-man at least; but was\nalmost confirmed in my conjectures, when upon my asking what there was\nin the house for supper, he insisted that the Player and I should sup\nwith him at his house, with which request, after some entreaties, we\nwere prevailed on to comply.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 19\n\nThe description of a person discontented with the present government,\nand apprehensive of the loss of our liberties\n\n\nThe house where we were to be entertained, lying at a small distance\nfrom the village, our inviter observed, that as the coach was not ready,\nhe would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived at one of the most\nmagnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the country. The\napartment into which we were shewn was perfectly elegant and modern; he\nwent to give orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed\nthat we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned,\nan elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies, in an easy\ndeshabille, were introduced, and the conversation began with some\nsprightliness. Politics, however, was the subject on which our\nentertainer chiefly expatiated; for he asserted that liberty was at once\nhis boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me if I\nhad seen the last Monitor, to which replying in the negative, 'What, nor\nthe Auditor, I suppose?' cried he. 'Neither, Sir,' returned I. 'That's\nstrange, very strange,' replied my entertainer. 'Now, I read all\nthe politics that come out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the\nChronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seventeen\nmagazines, and the two reviews; and though they hate each other, I love\nthem all. Liberty, Sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by all my\ncoal mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians.' 'Then it is to\nbe hoped,' cried I, 'you reverence the king.' 'Yes,' returned my\nentertainer, 'when he does what we would have him; but if he goes on as\nhe has done of late, I'll never trouble myself more with his matters. I\nsay nothing. I think only. I could have directed some things better. I\ndon't think there has been a sufficient number of advisers: he should\nadvise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should\nhave things done in anotherguess manner.'\n\n'I wish,' cried I, 'that such intruding advisers were fixed in the\npillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side\nof our constitution, that sacred power that has for some years been\nevery day declining, and losing its due share of influence in the state.\nBut these ignorants still continue the cry of liberty, and if they have\nany weight basely throw it into the subsiding scale.'\n\n'How,' cried one of the ladies, 'do I live to see one so base, so\nsordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants?\nLiberty, that sacred gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of\nBritons!'\n\n'Can it be possible,' cried our entertainer, 'that there should be any\nfound at present advocates for slavery? Any who are for meanly giving up\nthe privileges of Britons? Can any, Sir, be so abject?'\n\n'No, Sir,' replied I, 'I am for liberty, that attribute of Gods!\nGlorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. I would have all men\nkings. I would be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal right\nto the throne: we are all originally equal. This is my opinion, and was\nonce the opinion of a set of honest men who were called Levellers.' They\ntried to erect themselves into a community, where all should be equally\nfree. But, alas! it would never answer; for there were some among them\nstronger, and some more cunning than others, and these became masters of\nthe rest; for as sure as your groom rides your horses, because he is a\ncunninger animal than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger\nor stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since then it is\nentailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to command, and\nothers to obey, the question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it is\nbetter to have them in the same house with us, or in the same village,\nor still farther off, in the metropolis. Now, Sir, for my own part, as I\nnaturally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from\nme, the better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are of my\nway of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, whose election\nat once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the\ngreatest distance from the greatest number of people. Now the great who\nwere tyrants themselves before the election of one tyrant, are naturally\naverse to a power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean\nheaviest on the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great,\ntherefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible; because\nwhatever they take from that is naturally restored to themselves; and\nall they have to do in the state, is to undermine the single tyrant, by\nwhich they resume their primaeval authority. Now, the state may be so\ncircumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so\nminded, as all to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining\nmonarchy. For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state\nbe such, as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent\nstill more rich, this will encrease their ambition. An accumulation of\nwealth, however, must necessarily be the consequence, when as at present\nmore riches flow in from external commerce, than arise from internal\nindustry: for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by the\nrich, and they have also at the same time all the emoluments arising\nfrom internal industry: so that the rich, with us, have two sources of\nwealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth in all\ncommercial states is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto in\ntime become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of this country\nmay contribute to the accumulation of wealth; as when by their means the\nnatural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and it\nis ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich; or when the\nlearned are held unqualified to serve their country as counsellors\nmerely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of\na wise man's ambition; by these means I say, and such means as these,\nriches will accumulate. Now the possessor of accumulated wealth, when\nfurnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other\nmethod to employ the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power.\nThat is, differently speaking, in making dependents, by purchasing the\nliberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the\nmortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent\nman generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the people;\nand the polity abounding in accumulated wealth, may be compared to a\nCartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who\nare willing to move in a great man's vortex, are only such as must\nbe slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are\nadapted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except the name.\nBut there must still be a large number of the people without the sphere\nof the opulent man's influence, namely, that order of men which subsists\nbetween the very rich and the very rabble; those men who are possest of\ntoo large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet\nare too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of\nmankind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of\nsociety. This order alone is known to be the true preserver of freedom,\nand may be called the People. Now it may happen that this middle order\nof mankind may lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a\nmanner drowned in that of the rabble: for if the fortune sufficient for\nqualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs, be\nten times less than was judged sufficient upon forming the constitution,\nit is evident that greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced\ninto the political system, and they ever moving in the vortex of the\ngreat, will follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state,\ntherefore, all that the middle order has left, is to preserve the\nprerogative and privileges of the one principal governor with the most\nsacred circumspection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls\noff the great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order\nplaced beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town of which\nthe opulent are forming the siege, and which the governor from without\nis hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy\nover them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious\nterms; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges: but\nif they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will\nbe but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then expect,\nmay be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the\nlaws govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and\nwould die for, monarchy, sacred monarchy; for if there be any thing\nsacred amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign of his people, and\nevery diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is an infringement\nupon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of liberty,\npatriotism, and Britons, have already done much, it is to be hoped that\nthe true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more. I have\nknown many of those pretended champions for liberty in my time, yet do I\nnot remember one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant.'\n\nMy warmth I found had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules of good\nbreeding: but the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to\ninterrupt it, could be restrained no longer. 'What,' cried he, 'then I\nhave been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's cloaths;\nbut by all the coal mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name\nbe Wilkinson.' I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for\nthe warmth with which I had spoken. 'Pardon,' returned he in a fury:\n'I think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What, give up\nliberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled\nwith wooden shoes! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house\nimmediately, to prevent worse consequences, Sir, I insist upon it.'\nI was going to repeat my rernonstrances; but just then we heard a\nfootman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, 'As sure\nas death there is our master and mistress come home.' It seems my\nentertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master's\nabsence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the gentleman\nhimself; and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most\ncountry gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon\nseeing the gentleman, and his lady, enter, nor was their surprize, at\nfinding such company and good cheer, less than ours. 'Gentlemen,' cried\nthe real master of the house, to me and my companion, 'my wife and I are\nyour most humble servants; but I protest this is so unexpected a favour,\nthat we almost sink under the obligation.' However unexpected our\ncompany might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more so to us,\nand I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when\nwhom should I next see enter the room but my dear miss Arabella Wilmot,\nwho was formerly designed to be married to my son George; but whose\nmatch was broken off, as already related. As soon as she saw me, she\nflew to my arms with the utmost joy. 'My dear sir,' cried she, 'to what\nhappy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit? I am sure my\nuncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have the good Dr\nPrimrose for their guest.' Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman\nand lady very politely stept up, and welcomed me with most cordial\nhospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling upon being informed of the\nnature of my present visit: but the unfortunate butler, whom they at\nfirst seemed disposed to turn away, was, at my intercession, forgiven.\n\nMr Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon\nhaving the pleasure of my stay for some days, and as their niece, my\ncharming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, had been formed under my\nown instructions, joined in their entreaties. I complied. That night\nI was shewn to a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early Miss\nWilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the\nmodern manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of the\nplace, she enquired with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from\nmy son George. 'Alas! Madam,' cried I, 'he has now been near three years\nabsent, without ever writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know\nnot; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear Madam,\nwe shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our\nfire-side at Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very\nfast, and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy upon us.' The\ngood-natured girl let fall a tear at this account; but as I saw her\npossessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail of our\nsufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me to find that time\nhad made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected\nseveral matches that had been made her since our leaving her part of the\ncountry. She led me round all the extensive improvements of the place,\npointing to the several walks and arbours, and at the same time catching\nfrom every object a hint for some new question relative to my son.\nIn this manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us in\nto dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling company that\nI mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the Fair\nPenitent, which was to be acted that evening, the part of Horatio by\na young gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. He seemed to\nbe very warm in the praises of the new performer, and averred, that he\nnever saw any who bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was\nnot learned in a day; 'But this gentleman,' continued he, 'seems born\nto tread the stage. His voice, his figure, and attitudes, are all\nadmirable. We caught him up accidentally in our journey down.' This\naccount, in some measure, excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty\nof the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to the play-house,\nwhich was no other than a barn. As the company with which I went was\nincontestably the chief of the place, we were received with the greatest\nrespect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre; where we sate for\nsome time with no small impatience to see Horatio make his appearance.\nThe new performer advanced at last, and let parents think of my\nsensations by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. He was\ngoing to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he perceived\nMiss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and immoveable.\nThe actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his natural\ntimidity, attempted to encourage him; but instead of going on, he burst\ninto a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don't know what were\nmy feelings on this occasion; for they succeeded with too much rapidity\nfor description: but I was soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by\nMiss Wilmot, who, pale and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct\nher back to her uncle's. When got home, Mr Arnold, who was as yet a\nstranger to our extraordinary behaviour, being informed that the new\nperformer was my son, sent his coach, and an invitation, for him; and as\nhe persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the stage, the players\nput another in his place, and we soon had him with us. Mr Arnold gave\nhim the kindest reception, and I received him with my usual transport;\nfor I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception\nwas mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a\nstudied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated; she said\ntwenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at\nher own want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the\nglass, as if happy in the consciousness of unresisting beauty, and\noften would ask questions, without giving any manner of attention to the\nanswers.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 20\n\nThe history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty, but losing\ncontent\n\n\nAfter we had supped, Mrs Arnold politely offered to send a couple of her\nfootmen for my son's baggage, which he at first seemed to decline; but\nupon her pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that a\nstick and a wallet were all the moveable things upon this earth that he\ncould boast of. 'Why, aye my son,' cried I, 'you left me but poor, and\npoor I find you are come back; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a\ngreat deal of the world.'--'Yes, Sir,' replied my son, 'but travelling\nafter fortune, is not the way to secure her; and, indeed, of late, I\nhave desisted from the pursuit.'--'I fancy, Sir,' cried Mrs Arnold,\n'that the account of your adventures would be amusing: the first part of\nthem I have often heard from my niece; but could the company prevail for\nthe rest, it would be an additional obligation.'--'Madam,' replied my\nson, 'I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing, will not be half\nso great as my vanity in repeating them; and yet in the whole narrative\nI can scarce promise you one adventure, as my account is rather of what\nI saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all\nknow, was great; but tho' it distrest, it could not sink me. No person\never had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I found fortune\nat one time, the more I expected from her another, and being now at\nthe bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, but could not\ndepress me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London in a fine morning,\nno way uneasy about tomorrow, but chearful as the birds that caroll'd by\nthe road, and comforted myself with reflecting that London was the\nmart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and\nreward.\n\n'Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was to deliver your letter\nof recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little better\ncircumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, Sir, was to be usher\nat an academy, and I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin received\nthe proposal with a true Sardonic grin. Aye, cried he, this is indeed\na very pretty career, that has been chalked out for you. I have been an\nusher at a boarding school myself; and may I die by an anodyne necklace,\nbut I had rather be an under turnkey in Newgate. I was up early and\nlate: I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the\nmistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir out to\nmeet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school? Let me\nexamine you a little. Have you been bred apprentice to the business? No.\nThen you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys hair? No. Then\nyou won't do for a school. Have you had the small-pox? No. Then you\nwon't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed? No. Then you will\nnever do for a school. Have you got a good stomach? Yes. Then you will\nby no means do for a school. No, Sir, if you are for a genteel easy\nprofession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a\ncutler's wheel; but avoid a school by any means. Yet come, continued he,\nI see you are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of\ncommencing author, like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of\ngenius starving at the trade: At present I'll shew you forty very dull\nfellows about town that live by it in opulence. All honest joggtrot men,\nwho go on smoothly and dully, and write history and politics, and are\npraised; men, Sir, who, had they been bred coblers, would all their\nlives have only mended shoes, but never made them.\n\n'Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the\ncharacter of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal; and having the\nhighest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub-street\nwith reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden\nand Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess of this region as the\nparent of excellence; and however an intercourse with the world might\ngive us good sense, the poverty she granted I supposed to be the nurse\nof genius! Big with these reflections, I sate down, and finding that the\nbest things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write\na book that should be wholly new. I therefore drest up three paradoxes\nwith some ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but they were new. The\njewels of truth have been so often imported by others, that nothing was\nleft for me to import but some splendid things that at a distance looked\nevery bit as well. Witness you powers what fancied importance sate\nperched upon my quill while I was writing. The whole learned world, I\nmade no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems; but then I was prepared\nto oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine I sate self\ncollected, with a quill pointed against every opposer.'\n\n'Well said, my boy,' cried I, 'and what subject did you treat upon? I\nhope you did not pass over the importance of Monogamy. But I interrupt,\ngo on; you published your paradoxes; well, and what did the learned\nworld say to your paradoxes?'\n\n'Sir,' replied my son, 'the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes;\nnothing at all, Sir. Every man of them was employed in praising his\nfriends and himself, or condemning his enemies; and unfortunately, as I\nhad neither, I suffered the cruellest mortification, neglect.\n\n'As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate of my\nparadoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, placed himself in\nthe box before me, and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to\nbe a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to\na new edition he was going to give the world of Propertius, with notes.\nThis demand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and\nthat concession led him to enquire into the nature of my expectations.\nFinding that my expectations were just as great as my purse, I see,\ncried he, you are unacquainted with the town, I'll teach you a part of\nit. Look at these proposals, upon these very proposals I have subsisted\nvery comfortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns from\nhis travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her\ncountry seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts\nwith flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they\nsubscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication\nfee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more for engraving\ntheir coat of arms at the top. Thus, continued he, I live by vanity, and\nlaugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too well known, I should\nbe glad to borrow your face a bit: a nobleman of distinction has just\nreturned from Italy; my face is familiar to his porter; but if you\nbring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide the\nspoil.'\n\n'Bless us, George,' cried I, 'and is this the employment of poets now!\nDo men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary! Can they so far\ndisgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?'