V GIF] 
 
 X-- KA'vt*^*'^, ^Zt^L^^ A^~/ 
 
 AJT 
 
 , 
 t ^^^- ,4^-C^- .v.^ 
 
 ^^^c^^ ^tA-/*- &^G-r-~& ^ 
 
Milton Newnark 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
fHacmtllan's Docket lEnigltsf) 
 
 A Series of English Texts, edited for use in 
 
 Secondary Schools, with Critical 
 
 Introductions, Notes, etc. 
 
 I6mo. Levanteen. 25c. each. 
 
 MACAULAY'S ESSAY ON ADDISON. 
 MACAULAY'S ESSAY ON MILTON. 
 TENNYSON'S THE PRINCESS. 
 ELIOT'S SILAS MARNER. 
 COLERIDGE'S THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 COOPER'S THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS. 
 BURKE'S SPEECH ON CONCILIATION. 
 POPE'S HOMER'S ILIAD. 
 GOLDSMITH'S THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 SHAKESPEARE'S MACBETH. 
 ADDISON'S SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 
 SHAKESPEARE'S THE MERCHANT OF VENICE. 
 DRYDEN'S PALAMON AND ARCITE. 
 BYRON'S CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 OTHERS TO FOLLOW. 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
THE 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 A TALE 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY HIMSELF 
 
 BY OLIVEE GOLDSMITH 
 
 mtsert, cabete feiices 
 
 EDITED 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
 BY 
 
 HEKRY W. BOYNTON, M.A. 
 
 INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH, PHILLIPS ACADEMY, ANDOVER 
 
 Nefo 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD. 
 1899 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1899, 
 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 
 
 J. S. Gushing & Co. Berwick & Smith 
 Norwood Mass. U.S.A. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 There are an hundred faults in this thing, and an hundred 
 things might be said to prove them beauties. But it is need- 
 less. A book may be amusing with numerous errors, or it 
 may be very dull without a single absurdity. The hero of 
 this piece unites in himself the three greatest characters upon 
 earth ; he is a priest, an husbandman, and the father of a 
 family. He is drawn as ready to teach and ready to obey ; 
 as simple in affluence and majestic in adversity. In this age 
 of opulence and refinement whom can such a character please ? 
 Such as are fond of high life, will turn with disdain from 
 the simplicity of his country fire-side. Such as mistake rib- 
 aldry for humour, will find no wit in his harmless conversa- 
 tion ; and such as have been taught to deride religion, will 
 laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from 
 futurity. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 To one who is familiar with eighteenth century life and lit- 
 erature, and with the mind and art of Goldsmith, The Vicar of 
 Wakefield needs little commentary. A few obscure allusions, 
 an archaic word or two, call for explanation ; but that is all. 
 Indeed, it is so simple and obvious to such a reader that he is 
 not unlikely to suppose it to be equally intelligible to those 
 who lack his basis of information. The experience of the pres- 
 ent editor is far from proving the correctness of this supposition. 
 It is true that, just as a modern gallery audience listens with 
 satisfaction to a Shakespeare comedy, so wide is the range 
 of pleasure afforded by a great work of art, a modern class of 
 boys does not find itself entirely at a loss upon a casual reading 
 of Goldsmith's tale. But the danger lies for them in just this 
 apparent simplicity of the task before them. Having found 
 some portions of the story amusing, according to their lights, 
 they are ready with a complacent condemnation of the rest; 
 and it is more than an even chance that the part which has 
 pleased them is the least valuable part of the work. They 
 read it for the incident, and everything else is an impertinence 
 to them. Compared with the romances of Scott and Stevenson 
 and Crockett, with which most of them are familiar, The Vicar 
 
 vii 
 
viii PREFACE 
 
 of Wakefield makes no great figure as a narrative. So the 
 average boy brings in the verdict, " A pretty good story (for a 
 school-book), but slow in parts." 
 
 It is quite right that this boy should first be given the chance 
 to read the story through in his own way, and to form his own 
 honest opinion of it. But it is not in the least right that he 
 should be permitted to keep that opinion, supposing it to be 
 inadequate, if the efforts of editor and teacher can bring him to 
 an equally honest change of his estimate. To this result, of a 
 genuine comprehension, the present editor has tried to contribute 
 in two ways : by calling attention to the value of the charac- 
 terization or portraiture, and to the comparative insignificance 
 of the incident ; and by emphasizing the difference in atmosphere 
 and flavor between English eighteenth century life and our own. 
 To wean the boy from his nineteenth century preoccupation, 
 and to give him the point of view of the author, and of the 
 reader to whom the book was immediately addressed, is cer- 
 tainly essential to his understanding of the book, and, therefore, 
 to his full enjoyment of it. 
 
 The present text is based on the fifth edition, but with some 
 variations. Special acknowledgments are due to the editions 
 of Hudson and Jordan for information on some obscure matters. 
 