\n\n'O no, Sir,' returned he, 'a true poet can never be so base; for\nwherever there is genius there is pride. The creatures I now describe\nare only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship\nfor fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt, and none but those who\nare unworthy protection condescend to solicit it.\n\n'Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune\ntoo humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now, obliged to\ntake a middle course, and write for bread. But I was unqualified for a\nprofession where mere industry alone was to ensure success. I could not\nsuppress my lurking passion for applause; but usually consumed that\ntime in efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, when\nit should have been more advantageously employed in the diffusive\nproductions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come\nforth in the mist of periodical publication, unnoticed and unknown.\nThe public were more importantly employed, than to observe the easy\nsimplicity of my style, of the harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet\nwas thrown off to oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays\nupon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while\nPhilautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote\nbetter, because they wrote faster, than I.\n\n'Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed\nauthors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other.\nThe satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer's attempts, was\ninversely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could\nplease me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source\nof comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for\nexcellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade.\n\n'In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a\nbench in St James's park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had been\nmy intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. We saluted\neach other with some hesitation, he almost ashamed of being known to\none who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But\nmy suspicions soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very\ngood-natured fellow.\n\n'What did you say, George?' interrupted I. 'Thornhill, was not that his\nname? It can certainly be no other than my landlord.'--'Bless me,' cried\nMrs Arnold, 'is Mr Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours? He has long\nbeen a friend in our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly.'\n\n'My friend's first care,' continued my son, 'was to alter my appearance\nby a very fine suit of his own cloaths, and then I was admitted to his\ntable upon the footing of half-friend, half-underling. My business was\nto attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he sate for\nhis picture, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by\nanother, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when\nwe had a mind for a frolic. Beside this, I had twenty other little\nemployments in the family. I was to do many small things without\nbidding; to carry the cork screw; to stand godfather to all the butler's\nchildren; to sing when I was bid; to be never out of humour; always to\nbe humble, and, if I could, to be very happy.\n\n'In this honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. A captain\nof marines, who was formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my\npatron's affections. His mother had been laundress to a man of quality,\nand thus he early acquired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this\ngentleman made it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords,\nthough he was dismissed from several for his stupidity; yet he\nfound many of them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his\nassiduities. As flattery was his trade, he practised it with the easiest\naddress imaginable; but it came aukward and stiff from me; and as every\nday my patron's desire of flattery encreased, so every hour being better\nacquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus I\nwas once more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my\nfriend found occasion for my assistance. This was nothing less than to\nfight a duel for him, with a gentleman whose sister it was pretended he\nhad used ill. I readily complied with his request, and tho' I see you\nare displeased at my conduct, yet as it was a debt indispensably due\nto friendship, I could not refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my\nantagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was\nonly a woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. This\npiece of service was repaid with the warmest professions of gratitude;\nbut as my friend was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other\nmethod of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle Sir William\nThornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction, who enjoyed a post\nunder the government. When he was gone, my first care was to carry his\nrecommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose character for every\nvirtue was universal, yet just. I was received by his servants with the\nmost hospitable smiles; for the looks of the domestics ever transmit\ntheir master's benevolence. Being shewn into a grand apartment, where\nSir William soon came to me, I delivered my message and letter, which\nhe read, and after pausing some minutes, Pray, Sir, cried he, inform me\nwhat you have done for my kinsman, to deserve this warm recommendation?\nBut I suppose, Sir, I guess your merits, you have fought for him; and\nso you would expect a reward from me, for being the instrument of his\nvices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal may be some\npunishment for your guilt; but still more, that it may be some\ninducement to your repentance.--The severity of this rebuke I bore\npatiently, because I knew it was just. My whole expectations now,\ntherefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of the\nnobility are almost ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some\nsly petition, I found it no easy matter to gain admittance. However,\nafter bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last\nshewn into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for\nhis lordship's inspection. During this anxious interval I had full time\nto look round me. Every thing was grand, and of happy contrivance:\nthe paintings, the furniture, the gildings, petrified me with awe, and\nraised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, how very great\nmust the possessor of all these things be, who carries in his head the\nbusiness of the state, and whose house displays half the wealth of\na kingdom: sure his genius must be unfathomable! During these awful\nreflections I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great\nman himself! No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard\nsoon after. This must be He! No, it was only the great man's valet de\nchambre. At last his lordship actually made his appearance. Are you,\ncried he, the bearer of this here letter? I answered with a bow. I learn\nby this, continued he, as how that--But just at that instant a servant\ndelivered him a card, and without taking farther notice, he went out of\nthe room, and left me to digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no\nmore of him, till told by a footman that his lordship was going to his\ncoach at the door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my voice to\nthat of three or four more, who came, like me, to petition for favours.\nHis lordship, however, went too fast for us, and was gaining his Chariot\ndoor with large strides, when I hallowed out to know if I was to have\nany reply. He was by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half\nof which only I heard, the other half was lost in the rattling of his\nchariot wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched out, in\nthe posture of one that was listening to catch the glorious sounds, till\nlooking round me, I found myself alone at his lordship's gate.\n\n'My patience,' continued my son, 'was now quite exhausted: stung with\nthe thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself\naway, and only wanted the gulph to receive me. I regarded myself as one\nof those vile things that nature designed should be thrown by into her\nlumber room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, however, half\na guinea left, and of that I thought fortune herself should not deprive\nme: but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and\nspend it while I had it, and then trust to occurrences for the rest.\nAs I was going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr Cripse's\noffice seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this\noffice Mr Cripse kindly offers all his majesty's subjects a generous\npromise of 30 pounds a year, for which promise all they give in return\nis their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport them to\nAmerica as slaves. I was happy at finding a place where I could lose my\nfears in desperation, and entered this cell, for it had the appearance\nof one, with the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a number of poor\ncreatures, all in circumstances like myself, expecting the arrival of\nMr Cripse, presenting a true epitome of English impatience. Each\nuntractable soul at variance with fortune, wreaked her injuries on their\nown hearts: but Mr Cripse at last came down, and all our murmurs were\nhushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar approbation,\nand indeed he was the first man who for a month past talked to me with\nsmiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for every thing in the\nworld. He paused a while upon the properest means of providing for me,\nand slapping his forehead, as if he had found it, assured me, that there\nwas at that time an embassy talked of from the synod of Pensylvania to\nthe Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me\nmade secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet\nhis promise gave me pleasure, there was something so magnificent in the\nsound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half guinea, one half of which\nwent to be added to his thirty thousand pound, and with the other half I\nresolved to go to the next tavern, to be there more happy than he.\n\n'As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door by the\ncaptain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some little acquaintance,\nand he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose\nto make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that I was upon the\nvery point of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper's promises; for\nthat he only designed to sell me to the plantations. But, continued he,\nI fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into\na genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for\nAmsterdam; What if you go in her as a passenger? The moment you land all\nyou have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you'll\nget pupils and money enough. I suppose you understand English, added he,\nby this time, or the deuce is in it. I confidently assured him of\nthat; but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing to\nlearn English. He affirmed with an oath that they were fond of it to\ndistraction; and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and\nembarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind\nwas fair, our voyage short, and after having paid my passage with half\nmy moveables, I found myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger\nin one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was\nunwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed\nmyself therefore to two or three of those I met whose appearance\nseemed most promising; but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually\nunderstood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, that in\norder to teach Dutchmen English, it was necessary that they should first\nteach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection, is to me\namazing; but certain it is I overlooked it\n\n'This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back\nto England again; but happening into company with an Irish student,\nwho was returning from Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics of\nliterature, (for by the way it may be observed that I always forgot the\nmeanness of my circumstances when I could converse upon such subjects)\nfrom him I learned that there were not two men in his whole university\nwho understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel\nto Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek; and in this design I was\nheartened by my brother student, who threw out some hints that a fortune\nmight be got by it. 'I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day\nlessened the burthen of my moveables, like Aesop and his basket of\nbread; for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on.\nWhen I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneaking to the lower\nprofessors, but openly tendered my talents to the principal himself.\nI went, had admittance, and offered him my service as a master of\nthe Greek language, which I had been told was a desideratum in his\nuniversity. The principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities;\nbut of these I offered to convince him, by turning a part of any Greek\nauthor he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my\nproposal, he addressed me thus: You see me, young man, continued he, I\nnever learned Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I have\nhad a doctor's cap and gown without Greek: I have ten thousand florins\na year without Greek; I eat heartily without Greek, and in short,\ncontinued he, as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there is any good\nin it.\n\n'I was now too far from home to think of returning; so I resolved to go\nforward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now\nturned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence.\nI passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of\nthe French as were poor enough to be very merry; for I ever found\nthem sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a\npeasant's house towards night-fall, I played one of my most merry tunes,\nand that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next\nday. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion; but they\nalways thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with\na trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, as whenever I used in\nbetter days to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my music\nnever failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially; but\nas it was now my only means, it was received with contempt: a proof\nhow ready the world is to under rate those talents by which a man is\nsupported.\n\n'In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just to look\nabout me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of\nstrangers that have money, than of those that have wit. As I could not\nboast much of either, I was no great favourite. After walking about the\ntown four or five days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I\nwas preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when passing\nthrough one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but our cousin,\nto whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable to me,\nand I believe not displeasing to him. He enquired into the nature of my\njourney to Paris, and informed me of his own business there, which was\nto collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a\ngentleman in London, who had just stept into taste and a large fortune.\nI was the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this\noffice, as he himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the\nmatter. Upon my asking how he had been taught the art of a connoscento\nso very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The whole\nsecret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules: the one always\nto observe, that the picture might have been better if the painter had\ntaken more pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino.\nBut, says he, as I once taught you how to be an author in London, I'll\nnow undertake to instruct you in the art of picture buying at Paris.\n\n'With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was a living, and now\nall my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodgings, improved\nmy dress by his assistance, and after some time, accompanied him to\nauctions of pictures, where the English gentry were expected to be\npurchasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people\nof the best fashion, who referred themselves to his judgment upon every\npicture or medal, as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very good\nuse of my assistance upon these occasions; for when asked his opinion,\nhe would gravely take me aside, and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return,\nand assure the company, that he could give no opinion upon an affair\nof so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more\nsupported assurance. I remember to have seen him, after giving his\nopinion that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough, very\ndeliberately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidentally\nlying by, and rub it over the piece with great composure before all the\ncompany, and then ask if he had not improved the tints.\n\n'When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly\nrecommended to several men of distinction, as a person very proper for a\ntravelling tutor; and after some time I was employed in that capacity by\na gentleman who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward\non his tour through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's governor,\nbut with a proviso that he should always be permitted to govern himself.\nMy pupil in fact understood the art of guiding in money concerns much\nbetter than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand\npounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies; and his guardians, to\nqualify him for the management of it, had bound him apprentice to an\nattorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion: all his questions on\nthe road were how money might be saved, which was the least expensive\ncourse of travel; whether any thing could be bought that would turn to\naccount when disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on the way\nas could be seen for nothing he was ready enough to look at; but if the\nsight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been\ntold they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill, that he would not\nobserve, how amazingly expensive travelling was, and all this though he\nwas not yet twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to\nlook at the port and shipping, he enquired the expence of the passage by\nsea home to England. This he was informed was but a trifle, compared\nto his returning by land, he was therefore unable to withstand the\ntemptation; so paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he\ntook leave, and embarked with only one attendant for London.\n\n'I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large, but then\nit was a thing I was used to. However my skill in music could avail me\nnothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician than\nI; but by this time I had acquired another talent, which answered my\npurpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign\nuniversities and convents, there are upon certain days philosophical\ntheses maintained against every adventitious disputant; for which, if\nthe champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in\nmoney, a dinner, and a bed, for one night. In this manner therefore I\nfought my way towards England, walked along from city to city, examined\nmankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the\npicture. My remarks, however, are but few: I found that monarchy was the\nbest government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the rich.\nI found that riches in general were in every country another name for\nfreedom; and that no man is so fond of liberty himself as not to be\ndesirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to his\nown.\n\n'Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay my respects first to you,\nand then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was going\nforward; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed, by meeting\nan old acquaintance, who I found belonged to a company of comedians,\nthat were going to make a summer campaign in the country. The company\nseemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, however,\napprized me of the importance of the task at which I aimed; that the\npublic was a many headed monster, and that only such as had very good\nheads could please it: that acting was not to be learnt in a day; and\nthat without some traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and\nonly on the stage, these hundred years, I could never pretend to please.\nThe next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as almost every\ncharacter was in keeping. I was driven for some time from one character\nto another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of\nthe present company has happily hindered me from acting.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 21\n\nThe short continuance of friendship amongst the vicious, which is coeval\nonly with mutual satisfaction\n\n\nMy son's account was too long to be delivered at once, the first part of\nit was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest after dinner\nthe next day, when the appearance of Mr Thornhill's equipage at the door\nseemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler, who was\nnow become my friend in the family, informed me with a whisper, that\nthe 'Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her\naunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr Thornhill's\nentering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start back; but I\nreadily imputed that to surprize, and not displeasure. However, upon our\nadvancing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the most apparent\ncandour; and after a short time, his presence served only to encrease\nthe general good humour.\n\nAfter tea he called me aside, to enquire after my daughter; but upon\nmy informing him that my enquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly\nsurprised; adding, that he had been since frequently at my house, in\norder to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He\nthen asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot, or my\nson; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly\napproved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep\nit a secret: 'For at best,' cried he, 'it is but divulging one's own\ninfamy; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine.'\nWe were here interrupted by a servant, who came to ask the 'Squire in,\nto stand up at country dances; so that he left me quite pleased with the\ninterest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to\nMiss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mistaken; and yet she seemed not\nperfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of her\naunt, than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her\nlavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other could\nneither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr Thornhill's seeming\ncomposure, however, not a little surprised me: we had now continued here\na week, at the pressing instances of Mr Arnold; but each day the more\ntenderness Miss Wilmot shewed my son, Mr Thomhill's friendship seemed\nproportionably to encrease for him.\n\nHe had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his interest\nto serve the family; but now his generosity was not confined to promises\nalone: the morning I designed for my departure, Mr Thornhill came to me\nwith looks of real pleasure to inform me of a piece of service he\nhad done for his friend George. This was nothing less than his having\nprocured him an ensign's commission in one of the regiments that was\ngoing to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one hundred\npounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement of the\nother two. 'As for this trifling piece of service,' continued the young\ngentleman, 'I desire no other reward but the pleasure of having served\nmy friend; and as for the hundred pound to be paid, if you are unable to\nraise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your\nleisure.' This was a favour we wanted words to express our sense of.\nI readily therefore gave my bond for the money, and testified as much\ngratitude as if I never intended to pay.\n\nGeorge was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission,\nin pursuance of his generous patron's directions, who judged it highly\nexpedient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another should step in\nwith more advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, our young\nsoldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person\namong us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers\nhe was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress, for Miss Wilmot\nactually loved him, he was leaving behind, any way damped his spirits.\nAfter he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all I\nhad, my blessing. 'And now, my boy,' cried I, 'thou art going to fight\nfor thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his\nsacred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and\nimmitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die\nwith Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and if you fall, tho' distant, exposed\nand unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears are those\nwith which heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier.'\n\nThe next morning I took leave of the good family, that had been kind\nenough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions of\ngratitude to Mr Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the\nenjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good breeding\nprocure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my\ndaughter more, but sending a sigh to heaven to spare and to forgive her.\nI was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired an horse\nto carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself with the hopes\nof soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on,\nI put up at a little public-house by the roadside, and asked for the\nlandlord's company over a pint of wine. We sate beside his kitchen fire,\nwhich was the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and the\nnews of the country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of young\n'Squire Thornhill, who the host assured me was hated as much as his\nuncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to the country, was loved.\nHe went on to observe, that he made it his whole study to betray the\ndaughters of such as received him to their houses, and after a fortnight\nor three weeks possession, turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to\nthe world. As we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who\nhad been out to get change, returned, and perceiving that her husband\nwas enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him,\nin an angry tone, what he did there, to which he only replied in an\nironical way, by drinking her health. 'Mr Symmonds,' cried she, 'you\nuse me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here three parts of the\nbusiness is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished; while you\ndo nothing but soak with the guests all day long, whereas if a spoonful\nof liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop.' I now found\nwhat she would be at, and immediately poured her out a glass, which she\nreceived with a curtesy, and drinking towards my good health, 'Sir,'\nresumed she, 'it is not so much for the value of the liquor I am angry,\nbut one cannot help it, when the house is going out of the windows. If\nthe customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burthen lies upon my\nback, he'd as lief eat that glass as budge after them himself.' There\nnow above stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take up\nher lodgings here, and I don't believe she has got any money by her\nover-civility. I am certain she is very slow of payment, and I wish she\nwere put in mind of it.'--'What signifies minding her,' cried the host,\n'if she be slow, she is sure.'--'I don't know that,' replied the wife;\n'but I know that I am sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have\nnot yet seen the cross of her money.'--'I suppose, my dear,' cried he,\n'we shall have it all in a, lump.'--'In a lump!' cried the other, 'I\nhope we may get it any way; and that I am resolved we will this very\nnight, or out she tramps, bag and baggage.'--'Consider, my dear,' cried\nthe husband, 'she is a gentlewoman, and deserves more respect.'--'As for\nthe matter of that,' returned the hostess, 'gentle or simple, out she\nshall pack with a sassarara. Gentry may be good things where they\ntake; but for my part I never saw much good of them at the sign of the\nHarrow.'--Thus saying, she ran up a narrow flight of stairs, that\nwent from the kitchen to a room over-head, and I soon perceived by the\nloudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no\nmoney was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances\nvery distinctly: 'Out I say, pack out this moment, tramp thou infamous\nstrumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the better for this\nthree months. What! you trumpery, to come and take up an honest house,\nwithout cross or coin to bless yourself with; come along I say.'--'O\ndear madam,' cried the stranger, 'pity me, pity a poor abandoned\ncreature for one night, and death will soon do the rest.' I instantly\nknew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue,\nwhile the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the\ndear forlorn wretch in my arms.--'Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest\nlost one, my treasure, to your poor old father's bosom. Tho' the vicious\nforsake thee, there is yet one in the world that will never forsake\nthee; tho' thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget\nthem all.'--'O my own dear'--for minutes she could no more--'my own\ndearest good papa! Could angels be kinder! How do I deserve so much! The\nvillain, I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You\ncan't forgive me. I know you cannot.'--'Yes, my child, from my heart I\ndo forgive thee! Only repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall\nsee many pleasant days yet, my Olivia!'--'Ah! never, sir, never. The\nrest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad and shame at home. But,\nalas! papa, you look much paler than you used to do. Could such a thing\nas I am give you so much uneasiness? Sure you have too much wisdom\nto take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself.'--'Our wisdom, young\nwoman,' replied I.--'Ah, why so cold a name papa?' cried she. 'This is\nthe first time you ever called me by so cold a name.'--'I ask pardon, my\ndarling,' returned I; 'but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but\na slow defence against trouble, though at last a sure one.\n\nThe landlady now returned to know if we did not chuse a more genteel\napartment, to which assenting, we were shewn a room, where we could\nconverse more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some degree of\ntranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations\nthat led to her present wretched situation. 'That villain, sir,' said\nshe, 'from the first day of our meeting made me honourable, though\nprivate, proposals.'\n\n'Villain indeed,' cried I; 'and yet it in some measure surprizes me, how\na person of Mr Burchell's good sense and seeming honour could be guilty\nof such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo it.'\n\n'My dear papa,' returned my daughter, 'you labour under a strange\nmistake, Mr Burchell never attempted to deceive me. Instead of that he\ntook every opportunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices\nof Mr Thornhill, who I now find was even worse than he represented\nhim.'--'Mr Thornhill,' interrupted I, 'can it be?'--'Yes, Sir,' returned\nshe, 'it was Mr Thornhill who seduced me, who employed the two ladies,\nas he called them, but who, in fact, were abandoned women of the town,\nwithout breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices,\nyou may remember would have certainly succeeded, but for Mr Burchell's\nletter, who directed those reproaches at them, which we all applied\nto ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat their\nintentions, still remains a secret to me; but I am convinced he was ever\nour warmest sincerest friend.'\n\n'You amaze me, my dear,' cried I; 'but now I find my first suspicions\nof Mr Thornhill's baseness were too well grounded: but he can triumph in\nsecurity; for he is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it\nwas no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions\nof such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as thine.'\n\n'Indeed, Sir,' replied she, 'he owes all his triumph to the desire I had\nof making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our\nmarriage, which was privately performed by a popish priest, was no way\nbinding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour.' 'What,'\ninterrupted I, 'and were you indeed married by a priest, and in\norders?'--'Indeed, Sir, we were,' replied she, 'though we were both\nsworn to conceal his name.'--'Why then, my child, come to my arms again,\nand now you are a thousand times more welcome than before; for you are\nnow his wife to all intents and purposes; nor can all the laws of man,\ntho' written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred\nconnexion.'\n\n'Alas, Papa,' replied she, 'you are but little acquainted with his\nvillainies: he has been married already, by the same priest, to six or\neight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned.'\n\n'Has he so?' cried I, 'then we must hang the priest, and you shall\ninform against him to-morrow.'--'But Sir,' returned she, 'will that be\nright, when I am sworn to secrecy?'--'My dear,' I replied, 'if you have\nmade such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even\ntho' it may benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all\nhuman institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater good;\nas in politics, a province may be given away to secure a kingdom; in\nmedicine, a limb may be lopt off, to preserve the body. But in religion\nthe law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my\nchild, is right: for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil, to procure\na greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of\ncontingent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly follow,\nyet the interval between commission and advantage, which is allowed to\nbe guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for the\nthings we have done, and the volume of human actions is closed for ever.\nBut I interrupt you, my dear, go on.'\n\n'The very next morning,' continued she, 'I found what little\nexpectations I was to have from his sincerity. That very morning he\nintroduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had deceived,\nbut who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too tenderly to\nbear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a\ntumult of pleasures. With this view, I danced, dressed, and talked; but\nstill was unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me every moment\nof the power of my charms, and this only contributed to encrease my\nmelancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite away. Thus each day\nI grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last the monster had\nthe assurance to offer me to a young Baronet of his acquaintance. Need I\ndescribe, Sir, how his ingratitude stung me. My answer to this proposal\nwas almost madness. I desired to part. As I was going he offered me a\npurse; but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from him in\na rage, that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my\nsituation. But I soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, abject,\nguilty thing, without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that\ninterval, a stage-coach happening to pass by, I took a place, it being\nmy only aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I despised and\ndetested. I was set down here, where, since my arrival, my own anxiety,\nand this woman's unkindness, have been my only companions. The hours of\npleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister, now grow painful\nto me. Their sorrows are much; but mine is greater than theirs; for mine\nare mixed with guilt and infamy.'\n\n'Have patience, my child,' cried I, 'and I hope things will yet be\nbetter. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I'll carry you home\nto your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will receive\na kind reception. Poor woman, this has gone to her heart: but she loves\nyou still, Olivia, and will forget it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 22\n\nOffences are easily pardoned where there is love at bottom\n\n\nThe next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on my return\nhome. As we travelled along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her\nsorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence\nof her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a\nfine country, through which we passed, to observe how much kinder heaven\nwas to us, than we to each other, and that the misfortunes of nature's\nmaking were very few. I assured her, that she should never perceive any\nchange in my affections, and that during my life, which yet might be\nlong, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her\nagainst the censures of the world, shewed her that books were sweet\nunreproaching companions to the miserable, and that if they could not\nbring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it.\n\nThe hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by\nthe way, within about five miles from my house, and as I was willing to\nprepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her\nthat night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my daughter\nSophia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached our\nappointed stage: however, after seeing her provided with a decent\napartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper\nrefreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my heart\ncaught new sensations of pleasure the nearer I approached that peaceful\nmansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections\nout-went my haste, and hovered round my little fire-side, with all the\nrapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say,\nand anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's\ntender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked\nbut slowly, the night wained apace. The labourers of the day were all\nretired to rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no sounds were\nheard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at\nhollow distance. I approached my little abode of pleasure, and before\nI was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff came running to\nwelcome me.\n\nIt was now near mid-night that I came to knock at my door: all was still\nand silent: my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my\namazement, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every\napperture red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and\nfell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till\nthis been asleep, and he perceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife\nand daughter, and all running out, naked, and wild with apprehension,\nrecalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of\nnew terror; for the flames had, by this time, caught the roof of our\ndwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood,\nwith silent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed\nupon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two\nlittle ones; but they were not to be seen. O misery! 'Where,' cried I,\n'where are my little ones?'--'They are burnt to death in the flames,'\nsays my wife calmly, 'and I will die with them.'--That moment I heard\nthe cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and\nnothing could have stopped me. 'Where, where, are my children?' cried\nI, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in\nwhich they were confined, 'Where are my little ones?'--'Here, dear papa,\nhere we are,' cried they together, while the flames were just catching\nthe bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them\nthrough the fire as fast as possible, while just as I was got out,\nthe roof sunk in. 'Now,' cried I, holding up my children, 'now let the\nflames burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are, I have\nsaved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we\nshall yet be happy.' We kissed our little darlings a thousand times,\nthey clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports,\nwhile their mother laughed and wept by turns.\n\nI now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time, began\nto perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible\nmanner. It was therefore out of my power to give my son any assistance,\neither in attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames\nspreading to our corn. By this time, the neighbours were alarmed, and\ncame running to our assistance; but all they could do was to stand, like\nus, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I\nhad reserved for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except\na box, with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three\nthings more of little consequence, which my son brought away in the\nbeginning. The neighbours contributed, however, what they could to\nlighten our distress. They brought us cloaths, and furnished one of our\nout-houses with kitchen utensils; so that by day-light we had another,\ntho' a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour, and\nhis children, were not the least assiduous in providing us with\nevery thing necessary, and offering what ever consolation untutored\nbenevolence could suggest.\n\nWhen the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause\nof my long stay began to take place; having therefore informed them of\nevery particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our\nlost one, and tho' we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was\nwilling to procure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have\nbeen more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my\nwife's pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable\nto go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my\nson and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent,\nwho had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no instructions\nof mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for women have a\nmuch stronger sense of female error than men. 'Ah, madam,' cried her\nmother, 'this is but a poor place you are come to after so much finery.\nMy daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons\nwho have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy,\nyour poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope\nheaven will forgive you.'--During this reception, the unhappy victim\nstood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply; but I could not\ncontinue a silent spectator of her distress, wherefore assuming a degree\nof severity in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with instant\nsubmission, 'I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for\nall: I have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to\nduty demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of life\nare now coming fast upon us, let us not therefore encrease them by\ndissention among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we may\nyet be contented, as there are enough of us to shut out the censuring\nworld, and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of heaven is\npromised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example.\nHeaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner,\nthan ninety nine persons who have supported a course of undeviating\nrectitude. And this is right; for that single effort by which we stop\nshort in the downhill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion of\nvirtue, than an hundred acts of justice.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 23\n\nNone but the guilty can be long and completely miserable\n\n\nSome assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient\nas possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy our former\nserenity. Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual\noccupations, I read to my family from the few books that were saved, and\nparticularly from such, as, by amusing the imagination, contributed to\nease the heart. Our good neighbours too came every day with the kindest\ncondolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at\nrepairing my former dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last among\nthese visitors; but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have\nrenewed his addresses to my daughter; but she rejected them in such a\nmanner as totally represt his future solicitations. Her grief seemed\nformed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little\nsociety that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that\nunblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to\nseek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession of\nher mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and\nneglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet\nbestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her\neye; and as one vice, tho' cured, ever plants others where it has been,\nso her former guilt, tho' driven out by repentance, left jealousy and\nenvy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even\nforgot my own pain in a concern for her's, collecting such amusing\npassages of history, as a strong memory and some reading could suggest.\n'Our happiness, my dear,' I would say, 'is in the power of one who can\nbring it about a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If\nexample be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my child,\ntold us by a grave, tho' sometimes a romancing, historian.\n\n'Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first\nquality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen.\nAs she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an\napartment, which hung over the river Volturna, the child, with a sudden\nspring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a\nmoment. The mother, struck with instant surprize, and making all effort\nto save him, plunged in after; but, far from being able to assist the\ninfant, she herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore,\njust when some French soldiers were plundering the country on that side,\nwho immediately made her their prisoner.