 H. W. B. 
 ANDOVER, December, 1898. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION . . . . . . . . . xv 
 
 I. Goldsmith xv 
 
 II. The Vicar of Wakefield xxviii 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 1 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in which a kin- 
 dred Likeness prevails, as well of Minds as of Persons . 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Family Misfortunes. The Loss of Fortune only serves to 
 
 increase the Pride of the Worthy 5 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A Migration. The Fortunate Circumstances of our Lives are 
 
 generally found at last to be of our own procuring . . 8 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A Proof that even the humblest Fortune may grant Happiness, 
 
 which depends, not on Circumstances, but Constitution . 15 
 ix 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A new and great Acquaintance introduced. What we place 
 
 most Hopes upon, generally proves most fatal ... 18 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 The Happiness of a Country Fireside 22 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A Town Wit described. The dullest Fellows may learn to 
 
 be comical for a Night or two 26 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 An Amour, which promises little good Fortune, yet may be 
 
 productive of much 30 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced. Superior Finery 
 
 ever seems to confer superior Breeding .... 37 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The Family endeavour to cope with their Betters. The 
 Miseries of the Poor when they attempt to appear above 
 their Circumstances 40 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads . . 44 
 
CONTENTS xi 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 PAGE; 
 Fortune seems resolved to humble the Family of Wakefield. 
 
 Mortifications are often more painful than real Calamities 49 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Mr. Burchell is found to be an Enemy, for he has the Confi- 
 dence to give disagreeable Advice 54 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration that seeming Ca- 
 lamities may be real Blessings 57 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 All Mr. Burchell's Villany at once detected. The Folly of 
 
 being overwise 63 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The Family use Art, which is opposed with still greater . 68 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the Power of long and 
 
 pleasing Temptation 73 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a lost Child to Virtue . 81 
 
Xll CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Description of a Person discontented with the present 
 Government, and apprehensive of the Loss of our 
 Liberties 85 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 The History of a Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty, 
 
 but losing Content 94 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 The short Continuance of Friendship amongst the Vicious, 
 
 which is coeval only with mutual Satisfaction , . .108 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Offences are easily pardoned where there is Love at bottom . 116 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 None but the Guilty can be long and completely miserable . 120 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 Fresh Calamities 124 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 No Situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort 
 
 of Comfort attending it 129 
 
CONTENTS Xlll 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Reformation in the Gaol. To make Laws complete, they 
 
 should reward as well as punish 133 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 The same Subject continued 138 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Happiness and Misery rather the Result of Prudence than of 
 Virtue in this Life ; temporal Evils or Felicities being 
 regarded by Heaven as things merely in themselves 
 trifling, and unworthy its Care in the Distribution . . 142 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 The equal Dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard 
 to the Happy and the Miserable here below. That, from 
 the Nature of Pleasure and Pain, the Wretched must be 
 paid the Balance of their Sufferings in the Life hereafter 152 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 Happier Prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and 
 
 Fortune will at last change in our Favour . . . 156 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Former Benevolence now repaid with unexpected Interest . 164 
 
XIV CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 The Conclusion 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE . 
 NoTES 
 
 184 
 
 INDEX TO NOTES ....... 205 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 GOLDSMITH 
 
 MANY of our English men of letters we are accustomed to 
 regard only as men of letters. Whatever is significant in them 
 appears in their books, and mainly in their books ; the events 
 and immediate conditions of their private lives are indifferent 
 matters to any but curious lovers of their work. But there 
 are a few English writers most of them are distinctively 
 poets who as men hold our affection even more strongly 
 than as authors they command our interest. Each of them 
 apparently makes his claim upon us by his weakness as much, 
 almost, as by his strength. It is a subtle flattery to us to find 
 that these men who did so much more in art than we can do 
 were, after all, human and fallible in the conduct of their own 
 lives. To pity them is a luxury which we -sometimes abuse. 
 But the explanation of our attitude toward them goes deeper 
 than this. If they did not, even in their poor faulty lives, show 
 some element of strength which is lacking in us, we should not 
 care for them. In all such cases, if we get to the root of our 
 feeling, we are likely to find that it is the deep note of a sym- 
 pathy and love beyond our own, ringing in and through the 
 story of apparent failure, which echoes in us, and makes us glad 
 for them and proud of them. 
 
 Goldsmith was a man of this rare type. He has always 
 been loved, and he has always been patronized and misunder- 
 
 xv 
 
XVI INTRODUCTION 
 
 stood. His work was highly esteemed by the best men of 
 his time; those who knew him most intimately found him 
 personally lovable : but very few of them gave him reverence, 
 and not many gave him respect. And even now, when the 
 few but strangely perfect products of his art have for more 
 than a century kept their hold on more than the English- 
 reading public, we still find ourselves looking back to him with 
 a sort of apologetic fondness. He is still, in our habitual 
 thought of him, not Dr. Goldsmith, author of various more or 
 less pretentious and salable works in science and history, 
 not Oliver Goldsmith, the consummate poet of The Trav- 
 eller and The Deserted Village, but "honest Goldsmith," 
 the "poor Goldy," whom even Boswells found it easy to pat- 
 ronize, and who died at hardly middle age, in debt, and with 
 a mind not at ease. 
 