\n\n'As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with\nthe utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to perpetrate those\ntwo extremes, suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution,\nhowever, was opposed by a young officer, who, tho' their retreat\nrequired the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her\nin safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her\nmerit soon after his heart. They were married; he rose to the highest\nposts; they lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity of\na soldier can never be called permanent: after an interval of several\nyears, the troops which he commanded having met with a repulse, he was\nobliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife.\nHere they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few\nhistories can produce more various instances of cruelty, than those\nwhich the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It\nwas resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French\nprisoners to death; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate\nMatilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting the siege.\nTheir determinations were, in general, executed almost as soon as\nresolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner,\nwith his sword, stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy silence\nawaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the general, who\npresided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of\nanguish and expectation, that Matilda came to take her last farewell\nof her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the\ncruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature death\nin the river Volturna, to be the spectator of still greater calamities.\nThe general, who was a young man, was struck with surprize at her\nbeauty, and pity at her distress; but with still stronger emotions when\nhe heard her mention her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for\nwhom she had encounter'd so much danger. He acknowledged her at once as\nhis mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed: the\ncaptive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, and\nduty could confer on each, were united.'\n\nIn this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but she listened\nwith divided attention; for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity\nshe once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company\nshe dreaded contempt; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was\nthe colour of her wretchedness, when we received certain information,\nthat Mr Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I\nalways suspected he had a real passion, tho' he took every opportunity\nbefore me to express his contempt both of her person and fortune. This\nnews only served to encrease poor Olivia's affliction; such a flagrant\nbreach of fidelity, was more than her courage could support. I was\nresolved, however, to get more certain information, and to defeat, if\npossible, the completion of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr\nWilmot's, with instructions to know the truth of the report, and to\ndeliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr Thornhill's conduct in my\nfamily. My son went, in pursuance of my directions, and in three days\nreturned, assuring us of the truth of the account; but that he had found\nit impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to\nleave, as Mr Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country.\nThey were to be married, he said, in a few days, having appeared\ntogether at church the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour,\nthe bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as many gentlemen.\nTheir approaching nuptials filled the whole country with rejoicing, and\nthey usually rode out together in the grandest equipage that had been\nseen in the country for many years. All the friends of both families,\nhe said, were there, particularly the 'Squire's uncle, Sir William\nThornhill, who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing but\nmirth and feasting were going forward; that all the country praised the\nyoung bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine person, and that they\nwere immensely fond of each other; concluding, that he could not help\nthinking Mr Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world.\n\n'Why let him if he can,' returned I: 'but, my son, observe this bed of\nstraw, and unsheltering roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor;\nmy wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping round\nme for bread; you have come home, my child, to all this, yet here,\neven here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange\nsituations. O, my children, if you could but learn to commune with your\nown hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would\nlittle regard the elegance and splendours of the worthless. Almost\nall men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the\ntravellers. The similitude still may be improved when we observe that\nthe good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards\nhome; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going\ninto exile.'\n\nMy compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster,\ninterrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support\nher, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from that time\nmore calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution;\nbut appearances deceived me; for her tranquility was the langour of\nover-wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by\nmy kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness amongst the\nrest of the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more\nsprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their\nsatisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to burthen\nthem with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more, the tale went\nround and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended to hover\nround our little habitation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 24\n\nFresh calamities\n\n\nThe next morning the sun rose with peculiar warmth for the season; so\nthat we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank: where,\nwhile we sate, my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to\nthe concert on the trees about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia\nfirst met her seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness.\nBut that melancholy, which is excited by objects of pleasure, or\ninspired by sounds of harmony, sooths the heart instead of corroding it.\nHer mother too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept,\nand loved her daughter as before. 'Do, my pretty Olivia,' cried she,\n'let us have that little melancholy air your pappa was so fond of, your\nsister Sophy has already obliged us. Do child, it will please your old\nfather.' She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me.\n\n\nWhen lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray,\nWhat charm can sooth her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?\n\nThe only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To\ngive repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom--is to die.\n\n\nAs she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in\nher voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr\nThornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly\nencreased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of\nshunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In a few\nminutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place\nwhere I was still sitting, enquired after my health with his usual air\nof familiarity. 'Sir,' replied I, 'your present assurance only serves\nto aggravate the baseness of your character; and there was a time when I\nwould have chastised your insolence, for presuming thus to appear before\nme. But now you are safe; for age has cooled my passions, and my calling\nrestrains them.'\n\n'I vow, my dear sir,' returned he, 'I am amazed at all this; nor can I\nunderstand what it means! I hope you don't think your daughter's late\nexcursion with me had any thing criminal in it.'\n\n'Go,' cried I, 'thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every\nway a lyar; but your meanness secures you from my anger! Yet sir, I am\ndescended from a family that would not have borne this! And so, thou\nvile thing, to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor\ncreature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but\nhonour for their portion.'\n\n'If she or you,' returned he, 'are resolved to be miserable, I cannot\nhelp it. But you may still be happy; and whatever opinion you may have\nformed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can\nmarry her to another in a short time, and what is more, she may keep her\nlover beside; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard\nfor her.'\n\nI found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading proposal; for\nthough the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little villainy\ncan at any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage.--'Avoid\nmy sight, thou reptile,' cried I, 'nor continue to insult me with thy\npresence. Were my brave son at home, he would not suffer this; but I am\nold, and disabled, and every way undone.'\n\n'I find,' cried he, 'you are bent upon obliging me to talk in an harsher\nmanner than I intended. But as I have shewn you what may be hoped from\nmy friendship, it may not be improper to represent what may be the\nconsequences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond\nhas been transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the\ncourse of justice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I have\nbeen at some expences lately, previous to my intended marriage, is not\nso easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driving for the rent:\nit is certain he knows his duty; for I never trouble myself with affairs\nof that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even to have\nyou and your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be\nsolemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is even the request of my charming\nArabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse.'\n\n'Mr Thornhill,' replied I, 'hear me once for all: as to your marriage\nwith any but my daughter, that I never will consent to; and though your\nfriendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the\ngrave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably,\ndeceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and have found its\nbaseness. Never more, therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, and\npossess what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, and\npleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet\nhumbled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity, and though\nthou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt.'\n\n'If so,' returned he, 'depend upon it you shall feel the effects of\nthis insolence, and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object of\nscorn, you or me.'--Upon which he departed abruptly.\n\nMy wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed terrified\nwith the apprehension. My daughters also, finding that he was gone, came\nout to be informed of the result of our conference, which, when known,\nalarmed them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the\nutmost stretch of his malevolence: he had already struck the blow,\nand now I stood prepared to repel every new effort. Like one of those\ninstruments used in the art of war, which, however thrown, still\npresents a point to receive the enemy.\n\nWe soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain; for the very\nnext morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which, by the\ntrain of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. The consequence\nof my incapacity was his driving my cattle that evening, and their being\nappraised and sold the next day for less than half their value. My wife\nand children now therefore entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather\nthan incur certain destruction. They even begged of me to admit his\nvisits once more, and used all their little eloquence to paint the\ncalamities I was going to endure. The terrors of a prison, in so\nrigorous a season as the present, with the danger, that threatened my\nhealth from the late accident that happened by the fire. But I continued\ninflexible.\n\n'Why, my treasures,' cried I, 'why will you thus attempt to persuade me\nto the thing that is not right! My duty has taught me to forgive him;\nbut my conscience will not permit me to approve. Would you have me\napplaud to the world what my heart must internally condemn? Would you\nhave me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer; and to\navoid a prison continually suffer the more galling bonds of mental\nconfinement! No, never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only let\nus hold to the right, and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire\nto a charming apartment, when we can look round our own hearts with\nintrepidity and with pleasure!'\n\nIn this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the\nsnow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was employed in\nclearing it away, and opening a passage before the door. He had not been\nthus engaged long, when he came running in, with looks all pale, to\ntell us that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice, were\nmaking towards the house.\n\nJust as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where I lay,\nafter previously informing me of their employment and business, made me\ntheir prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the county gaol,\nwhich was eleven miles off.\n\n'My friends,' said I, 'this is severe weather on which you have come to\ntake me to a prison; and it is particularly unfortunate at this time,\nas one of my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and it has\nthrown me into a slight fever, and I want cloaths to cover me, and I am\nnow too weak and old to walk far in such deep snow: but if it must be\nso--'\n\nI then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get together\nwhat few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving\nthis place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and desired my son to\nassist his elder sister, who, from a consciousness that she was the\ncause of all our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in\ninsensibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped\nour affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in\nsilence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the mean time\nmy youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and as she received\nseveral hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 25\n\nNo situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of comfort\nattending it\n\n\nWe set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and walked on slowly.\nMy eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for\nsome days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers, who had\nan horse, kindly took her behind him; for even these men cannot entirely\ndivest themselves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the\nhand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose\ntears fell not for her own but my distresses.\n\nWe were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we saw a\ncrowd running and shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my\npoorest parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized\nupon the two officers of justice, and swearing they would never see\ntheir minister go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in his\ndefence, were going to use them with great severity. The consequence\nmight have been fatal, had I not immediately interposed, and with some\ndifficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude.\nMy children, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, appeared\ntransported with joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures.\nBut they were soon undeceived, upon hearing me address the poor deluded\npeople, who came, as they imagined, to do me service.\n\n'What! my friends,' cried I, 'and is this the way you love me! Is this\nthe manner you obey the instructions I have given you from the pulpit!\nThus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on yourselves\nand me! Which is your ringleader? Shew me the man that has thus seduced\nyou. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas! my dear\ndeluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your country,\nand to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you in greater felicity here,\nand contribute to make your lives more happy. But let it at least be my\ncomfort when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one here shall be\nwanting.'\n\nThey now seemed all repentance, and melting into tears, came one after\nthe other to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, and\nleaving them my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any farther\ninterruption. Some hours before night we reached the town, or rather\nvillage; for it consisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its\nformer opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but\nthe gaol.\n\nUpon entering, we put up at an inn, where we had such refreshments as\ncould most readily be procured, and I supped with my family with my\nusual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly accommodated for that\nnight, I next attended the sheriff's officers to the prison, which had\nformerly been built for the purposes of war, and consisted of one large\napartment, strongly grated, and paved with stone, common to both felons\nand debtors at certain hours in the four and twenty. Besides this, every\nprisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the night.\n\nI expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations, and\nvarious sounds of misery; but it was very different. The prisoners\nseemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in\nmerriment or clamour. I was apprized of the usual perquisite required\nupon these occasions, and immediately complied with the demand, though\nthe little money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was\nimmediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison soon was filled\nwith riot, laughter, and prophaneness.\n\n'How,' cried I to myself, 'shall men so very wicked be chearful, and\nshall I be melancholy! I feel only the same confinement with them, and I\nthink I have more reason to be happy.'\n\nWith such reflections I laboured to become chearful; but chearfulness\nwas never yet produced by effort, which is itself painful. As I was\nsitting therefore in a corner of the gaol, in a pensive posture, one\nof my fellow prisoners came up, and sitting by me, entered into\nconversation. It was my constant rule in life never to avoid the\nconversation of any man who seemed to desire it: for if good, I might\nprofit by his instruction; if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I found\nthis to be a knowing man, of strong unlettered sense; but a thorough\nknowledge of the world, as it is called, or, more properly speaking,\nof human nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care to\nprovide myself with a bed, which was a circumstance I had never once\nattended to.\n\n'That's unfortunate,' cried he, 'as you are allowed here nothing but\nstraw, and your apartment is very large and cold. However you seem to be\nsomething of a gentleman, and as I have been one myself in my time, part\nof my bed-cloaths are heartily at your service.'\n\nI thanked him, professing my surprize at finding such humanity in a gaol\nin misfortunes; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, 'That the\nsage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in affliction,\nwhen he said, Ton kosman aire, ei dos ton etairon; and in fact,'\ncontinued I, 'what is the World if it affords only solitude?'\n\n'You talk of the world, Sir,' returned my fellow prisoner; 'the world\nis in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has\npuzzled the philosophers of every age. What a medly of opinions have\nthey not broached upon the creation of the world. Sanconiathon, Manetho,\nBerosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it in vain. The latter\nhas these words. Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which implies'--'I\nask pardon, Sir,' cried I, 'for interrupting so much learning; but I\nthink I have heard all this before. Have I not had the pleasure of once\nseeing you at Welbridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson?'\nAt this demand he only sighed. 'I suppose you must recollect,' resumed\nI, 'one Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought a horse.'\n\nHe now at once recollected me; for the gloominess of the place and\nthe approaching night had prevented his distinguishing my features\nbefore.--'Yes, Sir,' returned Mr Jenkinson, 'I remember you perfectly\nwell; I bought an horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your neighbour\nFlamborough is the only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at the next\nassizes: for he intends to swear positively against me as a coiner. I\nam heartily sorry, Sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any man; for you\nsee,' continued he, shewing his shackles, 'what my tricks have brought\nme to.'\n\n'Well, sir,' replied I, 'your kindness in offering me assistance, when\nyou could expect no return, shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften\nor totally suppress Mr Flamborough's evidence, and I will send my son to\nhim for that purpose the first opportunity; nor do I in the least doubt\nbut he will comply with my request, and as to my evidence, you need be\nunder no uneasiness about that.'\n\n'Well, sit,' cried he, 'all the return I can make shall be yours. You\nshall have more than half my bed-cloaths to night, and I'll take care to\nstand your friend in the prison, where I think I have some influence.'\n\nI thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the present\nyouthful change in his aspect; for at the time I had seen him before he\nappeared at least sixty.--'Sir,' answered he, you are little acquainted\nwith the world; I had at that time false hair, and have learnt the art\nof counterfeiting every age from seventeen to seventy. Ah sir, had I but\nbestowed half the pains in learning a trade, that I have in learning to\nbe a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day. But rogue as\nI am, still I may be your friend, and that perhaps when you least expect\nit.'\n\nWe were now prevented from further conversation, by the arrival of the\ngaoler's servants, who came to call over the prisoners names, and lock\nup for the night. A fellow also, with a bundle of straw for my bed\nattended, who led me along a dark narrow passage into a room paved like\nthe common prison, and in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the\ncloaths given me by my fellow prisoner; which done, my conductor, who\nwas civil enough, bade me a good-night. After my usual meditations, and\nhaving praised my heavenly corrector, I laid myself down and slept with\nthe utmost tranquility till morning.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 26\n\nA reformation in the gaol. To make laws complete, they should reward as\nwell as punish\n\n\nThe next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in\ntears at my bed-side. The gloomy strength of every thing about us, it\nseems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them\nI had never slept with greater tranquility, and next enquired after\nmy eldest daughter, who was not among them. They informed me that\nyesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had encreased her fever, and it was\njudged proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send my son to\nprocure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near the prison\nas conveniently could be found. He obeyed; but could only find one\napartment, which was hired at a small expence, for his mother and\nsisters, the gaoler with humanity consenting to let him and his two\nlittle brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared\nfor them in a corner of the room, which I thought answered very\nconveniently. I was willing however previously to know whether my\nlittle children chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon\nentrance.\n\n'Well,' cried I, 'my good boys, how do you like your bed? I hope you are\nnot afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears.'\n\n'No, papa,' says Dick, 'I am not afraid to lie any where where you are.'\n\n'And I,' says Bill, who was yet but four years old, 'love every place\nbest that my papa is in.'\n\nAfter this, I allotted to each of the family what they were to do.\nMy daughter was particularly directed to watch her declining sister's\nhealth; my wife was to attend me; my little boys were to read to me:\n'And as for you, my son,' continued I, 'it is by the labour of your\nhands we must all hope to be supported. Your wages, as a day-labourer,\nwill be full sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and\ncomfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength, and\nit was given thee, my son, for very useful purposes; for it must save\nfrom famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare then this evening\nto look out for work against to-morrow, and bring home every night what\nmoney you earn, for our support.'\n\nHaving thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked down to the\ncommon prison, where I could enjoy more air and room. But I was not long\nthere when the execrations, lewdness, and brutality that invaded me on\nevery side, drove me back to my apartment again. Here I sate for some\ntime, pondering upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who finding\nall mankind in open arms against them, were labouring to make themselves\na future and a tremendous enemy.\n\nTheir insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted my own\nuneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to\nattempt to reclaim them. I resolved therefore once more to return, and\nin spite of their contempt to give them my advice, and conquer them by\nperseverance. Going therefore among them again, I informed Mr Jenkinson\nof my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the\nrest. The proposal was received with the greatest good-humour, as it\npromised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who had now\nno other resource for mirth, but what could be derived from ridicule or\ndebauchery.\n\nI therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud unaffected\nvoice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd\nwhispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, winking and coughing,\nalternately excited laughter. However, I continued with my natural\nsolemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might amend some, but\ncould itself receive no contamination from any.\n\nAfter reading, I entered upon my exhortation, which was rather\ncalculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I previously\nobserved, that no other motive but their welfare could induce me\nto this; that I was their fellow prisoner, and now got nothing by\npreaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very prophane; because\nthey got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal: 'For be assured,\nmy friends,' cried I, 'for you are my friends, however the world may\ndisclaim your friendship, though you swore twelve thousand oaths in\na day, it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies\ncalling every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since\nyou find how scurvily he uses you. He has given you nothing here,\nyou find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly; and by the best\naccounts I have of him, he will give you nothing that's good hereafter.\n\n'If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere.\nWere it not worth your while then, just to try how you may like the\nusage of another master, who gives you fair promises at least to come\nto him. Surely, my Friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must\nbe greatest, who, after robbing an house, runs to the thieftakers for\nprotection. And yet how are you more wise? You are all seeking comfort\nfrom one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious\nbeing than any thieftaker of them all; for they only decoy, and then\nhang you; but he decoys and hangs, and what is worst of all, will not\nlet you loose after the hangman has done.'\n\nWhen I had concluded, I received the compliments of my audience, some\nof whom came and shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very honest\nfellow, and that they desired my further acquaintance. I therefore\npromised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually conceived some\nhopes of making a reformation here; for it had ever been my opinion,\nthat no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to\nthe shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When\nI had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apartment, where my wife\nhad prepared a frugal meal, while Mr Jenkinson begged leave to add his\ndinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to\nexpress it of my conversation. He had not yet seen my family, for as\nthey came to my apartment by a door in the narrow passage, already\ndescribed, by this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkinson at\nthe first interview therefore seemed not a little struck with the beauty\nof my youngest daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten,\nand my little ones did not pass unnoticed.\n\n'Alas, Doctor,' cried he, 'these children are too handsome and too good\nfor such a place as this!'\n\nWhy, Mr Jenkinson', replied I, 'thank heaven my children are pretty\ntolerable in morals, and if they be good, it matters little for the\nrest.'\n\n'I fancy, sir,' returned my fellow prisoner, 'that it must give you\ngreat comfort to have this little family about you.'\n\n'A comfort, Mr Jenkinson,' replied I, 'yes it is indeed a comfort, and I\nwould not be without them for all the world; for they can make a\ndungeon seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of wounding my\nhappiness, and that is by injuring them.'\n\n'I am afraid then, sir,' cried he, 'that I am in some measure culpable;\nfor I think I see here (looking at my son Moses) one that I have\ninjured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.'\n\nMy son immediately recollected his voice and features, though he had\nbefore seen him in disguise, and taking him by the hand, with a smile\nforgave him. 'Yet,' continued he, 'I can't help wondering at what you\ncould see in my face, to think me a proper mark for deception.'\n\n'My dear sir,' returned the other, 'it was not your face, but your white\nstockings and the black ribband in your hair, that allured me. But no\ndisparagement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my\ntime; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for\nme at last.'\n\n'I suppose,' cried my son, 'that the narrative of such a life as yours\nmust be extremely instructive and amusing.'\n\n'Not much of either,' returned Mr Jenkinson. 'Those relations which\ndescribe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increasing our\nsuspicion in life, retard our success. The traveller that distrusts\nevery person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every man\nthat looks like a robber, seldom arrives in time at his journey's end.\n\n'Indeed I think from my own experience, that the knowing one is the\nsilliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning from my very\nchildhood; when but seven years old the ladies would say that I was a\nperfect little man; at fourteen I knew the world, cocked my hat, and\nloved the ladies; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every\none thought me so cunning, that not one would trust me. Thus I was at\nlast obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived\never since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart\npalpitating with fears of detection.\n\n'I used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbour Flamborough,\nand one way or another generally cheated him once a year. Yet still the\nhonest man went forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while I still\ncontinued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, without the consolation of\nbeing honest.\n\n'However,' continued he, 'let me know your case, and what has brought\nyou here; perhaps though I have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may\nextricate my friends.'\n\nIn compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole train of\naccidents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, and\nmy utter inability to get free.\n\nAfter hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapt his forehead,\nas if he had hit upon something material, and took his leave, saying he\nwould try what could be done.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 27\n\nThe same subject continued\n\n\nThe next morning I communicated to my wife and children the scheme I had\nplanned of reforming the prisoners, which they received with universal\ndisapprobation, alledging the impossibility and impropriety of it;\nadding, that my endeavours would no way contribute to their amendment,\nbut might probably disgrace my calling.\n\n'Excuse me,' returned I, 'these people, however fallen, are still men,\nand that is a very good title to my affections. Good council rejected\nreturns to enrich the giver's bosom; and though the instruction I\ncommunicate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly mend myself. If\nthese wretches, my children, were princes, there would be thousands\nready to offer their ministry; but, in my opinion, the heart that is\nburied in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my\ntreasures, if I can mend them I will; perhaps they will not all despise\nme. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulph, and, that will\nbe great gain; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human\nsoul?'\n\nThus saying, I left them, and descended to the common prison, where I\nfound the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival; and each prepared\nwith some gaol trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as I was going to\nbegin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my\npardon. A second, who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting\nthrough his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A third would cry\namen in such an affected tone as gave the rest great delight. A fourth\nhad slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there was one whose\ntrick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest; for observing the\nmanner in which I had disposed my books on the table before me, he very\ndextrously displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his\nown in the place. However I took no notice of all that this mischievous\ngroupe of little beings could do; but went on, perfectly sensible that\nwhat was ridiculous in my attempt, would excite mirth only the first\nor second time, while what was serious would be permanent. My design\nsucceeded, and in less than six days some were penitent, and all\nattentive.\n\nIt was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, at thus giving\nsensibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling, and now began\nto think of doing them temporal services also, by rendering their\nsituation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had hitherto been\ndivided between famine and excess, tumultous riot and bitter repining.\nTheir only employment was quarrelling among each other, playing at\ncribbage, and cutting tobacco stoppers. From this last mode of idle\nindustry I took the hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting\npegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a\ngeneral subscription, and when manufactured, sold by my appointment; so\nthat each earned something every day: a trifle indeed, but sufficient to\nmaintain him.\n\nI did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of\nimmorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less than a\nfortnight I had formed them into something social and humane, and had\nthe pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had brought men\nfrom their native ferocity into friendship and obedience.\n\nAnd it were highly to be wished, that legislative power would thus\ndirect the law rather to reformation than severity. That it would\nseem convinced that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making\npunishments familiar, but formidable. Then instead of our present\nprisons, which find or make men guilty, which enclose wretches for the\ncommission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted\nfor the perpetration of thousands; we should see, as in other parts of\nEurope, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be\nattended by such as could give them repentance if guilty, or new motives\nto virtue if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punishments, is\nthe way to mend a state: nor can I avoid even questioning the validity\nof that right which social combinations have assumed of capitally\npunishing offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder their right is\nobvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-defence,\nto cut off that man who has shewn a disregard for the life of another.\nAgainst such, all nature arises in arms; but it is not so against him\nwho steals my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his\nlife, as by that the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If\nthen I have any right, it must be from a compact made between us, that\nhe who deprives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false\ncompact; because no man has a right to barter his life, no more than\nto take it away, as it is not his own. And beside, the compact is\ninadequate, and would be set aside even in a court of modern equity, as\nthere is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it is\nfar better that two men should live, than that one man should ride.\nBut a compact that is false between two men, is equally so between an\nhundred, or an hundred thousand; for as ten millions of circles can\nnever make a square, so the united voice of myriads cannot lend the\nsmallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and\nuntutored nature says the same thing. Savages that are directed by\nnatural law alone are very tender of the lives of each other; they\nseldom shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty.\n\nOur Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few executions\nin times of peace; and in all commencing governments that have the print\nof nature still strong upon them, scarce any crime is held capital.\n\nIt is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws, which\nare in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while\nit grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age; and as if our\nproperty were become dearer in proportion as it increased, as if\nthe more enormous our wealth, the more extensive our fears, all our\npossessions are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with\ngibbets to scare every invader.\n\nI cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or\nthe licentiousness of our people, that this country should shew more\nconvicts in a year, than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps\nit is owing to both; for they mutually produce each other. When by\nindiscriminate penal laws a nation beholds the same punishment affixed\nto dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the\npenalty, the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the\ncrime, and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality: thus the\nmultitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh\nrestraints.\n\nIt were to be wished then that power, instead a contriving new laws\nto punish vice, instead of drawing hard the cards of society till a\nconvulsion come to burst them, instead of cutting away wretches as\nuseless, before we have tried their utility, instead of converting\ncorrection into vengeance, it were to be wished that we tried the\nrestrictive arts of government, and made law the protector, but not the\ntyrant of the people. We should then find that creatures, whose souls\nare held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner; we should then\nfind that wretches, now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should\nfeel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the\nstate in times of danger; that, as their faces are like ours, their\nhearts are so too; that few minds are so base as that perseverance\ncannot amend; that a man may see his last crime without dying for it;\nand that very little blood will serve to cement our security.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 28\n\nHappiness and misery rather the result of prudence than of virtue in\nthis life. Temporal evils or felicities being regarded by heaven as\nthings merely in themselves trifling and unworthy its care in the\ndistribution\n\n\nI had now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my\narrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her.\nHaving communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl\nentered my apartment, leaning on her sister's arm. The change which\nI saw in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that once\nresided there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have molded\nevery feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was\ntense, and a fatal paleness sate upon her cheek.\n\n'I am glad to see thee, my dear,' cried I; 'but why this dejection\nLivy? I hope, my love, you have too great a regard for me, to permit\ndisappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be\nchearful child, and we yet may see happier days.'\n\n'You have ever, sir,' replied she, 'been kind to me, and it adds to my\npain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that happiness\nyou promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here; and I\nlong to be rid of a place where I have only found distress. Indeed, sir,\nI wish you would make a proper submission to Mr Thornhill; it may, in\nsome measure, induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in\ndying.'\n\n'Never, child,' replied I, 'never will I be brought to acknowledge my\ndaughter a prostitute; for tho' the world may look upon your offence\nwith scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of\nguilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place, however dismal it\nmay seem, and be assured that while you continue to bless me by living,\nhe shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by marrying\nanother.'\n\nAfter the departure of my daughter, my fellow prisoner, who was by\nat this interview, sensibly enough expostulated upon my obstinacy, in\nrefusing a submission, which promised to give me freedom. He observed,\nthat the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one\nchild alone, and she the only one who had offended me. 'Beside,' added\nhe, 'I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and\nwife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match which\nyou cannot hinder, but may render unhappy.'\n\n'Sir,' replied I, 'you are unacquainted with the man that oppresses\nus. I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me\nliberty even for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a debtor\nof his, no later than last year, died for want. But though my submission\nand approbation could transfer me from hence, to the most beautiful\napartment he is possessed of; yet I would grant neither, as something\nwhispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my\ndaughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal in my\neye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any\nresentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who wish for an\nunion. No, villain as he is, I should then wish him married, to prevent\nthe consequences of his future debaucheries. But now should I not be\nthe most cruel of all fathers, to sign an Instrument which must send my\nchild to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus to escape\none pang, break my child's heart with a thousand?'\n\nHe acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not avoid\nobserving, that he feared my daughter's life was already too much wasted\nto keep me long a prisoner. 'However,' continued he, 'though you refuse\nto submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying your\ncase before the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for\nevery thing that is just and good. I would advise you to send him a\nletter by the post, intimating all his nephew's ill usage, and my life\nfor it that in three days you shall have an answer.' I thank'd him for\nthe hint, and instantly set about complying; but I wanted paper, and\nunluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions,\nhowever he supplied me.\n\nFor the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety, to know what\nreception my letter might meet with; but in the mean time was frequently\nsolicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain\nhere, and every hour received repeated accounts of the decline of my\ndaughter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received\nno answer to my letter: the complaints of a stranger against a favourite\nnephew, were no way likely to succeed; so that these hopes soon vanished\nlike all my former. My mind, however, still supported itself though\nconfinement and bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health,\nand my arm that had suffered in the fire, grew worse. My children\nhowever sate by me, and while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by\nturns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter's\nhealth declined faster than mine; every message from her contributed\nto encrease my apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning after I had\nwritten the letter which was sent to sit William Thornhill, I was\nalarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now it was, that\nconfinement was truly painful to me; my soul was bursting from its\nprison to be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen\nher, to receive her last wishes, and teach her soul the way to heaven!\nAnother account came. She was expiring, and yet I was debarred the small\ncomfort of weeping by her. My fellow prisoner, some time after, came\nwith the last account. He bade me be patient. She was dead!--The next\nmorning he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my only\ncompanions, who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort me.\nThey entreated to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I was now\ntoo old to weep. 'And is not my sister an angel, now, pappa,' cried the\neldest, 'and why then are you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel\nout of this frightful place, if my pappa were with me.' 'Yes,' added\nmy youngest darling, 'Heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than\nthis, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are\nvery bad.'\n\nMr Jenkinson interupted their harmless prattle, by observing that now my\ndaughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my family,\nand attempt to save my own life, which was every day declining, for want\nof necessaries and wholesome air. He added, that it was now incumbent\non me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own, to the welfare of\nthose who depended on me for support; and that I was now, both by reason\nand justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord.\n\n'Heaven be praised,' replied I, 'there is no pride left me now, I should\ndetest my own heart if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there.\nOn the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parishioner, I hope\none day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal.\nNo, sir, I have no resentment now, and though he has taken from me what\nI held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, for\nI am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow prisoner, yet that\nshall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing to approve his\nmarriage, and if this submission can do him any pleasure, let him know,\nthat if I have done him any injury, I am sorry for it.' Mr Jenkinson\ntook pen and ink, and wrote down my submission nearly as I have exprest\nit, to which I signed my name. My son was employed to carry the letter\nto Mr Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went,\nand in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some\ndifficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants\nwere insolent and suspicious; but he accidentally saw him as he was\ngoing out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in\nthree days. He continued to inform us, that he stept up in the humblest\nmanner, and delivered the letter, which, when Mr Thornhill had read, he\nsaid that all submission was now too late and unnecessary; that he had\nheard of our application to his uncle, which met with the contempt it\ndeserved; and as for the rest, that all future applications should be\ndirected to his attorney, not to him. He observed, however, that as he\nhad a very good opinion of the discretion of the two young ladies, they\nmight have been the most agreeable intercessors.\n\n'Well, sir,' said I to my fellow prisoner, 'you now discover the temper\nof the man that oppresses me. He can at once be facetious and cruel;\nbut let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all\nhis bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing towards an abode that looks\nbrighter as I approach it: this expectation cheers my afflictions, and\nthough I leave an helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will\nnot be utterly forsaken; some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist\nthem for the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve\nthem for the sake of their heavenly father.'\n\nJust as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared\nwith looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to speak. 'Why, my\nlove,' cried I, 'why will you thus encrease my afflictions by your\nown, what though no submissions can turn our severe mister, tho' he has\ndoomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost\na darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children\nwhen I shall be no more.' 'We have indeed lost,' returned she, 'a\ndarling child. My Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us, carried\noff by ruffians!'\n\n'How madam,' cried my fellow prisoner, 'Miss Sophia carried off by\nvillains, sure it cannot be?'\n\nShe could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of\nthe prisoners' wives, who was present, and came in with her, gave us a\nmore distinct account: she informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and\nherself, were taking a walk together on the great road a little way out\nof the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them and instantly\nstopt. Upon which, a well drest man, but not Mr Thornhill, stepping\nout, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bid the\npostillion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment.\n\n'Now,' cried I, 'the sum of my misery is made up, nor is it in the power\nof any thing on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left! not\nto leave me one! the monster! the child that was next my heart! she had\nthe beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support\nthat woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one!'--'Alas! my husband,'\nsaid my wife, 'you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses\nare great; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They\nmay take away my children and all the world, if they leave me but you.'\n\nMy Son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate our grief; he bade\nus take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be\nthankful.--'My child,' cried I, 'look round the world, and see if there\nbe any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out;\nwhile all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave!'--'My dear\nfather,' returned he, 'I hope there is still something that will give\nyou an interval of satisfaction; for I have a letter from my brother\nGeorge'--'What of him, child,' interrupted I, 'does he know our misery.\nI hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family\nsuffers?'--'Yes, sir,' returned he, 'he is perfectly gay, chearful, and\nhappy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favourite of\nhis colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that\nbecomes vacant!'\n\n'And are you sure of all this,' cried my wife, 'are you sure that\nnothing ill has befallen my boy?'--'Nothing indeed, madam,' returned\nmy son, 'you shall see the letter, which will give you the highest\npleasure; and if any thing can procure you comfort, I am sure that\nwill.' 'But are you sure,' still repeated she, 'that the letter is from\nhimself, and that he is really so happy?'--'Yes, Madam,' replied he, 'it\nis certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support of\nour family!'--'Then I thank providence,' cried she, 'that my last letter\nto him has miscarried.' 'Yes, my dear,' continued she, turning to me, 'I\nwill now confess that though the hand of heaven is sore upon us in other\ninstances, it has been favourable here. By the last letter I wrote\nmy son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his\nmother's blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done\nhis father and sister, and avenge our cause. But thanks be to him that\ndirects all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest.' 'Woman,' cried\nI, 'thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might\nhave been more severe. Oh! what a tremendous gulph hast thou escaped,\nthat would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin. Providence,\nindeed, has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved\nthat son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall be\naway. How unjustly did I complain of being stript of every comfort, when\nstill I hear that he is happy and insensible of our afflictions; still\nkept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and to protect his\nbrothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left, he has no sisters\nnow, they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone.'--'Father,'\ninterrupted my son, 'I beg you will give me leave to read this letter,\nI know it will please you.' Upon which, with my permission, he read as\nfollows:--\n\nHonoured Sir,--I have called off my imagination a few moments from the\npleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still\nmore pleasing, the dear little fire-side at home. My fancy draws that\nharmless groupe as listening to every line of this with great composure.\nI view those faces with delight which never felt the deforming hand of\nambition or distress! But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am\nsure it will be some addition to it, to hear that I am perfectly pleased\nwith my situation, and every way happy here.\n\nOur regiment is countermanded and is not to leave the kingdom; the\ncolonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me with him to all\ncompanies where he is acquainted, and after my first visit I generally\nfind myself received with encreased respect upon repeating it. I danced\nlast night with Lady G-, and could I forget you know whom, I might be\nperhaps successful. But it is my fate still to remember others, while I\nam myself forgotten by most of my absent friends, and in this number,\nI fear, Sir, that I must consider you; for I have long expected the\npleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia too,\npromised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they are\ntwo arrant little baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent\npassion with them: yet still, I know not how, tho' I want to bluster a\nlittle, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them,\nsir, that after all, I love them affectionately, and be assured of my\never remaining\n\nYour dutiful son.\n\n\n'In all our miseries,' cried I, 'what thanks have we not to return, that\none at least of our family is exempted from what we suffer. Heaven be\nhis guard, and keep my boy thus happy to be the supporter of his widowed\nmother, and the father of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I\ncan now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the temptations\nof want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour.' I had scarce\nsaid these words, when a noise, like that of a tumult, seemed to proceed\nfrom the prison below; it died away soon after, and a clanking of\nfetters was heard along the passage that led to my apartment. The keeper\nof the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded and fettered\nwith the heaviest irons. I looked with compassion on the wretch as he\napproached me, but with horror when I found it was my own son.--'My\nGeorge! My George! and do I find thee thus. Wounded! Fettered! Is this\nthy happiness! Is this the manner you return to me! O that this sight\ncould break my heart at once and let me die!'\n\n'Where, Sir, is your fortitude,' returned my son with an intrepid voice.\n'I must suffer, my life is forfeited, and let them take it.'\n\nI tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, but I\nthought I should have died with the effort--'O my boy, my heart weeps\nto behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment that\nI thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to behold thee thus\nagain! Chained, wounded. And yet the death of the youthful is happy.\nBut I am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this day. To see\nmy children all untimely falling about me, while I continue a wretched\nsurvivor in the midst of ruin! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul\nfall heavy upon the murderer of my children. May he live, like me, to\nsee--'\n\n'Hold, Sir,' replied my son, 'or I shall blush for thee. How, Sir,\nforgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the justice\nof heaven, and fling those curses upward that must soon descend to crush\nthy own grey head with destruction! No, Sir, let it be your care now to\nfit me for that vile death I must shortly suffer, to arm me with hope\nand resolution, to give me courage to drink of that bitterness which\nmust shortly be my portion.'\n\n'My child, you must not die: I am sure no offence of thine can deserve\nso vile a punishment. My George could never be guilty of any crime to\nmake his ancestors ashamed of him.'\n\n'Mine, Sir,' returned my son, 'is, I fear, an unpardonable one. When\nI received my mother's letter from home, I immediately came down,\ndetermined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him an order\nto meet me, which he answered, not in person, but by his dispatching\nfour of his domestics to seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me,\nand I fear desperately, but the rest made me their prisoner. The coward\nis determined to put the law in execution against me, the proofs are\nundeniable, I have sent a challenge, and as I am the first transgressor\nupon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often charmed\nme with your lessons of fortitude, let me now, Sir, find them in your\nexample.'\n\n'And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above this world, and\nall the pleasures it can produce. From this moment I break from my heart\nall the ties that held it down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both\nfor eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall\nguide yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I\nnow see and am convinced you can expect no pardon here, and I can only\nexhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we both shall\nshortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our exhortation, but let\nall our fellow prisoners have a share: good gaoler let them be permitted\nto stand here, while I attempt to improve them.' Thus saying, I made an\neffort to rise from my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only\nto recline against the wall. The prisoners assembled according to my\ndirection, for they loved to hear my council, my son and his mother\nsupported me on either side, I looked and saw that none were wanting,\nand then addressed them with the following exhortation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 29\n\nThe equal dealings of providence demonstrated with regard to the happy\nand the miserable here below. That from the nature of pleasure and pain,\nthe wretched must be repaid the balance of their sufferings in the life\nhereafter\n\n\nMy friends, my children, and fellow sufferers, when I reflect on the\ndistribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has been\ngiven man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine\nthe whole world, we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing\nleft to wish for; but we daily see thousands who by suicide shew us they\nhave nothing left to hope. In this life then it appears that we cannot\nbe entirely blest; but yet we may be completely miserable!\n\nWhy man should thus feel pain, why our wretchedness should be requisite\nin the formation of universal felicity, why, when all other systems are\nmade perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great\nsystem should require for its perfection, parts that are not only\nsubordinate to others, but imperfect in themselves? These are questions\nthat never can be explained, and might be useless if known. On this\nsubject providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied\nwith granting us motives to consolation.\n\nIn this situation, man has called in the friendly assistance of\nphilosophy, and heaven seeing the incapacity of that to console him, has\ngiven him the aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy are very\namusing, but often fallacious. It tells us that life is filled with\ncomforts, if we will but enjoy them; and on the other hand, that though\nwe unavoidably have miseries here, life is short, and they will soon be\nover. Thus do these consolations destroy each other; for if life is a\nplace of comfort, its shortness must be misery, and if it be long, our\ngriefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak; but religion comforts\nin an higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and\npreparing it for another abode. When the good man leaves the body and is\nall a glorious mind, he will find he has been making himself a heaven of\nhappiness here, while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated\nby his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he has\nanticipated the vengeance of heaven. To religion then we must hold in\nevery circumstance of life for our truest comfort; for if already we\nare happy, it is a pleasure to think that we can make that happiness\nunending, and if we are miserable, it is very consoling to think that\nthere is a place of rest. Thus to the fortunate religion holds out a\ncontinuance of bliss, to the wretched a change from pain.\n\nBut though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised peculiar\nrewards to the unhappy; the sick, the naked, the houseless, the\nheavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our\nsacred law. The author of our religion every where professes himself the\nwretch's friend, and unlike the false ones of this world, bestows all\nhis caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as\npartiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. But they never\nreflect that it is not in the power even of heaven itself to make the\noffer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the\nmiserable. To the first eternity is but a single blessing, since at most\nit but encreases what they already possess. To the latter it is a double\nadvantage; for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards them with\nheavenly bliss hereafter.\n\nBut providence is in another respect kinder to the poor than the rich;\nfor as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, so it smooths\nthe passage there. The wretched have had a long familiarity with every\nface of terror. The man of sorrow lays himself quietly down, without\npossessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his departure: he feels\nonly nature's pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater\nthan he has often fainted under before; for after a certain degree of\npain, every new breach that death opens in the constitution, nature\nkindly covers with insensibility.\n\nThus providence has given the wretched two advantages over the happy, in\nthis life, greater felicity in dying, and in heaven all that\nsuperiority of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoyment. And this\nsuperiority, my friends, is no small advantage, and seems to be one of\nthe pleasures of the poor man in the parable; for though he was already\nin heaven, and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned\nas an addition to his happiness, that he had once been wretched and now\nwas comforted, that he had known what it was to be miserable, and now\nfelt what it was to be happy.\n\nThus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy could never do:\nit shews the equal dealings of heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and\nlevels all human enjoyments to nearly the same standard. It gives to\nboth rich and poor the same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to\naspire after it; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure\nhere, the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it was once\nto be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity hereafter; and even\nthough this should be called a small advantage, yet being an eternal\none, it must make up by duration what the temporal happiness of the\ngreat may have exceeded by intenseness.\n\nThese are therefore the consolations which the wretched have peculiar\nto themselves, and in which they are above the rest of mankind; in other\nrespects they are below them. They who would know the miseries of the\npoor must see life and endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantages\nthey enjoy, is only repeating what none either believe or practise. The\nmen who have the necessaries of living are not poor, and they who want\nthem must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we must be miserable. No vain\nefforts of a refined imagination can sooth the wants of nature, can\ngive elastic sweetness to the dank vapour of a dungeon, or ease to the\nthrobbings of a broken heart. Let the philosopher from his couch of\nsoftness tell us that we can resist all these. Alas! the effort by which\nwe resist them is still the greatest pain! Death is slight, and any man\nmay sustain it; but torments are dreadful, and these no man can endure.\n\nTo us then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven should be\npeculiarly dear; for if our reward be in this life alone, we are then\nindeed of all men the most miserable. When I look round these gloomy\nwalls, made to terrify, as well as to confine us; this light that only\nserves to shew the horrors of the place, those shackles that tyranny has\nimposed, or crime made necessary; when I survey these emaciated looks,\nand hear those groans, O my friends, what a glorious exchange would\nheaven be for these. To fly through regions unconfined as air, to\nbask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carrol over endless hymns\nof praise, to have no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of\ngoodness himself for ever in our eyes, when I think of these things,\ndeath becomes the messenger of very glad tidings; when I think of these\nthings, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support; when I think\nof these things, what is there in life worth having; when I think of\nthese things, what is there that should not be spurned away: kings in\ntheir palaces should groan for such advantages; but we, humbled as we\nare, should yearn for them.\n\nAnd shall these things be ours? Ours they will certainly be if we\nbut try for them; and what is a comfort, we are shut out from many\ntemptations that would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them, and\nthey will certainly be ours, and what is still a comfort, shortly too;\nfor if we look back on past life, it appears but a very short span, and\nwhatever we may think of the rest of life, it will yet be found of\nless duration; as we grow older, the days seem to grow shorter, and our\nintimacy with time, ever lessens the perception of his stay. Then let\nus take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our journey's end; we\nshall soon lay down the heavy burthen laid by heaven upon us, and though\ndeath, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the\nweary traveller with the view, and like his horizon, still flies before\nhim; yet the time will certainly and shortly come, when we shall cease\nfrom our toil; when the luxurious great ones of the world shall no\nmore tread us to the earth; when we shall think with pleasure on our\nsufferings below; when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, or\nsuch as deserved our friendship; when our bliss shall be unutterable,\nand still, to crown all, unending.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 30\n\nHappier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and fortune\nwill at last change in our favour\n\n\nWhen I had thus finished and my audience was retired, the gaoler, who\nwas one of the most humane of his profession, hoped I would not be\ndispleased, as what he did was but his duty, observing that he must be\nobliged to remove my son into a stronger cell, but that he should be\npermitted to revisit me every morning. I thanked him for his clemency,\nand grasping my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the\ngreat duty that was before him.\n\nI again, therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sate by my\nbedside reading, when Mr Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was\nnews of my daughter; for that she was seen by a person about two hours\nbefore in a strange gentleman's company, and that they had stopt at\na neighbouring village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to\ntown. He had scarce delivered this news, when the gaoler came with looks\nof haste and pleasure, to inform me, that my daughter was found. Moses\ncame running in a moment after, crying out that his sister Sophy was\nbelow and coming up with our old friend Mr Burchell.\n\nJust as he delivered this news my dearest girl entered, and with looks\nalmost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of affection.\nHer mother's tears and silence also shewed her pleasure.--'Here,\npappa,' cried the charming girl, 'here is the brave man to whom I owe my\ndelivery; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness\nand safety--' A kiss from Mr Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even\ngreater than hers, interrupted what she was going to add.\n\n'Ah, Mr Burchell,' cried I, 'this is but a wretched habitation you now\nfind us in; and we are now very different from what you last saw us. You\nwere ever our friend: we have long discovered our errors with regard\nto you, and repented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then\nreceived at my hands I am almost ashamed to behold your face; yet I hope\nyou'll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, who,\nunder the mask of friendship, has undone me.'\n\n'It is impossible,' replied Mr Burchell, 'that I should forgive you, as\nyou never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your delusion then, and\nas it was out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it!'\n\n'It was ever my conjecture,' cried I, 'that your mind was noble; but now\nI find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how hast thou been relieved,\nor who the ruffians were who carried thee away?'\n\n'Indeed, Sir,' replied she, 'as to the villain who carried me off, I am\nyet ignorant. For as my mamma and I were walking out, he came behind us,\nand almost before I could call for help, forced me into the post-chaise,\nand in an instant the horses drove away. I met several on the road, to\nwhom I cried out for assistance; but they disregarded my entreaties.\nIn the mean time the ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from\ncrying out: he flattered and threatened by turns, and swore that if I\ncontinued but silent, he intended no harm. In the mean time I had broken\nthe canvas that he, had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at some\ndistance but your old friend Mr Burchell, walking along with his usual\nswiftness, with the great stick for which we used so much to ridicule\nhim. As soon as we came within hearing, I called out to him by name,\nand entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations several times, upon\nwhich, with a very loud voice, he bid the postillion stop; but the boy\ntook no notice, but drove on with still greater speed. I now thought he\ncould never overtake us, when in less than a minute I saw Mr Burchell\ncome running up by the side of the horses, and with one blow knock the\npostillion to the ground. The horses when he was fallen soon stopt of\nthemselves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths and menaces drew\nhis sword, and ordered him at his peril to retire; but Mr Burchell\nrunning up, shivered his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near\na quarter of a mile; but he made his escape. I was at this time come out\nmyself, willing to assist my deliverer; but he soon returned to me in\ntriumph. The postillion, who was recovered, was going to make his escape\ntoo; but Mr Burchell ordered him at his peril to mount again, and drive\nback to town. Finding it impossible to resist, he reluctantly complied,\nthough the wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to be\ndangerous. He continued to complain of the pain as we drove along, so\nthat he at last excited Mr Burchell's compassion, who, at my request,\nexchanged him for another at an inn where we called on our return.'\n\n'Welcome then,' cried I, 'my child, and thou her gallant deliverer, a\nthousand welcomes. Though our chear is but wretched, yet our hearts are\nready to receive you. And now, Mr Burchell, as you have delivered my\ngirl, if you think her a recompence she is yours, if you can stoop to an\nalliance with a family so poor as mine, take her, obtain her consent, as\nI know you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, Sir,\nthat I give you no small treasure, she has been celebrated for beauty\nit is true, but that is not my meaning, I give you up a treasure in her\nmind.'\n\n'But I suppose, Sir,' cried Mr Burchell, 'that you are apprized of my\ncircumstances, and of my incapacity to support her as she deserves?'\n\n'If your present objection,' replied I, 'be meant as an evasion of my\noffer, I desist: but I know no man so worthy to deserve her as you; and\nif I could give her thousands, and thousands sought her from me, yet my\nhonest brave Burchell should be my dearest choice.'\n\nTo all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying refusal, and\nwithout the least reply to my offer, he demanded if we could not be\nfurnished with refreshments from the next inn, to which being answered\nin the affirmative, he ordered them to send in the best dinner that\ncould be provided upon such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of\ntheir best wine; and some cordials for me. Adding, with a smile, that he\nwould stretch a little for once, and tho' in a prison, asserted he was\nnever better disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made his appearance\nwith preparations for dinner, a table was lent us by the gaoler, who\nseemed remarkably assiduous, the wine was disposed in order, and two\nvery well-drest dishes were brought in.\n\nMy daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melancholy\nsituation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the\nrelation. But it was in vain that I attempted to appear chearful,\nthe circumstances of my unfortunate son broke through all efforts to\ndissemble; so that I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating\nhis misfortunes, and wishing that he might be permitted to share with us\nin this little interval of satisfaction. After my guests were recovered,\nfrom the consternation my account had produced, I requested also that Mr\nJenkinson, a fellow prisoner, might be admitted, and the gaoler granted\nmy request with an air of unusual submission. The clanking of my\nson's irons was no sooner heard along the passage, than his sister ran\nimpatiently to meet him; while Mr Burchell, in the mean time, asked me\nif my son's name were George, to which replying in the affirmative,\nhe still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the room, I\ncould perceive he regarded Mr Burchell with a look of astonishment and\nreverence. 'Come on,' cried I, 'my son, though we are fallen very low,\nyet providence has been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from\npain. Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her deliverer: to that\nbrave man it is that I am indebted for yet having a daughter, give him,\nmy boy, the hand of friendship, he deserves our warmest gratitude.'\n\nMy son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and still\ncontinued fixed at respectful distance.--'My dear brother,' cried his\nsister, 'why don't you thank my good deliverer; the brave should ever\nlove each other.'\n\nHe still continued his silence and astonishment, till our guest at last\nperceived himself to be known, and assuming all his native dignity,\ndesired my son to come forward. Never before had I seen any thing so\ntruly majestic as the air he assumed upon this occasion. The greatest\nobject in the universe, says a certain philosopher, is a good man\nstruggling with adversity; yet there is still a greater, which is the\ngood man that comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my son for some\ntime with a superior air, 'I again find,' said he, 'unthinking boy, that\nthe same crime--' But here he was interrupted by one of the gaoler's\nservants, who came to inform us that a person of distinction, who\nhad driven into town with a chariot and several attendants, sent his\nrespects to the gentleman that was with us, and begged to know when he\nshould think proper to be waited upon.--'Bid the fellow wait,' cried our\nguest, 'till I shall have leisure to receive him;' and then turning to\nmy son, 'I again find, Sir,' proceeded he, 'that you are guilty of the\nsame offence for which you once had my reproof, and for which the law\nis now preparing its justest punishments. You imagine, perhaps, that a\ncontempt for your own life, gives you a right to take that of another:\nbut where, Sir, is the difference between a duelist who hazards a life\nof no value, and the murderer who acts with greater security? Is it any\ndiminution of the gamester's fraud when he alledges that he has staked a\ncounter?'\n\n'Alas, Sir,' cried I, 'whoever you are, pity the poor misguided\ncreature; for what he has done was in obedience to a deluded mother, who\nin the bitterness of her resentment required him upon her blessing\nto avenge her quarrel. Here, Sir, is the letter, which will serve to\nconvince you of her imprudence and diminish his guilt.'\n\nHe took the letter, and hastily read it over. 'This,' says he, 'though\nnot a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his fault, as induces me\nto forgive him. And now, Sir,' continued he, kindly taking my son by\nthe hand, 'I see you are surprised at finding me here; but I have often\nvisited prisons upon occasions less interesting. I am now come to see\njustice done a worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere esteem. I\nhave long been a disguised spectator of thy father's benevolence. I have\nat his little dwelling enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery,\nand have received that happiness that courts could not give, from the\namusing simplicity around his fire-side. My nephew has been apprized\nof my intentions of coming here, and I find is arrived; it would be\nwronging him and you to condemn him without examination: if there be\ninjury, there shall be redress; and this I may say without boasting,\nthat none have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill.'\n\nWe now found the personage whom we had so long entertained as an\nharmless amusing companion was no other than the celebrated Sir William\nThornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce any were strangers.\nThe poor Mr Burchell was in reality a man of large fortune and great\ninterest, to whom senates listened with applause, and whom party heard\nwith conviction; who was the friend of his country, but loyal to his\nking. My poor wife recollecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink\nwith apprehension; but Sophia, who a few moments before thought him\nher own, now perceiving the immense distance to which he was removed by\nfortune, was unable to conceal her tears.\n\n'Ah, Sir,' cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, 'how is it possible\nthat I can ever have your forgiveness; the slights you received from me\nthe last time I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the jokes\nwhich I audaciously threw out, these jokes, Sir, I fear can never be\nforgiven.'\n\n'My dear good lady,' returned he with a smile, 'if you had your joke, I\nhad my answer: I'll leave it to all the company if mine were not as\ngood as yours. To say the truth, I know no body whom I am disposed to\nbe angry with at present but the fellow who so frighted my little\ngirl here. I had not even time to examine the rascal's person so as\nto describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear,\nwhether you should know him again?'\n\n'Indeed, Sir,' replied she, 'I can't be positive; yet now I recollect\nhe had a large mark over one of his eye-brows.' 'I ask pardon, madam,'\ninterrupted Jenkinson, who was by, 'but be so good as to inform me\nif the fellow wore his own red hair?'--'Yes, I think so,' cried\nSophia.--'And did your honour,' continued he, turning to Sir William,\n'observe the length of his legs?'--'I can't be sure of their length,'\ncried the Baronet, 'but I am convinced of their swiftness; for he\nout-ran me, which is what I thought few men in the kingdom could have\ndone.'--'Please your honour,' cried Jenkinson, 'I know the man: it is\ncertainly the same; the best runner in England; he has beaten Pinwire\nof Newcastle, Timothy Baxter is his name, I know him perfectly, and the\nvery place of his retreat this moment. If your honour will bid Mr Gaoler\nlet two of his men go with me, I'll engage to produce him to you in\nan hour at farthest.' Upon this the gaoler was called, who instantly\nappearing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. 'Yes, please your\nhonour,' reply'd the gaoler, 'I know Sir William Thornhill well, and\nevery body that knows any thing of him, will desire to know more of\nhim.'--'Well then,' said the Baronet, 'my request is, that you will\npermit this man and two of your servants to go upon a message by my\nauthority, and as I am in the commission of the peace, I undertake to\nsecure you.'--'Your promise is sufficient,' replied the other, 'and you\nmay at a minute's warning send them over England whenever your honour\nthinks fit.'\n\nIn pursuance of the gaoler's compliance, Jenkinson was dispatched in\nsearch of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused with the assiduity of our\nyoungest boy Bill, who had just come in and climbed up to Sir William's\nneck in order to kiss him. His mother was immediately going to chastise\nhis familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her; and taking the child,\nall ragged as he was, upon his knee, 'What, Bill, you chubby rogue,'\ncried he, 'do you remember your old friend Burchell; and Dick too, my\nhonest veteran, are you here, you shall find I have not forgot you.'\nSo saying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread, which the poor\nfellows eat very heartily, as they had got that morning but a very\nscanty breakfast.\n\nWe now sate down to dinner, which was almost cold; but previously, my\narm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for he\nhad made the study of physic his amusement, and was more than moderately\nskilled in the profession: this being sent to an apothecary who lived in\nthe place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief.\nWe were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler himself, who was willing to\ndo our guest all the honour in his power. But before we had well dined,\nanother message was brought from his nephew, desiring permission to\nappear, in order to vindicate his innocence and honour, with which\nrequest the Baronet complied, and desired Mr Thornhill to be introduced.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 31\n\nFormer benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest\n\n\nMr Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, which he seldom wanted, and\nwas going to embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air of\ndisdain. 'No fawning, Sir, at present,' cried the Baronet, with a look\nof severity, 'the only way to my heart is by the road of honour; but\nhere I only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and\noppression. How is it, Sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you\nprofessed a friendship, is used thus hardly? His daughter vilely\nseduced, as a recompence for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into\na prison perhaps but for resenting the insult? His son too, whom you\nfeared to face as a man--'\n\n'Is it possible, Sir,' interrupted his nephew, 'that my uncle could\nobject that as a crime which his repeated instructions alone have\npersuaded me to avoid.'\n\n'Your rebuke,' cried Sir William, 'is just; you have acted in this\ninstance prudently and well, though not quite as your father would have\ndone: my brother indeed was the soul of honour; but thou--yes you\nhave acted in this instance perfectly right, and it has my warmest\napprobation.'\n\n'And I hope,' said his nephew, 'that the rest of my conduct will not\nbe found to deserve censure. I appeared, Sir, with this gentleman's\ndaughter at some places of public amusement; thus what was levity,\nscandal called by a harsher name, and it was reported that I had\ndebauched her. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear the\nthing to his satisfaction, and he received me only with insult and\nabuse. As for the rest, with regard to his being here, my attorney\nand steward can best inform you, as I commit the management of business\nentirely to them. If he has contracted debts and is unwilling or even\nunable to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner,\nand I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal means of\nredress.'\n\n'If this,' cried Sir William, 'be as you have stated it, there is\nnothing unpardonable in your offence, and though your conduct might have\nbeen more generous in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed by\nsubordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable.'\n\n'He cannot contradict a single particular,' replied the 'Squire, 'I defy\nhim to do so, and several of my servants are ready to attest what I say.\nThus, Sir,' continued he, finding that I was silent, for in fact I could\nnot contradict him, 'thus, Sir, my own innocence is vindicated; but\nthough at your entreaty I am ready to forgive this gentleman every\nother offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem, excite a\nresentment that I cannot govern. And this too at a time when his son was\nactually preparing to take away my life; this, I say, was such guilt,\nthat I am determined to let the law take its course. I have here the\nchallenge that was sent me and two witnesses to prove it; one of my\nservants has been wounded dangerously, and even though my uncle himself\nshould dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public\njustice done, and he shall suffer for it.'\n\n'Thou monster,' cried my wife, 'hast thou not had vengeance enough\nalready, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty. I hope that good Sir\nWilliam will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a child; I am sure\nhe is, and never did harm to man.'\n\n'Madam,' replied the good man, 'your wishes for his safety are not\ngreater than mine; but I am sorry to find his guilt too plain; and if my\nnephew persists--' But the appearance of Jenkinson and the gaoler's two\nservants now called off our attention, who entered, haling in a tall\nman, very genteelly drest, and answering the description already given\nof the ruffian who had carried off my daughter--'Here,' cried Jenkinson,\npulling him in, 'here we have him, and if ever there was a candidate for\nTyburn, this is one.'\n\nThe moment Mr Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jenkinson, who had\nhim in custody, he seemed to shrink back with terror. His face became\npale with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn; but Jenkinson,\nwho perceived his design, stopt him--'What, 'Squire,' cried he, 'are you\nashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter: but this is\nthe way that all great men forget their friends, though I am resolved\nwe will not forget you. Our prisoner, please your honour,' continued\nhe, turning to Sir William, 'has already confessed all. This is the\ngentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded: He declares that it was\nMr Thornhill who first put him upon this affair, that he gave him the\ncloaths he now wears to appear like a gentleman, and furnished him with\nthe post-chaise. The plan was laid between them that he should carry off\nthe young lady to a place of safety, and that there he should threaten\nand terrify her; but Mr Thornhill was to come in in the mean time, as if\nby accident, to her rescue, and that they should fight awhile and\nthen he was to run off, by which Mr Thornhill would have the better\nopportunity of gaining her affections himself under the character of her\ndefender.'\n\nSir William remembered the coat to have been frequently worn by his\nnephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by a more\ncircumstantial account; concluding, that Mr Thornhill had often declared\nto him that he was in love with both sisters at the same time.\n\n'Heavens,' cried Sir William, 'what a viper have I been fostering in\nmy bosom! And so fond of public justice too as he seemed to be. But\nhe shall have it; secure him, Mr Gaoler--yet hold, I fear there is not\nlegal evidence to detain him.'\n\nUpon this, Mr Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated that two\nsuch abandoned wretches might not be admitted as evidences against him,\nbut that his servants should be examined.--'Your servants' replied Sir\nWilliam, 'wretch, call them yours no longer: but come let us hear what\nthose fellows have to say, let his butler be called.'\n\nWhen the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his former master's\nlooks that all his power was now over. 'Tell me,' cried Sir William\nsternly, 'have you ever seen your master and that fellow drest up in\nhis cloaths in company together?' 'Yes, please your honour,' cried the\nbutler, 'a thousand times: he was the man that always brought him\nhis ladies.'--'How,' interrupted young Mr Thornhill, 'this to my\nface!'--'Yes,' replied the butler, 'or to any man's face. To tell you\na truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and\nI don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.'--'Now then,' cried\nJenkinson, 'tell his honour whether you know any thing of me.'--'I can't\nsay,' replied the butler, 'that I know much good of you. The night\nthat gentleman's daughter was deluded to our house, you were one of\nthem.'--'So then,' cried Sir William, 'I find you have brought a\nvery fine witness to prove your innocence: thou stain to humanity! to\nassociate with such wretches!' (But continuing his examination) 'You\ntell me, Mr Butler, that this was the person who brought him this old\ngentleman's daughter.'--'No, please your honour,' replied the butler,\n'he did not bring her, for the 'Squire himself undertook that business;\nbut he brought the priest that pretended to marry them.'--'It is but\ntoo true,' cried Jenkinson, 'I cannot deny it, that was the employment\nassigned me, and I confess it to my confusion.'\n\n'Good heavens!' exclaimed the Baronet, 'how every new discovery of\nhis villainy alarms me. All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his\npresent prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice and revenge; at\nmy request, Mr Gaoler, set this young officer, now your prisoner, free,\nand trust to me for the consequences. I'll make it my business to\nset the affair in a proper light to my friend the magistrate who has\ncommitted him. But where is the unfortunate young lady herself: let\nher appear to confront this wretch, I long to know by what arts he has\nseduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is she?'\n\n'Ah, Sir,' said I, 'that question stings me to the heart: I was once\nindeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries--' Another interruption\nhere prevented me; for who should make her appearance but Miss Arabella\nWilmot, who was next day to have been married to Mr Thornhill. Nothing\ncould equal her surprize at seeing Sir William and his nephew here\nbefore her; for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that she\nand the old gentleman her father were passing through the town, on their\nway to her aunt's, who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr Thornhill\nshould be consummated at her house; but stopping for refreshment, they\nput up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was there from the\nwindow that the young lady happened to observe one of my little boys\nplaying in the street, and instantly sending a footman to bring the\nchild to her, she learnt from him some account of our misfortunes; but\nwas still kept ignorant of young Mr Thornhill's being the cause. Though\nher father made several remonstrances on the impropriety of going to a\nprison to visit us, yet they were ineffectual; she desired the child\nto conduct her, which he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a\njuncture so unexpected.\n\nNor can I go on, without a reflection on those accidental meetings,\nwhich, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprize but upon\nsome extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do we\nnot owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives. How many seeming\naccidents must unite before we can be cloathed or fed. The peasant\nmust be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill the\nmerchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual supply.\n\nWe all continued silent for some moments, while my charming pupil,\nwhich was the name I generally gave this young lady, united in her looks\ncompassion and astonishment, which gave new finishings to her beauty.\n'Indeed, my dear Mr Thornhill,' cried she to the 'Squire, who she\nsupposed was come here to succour and not to oppress us, 'I take it a\nlittle unkindly that you should come here without me, or never inform me\nof the situation of a family so dear to us both: you know I should take\nas much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old master\nhere, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like your\nuncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret.'\n\n'He find pleasure in doing good!' cried Sir William, interrupting her.\n'No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, madam,\nas complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A wretch, who after\nhaving deluded this poor man's daughter, after plotting against the\ninnocence of her sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the\neldest son into fetters, because he had courage to face his betrayer.\nAnd give me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an escape from\nthe embraces of such a monster.'\n\n'O goodness,' cried the lovely girl, 'how have I been deceived! Mr\nThornhill informed me for certain that this gentleman's eldest son,\nCaptain Primrose, was gone off to America with his new married lady.'\n\n'My sweetest miss,' cried my wife, 'he has told you nothing but\nfalsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor was married. Tho'\nyou have forsaken him, he has always loved you too well to think of any\nbody else; and I have heard him say he would die a batchellor for your\nsake.' She then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's\npassion, she set his duel with Mr Thornhill in a proper light, from\nthence she made a rapid digression to the 'Squire's debaucheries, his\npretended marriages, and ended with a most insulting picture of his\ncowardice.\n\n'Good heavens!' cried Miss Wilmot, 'how very near have I been to the\nbrink of ruin! But how great is my pleasure to have escaped it! Ten\nthousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me! He had at last art\nenough to persuade me that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no\nlonger binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was\ntaught to detest one equally brave and generous!'\n\nBut by this time my son was freed from the encumbrances of justice as\nthe person supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr\nJenkinson also, who had acted as his valet de chambre, had dressed\nup his hair, and furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a\ngenteel appearance. He now therefore entered, handsomely drest in his\nregimentals, and, without vanity, (for I am above it) he appeared as\nhandsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, he made\nMiss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet acquainted\nwith the change which the eloquence of his mother had wrought in his\nfavour. But no decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing\nmistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to\ndiscover the real sensations of her heart for having forgotten her\nformer promise and having suffered herself to be deluded by an impostor.\nMy son appeared amazed at her condescension, and could scarce believe it\nreal.--'Sure, madam,' cried he, 'this is but delusion! I can never have\nmerited this! To be, blest thus is to be too happy.'--'No, Sir,' replied\nshe, 'I have been deceived, basely deceived, else nothing could have\never made me unjust to my promise. You know my friendship, you have long\nknown it; but forget what I have done, and as you once had my warmest\nvows of constancy, you shall now have them repeated; and be assured that\nif your Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be another's.'--'And\nno other's you shall be,' cried Sir William, 'if I have any influence\nwith your father.'\n\nThis hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to the\ninn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every circumstance\nthat had happened. But in the mean time the 'Squire perceiving that\nhe was on every side undone, now finding that no hopes were left from\nflattery or dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would be to\nturn and face his pursuers. Thus laying aside all shame, he appeared\nthe open hardy villain. 'I find then,' cried he, 'that I am to expect\nno justice here; but I am resolved it shall be done me. You shall know,\nSir,' turning to Sir William, 'I am no longer a poor dependent upon your\nfavours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me,\nwhich, I thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles,\nand a bond for her fortune, are signed, and safe in my possession. It\nwas her fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish for this match,\nand possessed of the one, let who will take the other.'\n\nThis was an alarming blow, Sir William was sensible of the justice of\nhis claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the marriage\narticles himself. Miss Wilmot therefore perceiving that her fortune was\nirretrievably lost, turning to my son, she asked if the loss of fortune\ncould lessen her value to him. 'Though fortune,' said she, 'is out of my\npower, at least I have my hand to give.'\n\n'And that, madam,' cried her real lover, 'was indeed all that you ever\nhad to give; at least all that I ever thought worth the acceptance. And\nnow I protest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of fortune\nthis moment encreases my pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet\ngirl of my sincerity.'\n\nMr Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the danger his\ndaughter had just escaped, and readily consented to a dissolution of the\nmatch. But finding that her fortune, which was secured to Mr Thornhill\nby bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment.\nHe now saw that his money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune\nof his own. He could bear his being a rascal; but to want an equivalent\nto his daughter's fortune was wormwood. He sate therefore for some\nminutes employed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir William\nattempted to lessen his anxiety.--'I must confess, Sir' cried he,\n'that your present disappointment does not entirely displease me. Your\nimmoderate passion for wealth is now justly punished. But tho' the\nyoung lady cannot be rich, she has still a competence sufficient to give\ncontent. Here you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to take\nher without fortune; they have long loved each other, and for the\nfriendship I bear his father, my interest shall not be wanting in his\npromotion. Leave then that ambition which disappoints you, and for once\nadmit that happiness which courts your acceptance.'\n\n'Sir William,' replied the old gentleman, 'be assured I never yet forced\nher inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love this\nyoung gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is still,\nthank heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will make it something\nmore. Only let my old friend here (meaning me) give me a promise of\nsettling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he should come to\nhis fortune, and I am ready this night to be the first to join them\ntogether.'\n\nAs it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily\ngave a promise of making the settlement he required, which, to one\nwho had such little expectations as I, was no great favour. We had now\ntherefore the satisfaction of seeing them fly into each other's arms\nin a transport. 'After all my misfortunes,' cried my son George, 'to be\nthus rewarded! Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to hope\nfor. To be possessed of all that's good, and after such an interval of\npain! My warmest wishes could never rise so high!'--'Yes, my George,'\nreturned his lovely bride, 'now let the wretch take my fortune; since\nyou are happy without it so am I. O what an exchange have I made from\nthe basest of men to the dearest best!--Let him enjoy our fortune, I\nnow can be happy even in indigence.'--'And I promise you,' cried the\n'Squire, with a malicious grin, 'that I shall be very happy with what\nyou despise.'--'Hold, hold, Sir,' cried Jenkinson, 'there are two words\nto that bargain. As for that lady's fortune, Sir, you shall never touch\na single stiver of it. Pray your honour,' continued he to Sir\nWilliam, 'can the 'Squire have this lady's fortune if he be married to\nanother?'--'How can you make such a simple demand,' replied the Baronet,\n'undoubtedly he cannot.'--'I am sorry for that,' cried Jenkinson;\n'for as this gentleman and I have been old fellow spotters, I have a\nfriendship for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that\nhis contract is not worth a tobacco stopper, for he is married\nalready.'--'You lie, like a rascal,' returned the 'Squire, who\nseemed rouzed by this insult, 'I never was legally married to any\nwoman.'--'Indeed, begging your honour's pardon,' replied the other, 'you\nwere; and I hope you will shew a proper return of friendship to your own\nhonest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife, and if the company restrains\ntheir curiosity a few minutes, they shall see her.'--So saying he went\noff with his usual celerity, and left us all unable to form any probable\nconjecture as to his design.--'Ay let him go,' cried the 'Squire,\n'whatever else I may have done I defy him there. I am too old now to be\nfrightened with squibs.'\n\n'I am surprised,' said the Baronet, 'what the fellow can intend by this.\nSome low piece of humour I suppose!'--'Perhaps, Sir,' replied I, 'he may\nhave a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes\nthis gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one more\nartful than the rest has been found able to deceive him. When we\nconsider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with\nanguish the infamy and the contamination which he has brought into their\nfamilies, it would not surprise me if some one of them--Amazement! Do I\nsee my lost daughter! Do I hold her! It is, it is my life, my happiness.\nI thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee--and still thou\nshalt live to bless me.'--The warmest transports of the fondest lover\nwere not greater than mine when I saw him introduce my child, and held\nmy daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. 'And\nart thou returned to me, my darling,' cried I, 'to be my comfort in\nage!'--'That she is,' cried Jenkinson, 'and make much of her, for she\nis your own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole\nroom, let the other be who she will. And as for you 'Squire, as sure\nas you stand there this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to\nconvince you that I speak nothing but truth, here is the licence by\nwhich you were married together.'--So saying, he put the licence into\nthe Baronet's hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every respect.\n'And now, gentlemen,' continued he, I find you are surprised at all\nthis; but a few words will explain the difficulty. That there 'Squire\nof renown, for whom I have a great friendship, but that's between\nourselves, as often employed me in doing odd little things for him.\nAmong the rest, he commissioned me to procure him a false licence and\na false priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very\nmuch his friend, what did I do but went and got a true licence and a\ntrue priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth could make them.\nPerhaps you'll think it was generosity that made me do all this. But no.\nTo my shame I confess it, my only design was to keep the licence and\nlet the 'Squire know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought\nproper, and so make him come down whenever I wanted money.' A burst of\npleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy reached even to\nthe common room, where the prisoners themselves sympathized,\n\n  --And shook their chains\n  In transport and rude harmony.\n\nHappiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheek seemed\nflushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends and\nfortune at once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of decay\nand restore former health and vivacity. But perhaps among all there was\nnot one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear-loved\nchild in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not\ndelusion. 'How could you,' cried I, turning to Mr Jenkinson, 'how could\nyou add to my miseries by the story of her death! But it matters not, my\npleasure at finding her again, is more than a recompence for the pain.'\n\n'As to your question,' replied Jenkinson, 'that is easily answered.\nI thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison, was by\nsubmitting to the 'Squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other\nyoung lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter\nwas living, there was therefore no other method to bring things to bear\nbut by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to\njoin in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving\nyou till now.'\n\nIn the whole assembly now there only appeared two faces that did not\nglow with transport. Mr Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him:\nhe now saw the gulph of infamy and want before him, and trembled to take\nthe plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a\nvoice of piercing misery implored compassion. Sir William was going to\nspurn him away, but at my request he raised him, and after pausing a\nfew moments, 'Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude,' cried he, 'deserve no\ntenderness; yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken, a bare competence\nshall be supplied, to support the wants of life, but not its follies.\nThis young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a third part\nof that fortune which once was thine, and from her tenderness alone thou\nart to expect any extraordinary supplies for the future.' He was going\nto express his gratitude for such kindness in a set speech; but the\nBaronet prevented him by bidding him not aggravate his meanness, which\nwas already but too apparent. He ordered him at the same time to be\ngone, and from all his former domestics to chuse one such as he should\nthink proper, which was all that should be granted to attend him.\n\nAs soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stept up to his new\nniece with a smile, and wished her joy. His example was followed by\nMiss Wilmot and her father; my wife too kissed her daughter with much\naffection, as, to use her own expression, she was now made an honest\nwoman of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor\nJenkinson desired to be admitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed\nscarce capable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest leasure was in\ndoing good, now looked round with a countenance open as the sun, and saw\nnothing but joy in the looks of all except that of my daughter Sophia,\nwho, for some reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly\nsatisfied. 'I think now,' cried he, with a smile, 'that all the company,\nexcept one or two, seem perfectly happy. There only remains an act of\njustice for me to do. You are sensible, Sir,' continued he, turning to\nme, 'of the obligations we both owe Mr Jenkinson. And it is but just\nwe should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make\nhim very happy, and he shall have from me five hundred pounds as\nher fortune, and upon this I am sure they can live very comfortably\ntogether. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making?\nWill you have him?'--My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her\nmother's arms at the hideous proposal.--'Have him, Sir!' cried she\nfaintly. 'No, Sir, never.'--'What,' cried he again, 'not have Mr\nJenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome young fellow, with five hundred\npounds and good expectations!'--'I beg, Sir,' returned she, scarce able\nto speak, 'that you'll desist, and not make me so very wretched.'--'Was\never such obstinacy known,' cried he again, 'to refuse a man whom the\nfamily has such infinite obligations to, who has preserved your sister,\nand who has five hundred pounds! What not have him!'--'No, Sir, never,'\nreplied she, angrily, 'I'd sooner die first.'--'If that be the case\nthen,' cried he, 'if you will not have him--I think I must have you\nmyself.' And so saying, he caught her to his breast with ardour. 'My\nloveliest, my most sensible of girls,' cried he, 'how could you ever\nthink your own Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thornhill\ncould ever cease to admire a mistress that loved him for himself alone?\nI have for some years sought for a woman, who a stranger to my fortune\ncould think that I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even\namongst the pert and the ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to\nhave made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly beauty.' Then\nturning to Jenkinson, 'As I cannot, Sir, part with this young lady\nmyself, for she has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the\nrecompence I can make is to give you her fortune, and you may call\nupon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds.' Thus we had all our\ncompliments to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of\nceremony that her sister had done before. In the mean time Sir William's\ngentleman appeared to tell us that the equipages were ready to carry us\nto the inn, where every thing was prepared for our reception. My\nwife and I led the van, and left those gloomy mansions of sorrow.\nThe generous Baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the\nprisoners, and Mr Wilmot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. We\nwere received below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw and shook\nby the hand two or three of my honest parishioners, who were among the\nnumber. They attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was\nprovided, and coarser provisions distributed in great quantities among\nthe populace.\n\nAfter supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alternation of\npleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked\npermission to withdraw, and leaving the company in the midst of their\nmirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out my heart in\ngratitude to the giver of joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept\nundisturbed till morning.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER 32.\n\nThe Conclusion\n\n\nThe next morning as soon as I awaked I found my eldest son sitting by my\nbedside, who came to encrease my joy with another turn of fortune in my\nfavour. First having released me from the settlement that I had made the\nday before in his favour, he let me know that my merchant who had failed\nin town was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to\na much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy's\ngenerosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked for good fortune.\nBut I had some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his offer.\nWhile I was pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom\nI communicated my doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was already\npossessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept his\noffer without any hesitation. His business, however, was to inform me\nthat as he had the night before sent for the licences, and expected them\nevery hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in making\nall the company happy that morning. A footman entered while we were\nspeaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned, and as I was by\nthis time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as merry\nas affluence and innocence could make them. However, as they were now\npreparing for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased\nme. I told them of the grave, becoming and sublime deportment they\nshould assume upon this Mystical occasion, and read them two homilies\nand a thesis of my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they\nstill seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we were\ngoing along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity had quite\nforsaken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in indignation. In\nchurch a new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. This was,\nwhich couple should be married first; my son's bride warmly insisted,\nthat Lady Thornhill, (that was to be) should take the lead; but this the\nother refused with equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty of\nsuch rudeness for the world. The argument was supported for some time\nbetween both with equal obstinacy and good breeding. But as I stood all\nthis time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest,\nand shutting it, 'I perceive,' cried I, 'that none of you have a mind\nto be married, and I think we had as good go back again; for I suppose\nthere will be no business done here to-day.'--This at once reduced them\nto reason. The Baronet and his Lady were first married, and then my son\nand his lovely partner.\n\nI had previously that morning given orders that a coach should be sent\nfor my honest neighbour Flamborough and his family, by which means,\nupon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the two\nMiss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr Jenkinson gave his hand to the\neldest, and my son Moses led up the other; (and I have since found that\nhe has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he\nshall have whenever he thinks proper to demand them.) We were no sooner\nreturned to the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my\nsuccess, came to congratulate me, but among the rest were those who rose\nto rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told\nthe story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and reprove them\nwith great severity; but finding them quite disheartened by his harsh\nreproof, he gave them half a guinea a piece to drink his health and\nraise their dejected spirits.\n\nSoon after this we were called to a very genteel entertainment, which\nwas drest by Mr Thornhill's cook. And it may not be improper to observe\nwith respect to that gentleman, that he now resides in quality of\ncompanion at a relation's house, being very well liked and seldom\nsitting at the side-table, except when there is no room at the other;\nfor they make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up in\nkeeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in\nlearning to blow the French-horn. My eldest daughter, however, still\nremembers him with regret; and she has even told me, though I make a\ngreat secret of it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent.\nBut to return, for I am not apt to digress thus, when we were to sit\ndown to dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The question was\nwhether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, should not sit above the\ntwo young brides, but the debate was cut short by my son George, who\nproposed, that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman\nby his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, excepting\nmy wife, who I could perceive was not perfectly satisfied, as she\nexpected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table\nand carving all the meat for all the company. But notwithstanding this,\nit is impossible to describe our good humour. I can't say whether we\nhad more wit amongst us now than usual; but I am certain we had more\nlaughing, which answered the end as well. One jest I particularly\nremember, old Mr Wilmot drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another\nway, my son replied, 'Madam, I thank you.' Upon which the old gentleman,\nwinking upon the rest of the company, observed that he was thinking of\nhis mistress. At which jest I thought the two miss Flamboroughs would\nhave died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, according to my\nold custom, I requested that the table might be taken away, to have\nthe pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more by a chearful\nfireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company\nby their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish\nfor, all my cares were over, my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only\nremained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former\nsubmission in adversity."