 But our interest in Goldsmith's life and personality would 
 naturally be strong for another reason than that which lies 
 in the inherent charm of the man. Not only in spirit, but in 
 detail, his books are the outcome of that life and personality. 
 Hardly a description in his verse, hardly an incident in his 
 fiction, hardly a situation in his plays, but grew directly out 
 of his personal experience. Such being the nature of his 
 creative method, it is fortunate that his experience of life was 
 a somewhat varied and strenuous one. It has been the habit 
 of his biographers to enlarge upon the privations of his youth, 
 his hand-to-mouth existence in London, his years of enforced 
 hack-work,*in a spirit of regret : as if with a silver spoon in 
 his mouth the careless fellow would ever have taken the trouble 
 to sing, or with a golden pen in his hand, to write. As it is, 
 Goldsmith produced three masterpieces in three several types 
 of creative effort. Given all his time free from bailiffs and 
 taskmasters, it is to be doubted whether he would ever have 
 written anything of note whatever. In the Irish village life 
 of his early years, in his failures in scholarship, law, divinity, 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH xvil 
 
 medicine, in his haphazard journey through Europe, in his 
 plodding life in London, lie the warp and woof of his literary 
 success. It is well worth while, therefore, to know something 
 about the man before we approach his work. 
 
 Of his earliest years little need be said, except that he was 
 found by the authorities to be uncommonly dull, unless at 
 hatching deviltries, and clever in nothing but in getting rid 
 of money and opportunities. He went the usual round of 
 dame-schools and private academies, receiving perhaps more 
 than his share of scorn from the masters and abuse from the 
 boys. With his great head, insignificant pock-marked face, 
 fidgety manners, and unready tongue, he was little likely to 
 make his way in that most conventional of societies, a school 
 community. A bit of doggerel ascribed to his early boyhood, 
 the tradition of certain excellent Latin exercises these are 
 all the ingenuity of the biographer has been able to unearth by 
 way of posthumous prophecy of Goldsmith's long-delayed success. 
 It was an unpromising boyhood, yet not altogether wasted, as 
 we know now. For to the tender impressions of those early 
 days, Goldsmith's warm and sanguine nature was singularly 
 loyal. It was exactly that unpromising youth of his, with its 
 just not squalid experiences, which, seen through the glorifying 
 haze of memory, turned' to sweetness and pure delight for gen- 
 erations of the human kind he loved and understood. 
 r~ Oliver Goldsmith was born November- 10, 1728, in the little 
 Irish hamlet of Pallasmore. He was the fifth child of Charles 
 Goldsmith, a poor country parson, who at that time tilled a bit 
 of ground, like the Vicar of Wakefield, to eke out his "forty 
 pounds a year." Of English descent, the Goldsmiths had been 
 long enough in Ireland to assimilate many of the Irish charac- 
 teristics. After many years of residence in England, Goldsmith 
 still spoke with a marked brogue ; and much of his strength, as 
 well as of his weakness, seems to belong plainly to the warm 
 heart and hasty blood of the kind race among whom his childish 
 
xvill INTRODUCTION 
 
 and boyish years were spent. His mother did not understand 
 him ; his father's wide benevolence was perhaps too impersonal 
 to yield a special tenderness to this flighty son. His brother 
 Henry and his Uncle Contarine, both clergymen, seem to have 
 been his chief friends, among the reputable, during his 
 school and college days. The uncle, especially, was as kind 
 and patient with the reckless boy as if he had foreseen the 
 greatness of which he was to have not even the earliest proofs ; 
 for his death came when Goldsmith was still a vagabond and 
 ne'er-do-weel. 
 
 In 1744, at the age of fifteen, Goldsmith was found to know 
 enough, and not more than enough, to enter Trinity College, 
 Dublin, as a sizar or charity student. In 1747 his father died, 
 and it was only the goodness of his Uncle Contarine that made 
 it possible for him to complete the course. Through the course 
 he came, in spite of rows with the town, quarrels with his 
 tutor, who treated him brutally, and general inefficiency. 
 He was graduated, as he had been entered, the last on the list 
 of candidates ; we do not even know that a higher place would 
 have pleased him more. At twenty-one he was supposed to be 
 ready to meet " the world." But a struggle with that chimera 
 of the undergraduate had no immediate attraction for him. 
 "After college," says Thackeray, " he hung about his 
 mother's house and lived for some years the life of a buckeen 
 passed a month with this relation and that, a year with one 
 patron, a great deal of time at the public-house." At last he 
 resolved or it was resolved for him to bestir himself, and 
 a series of experiments began, each of them predestined, by his 
 temperament, to failure. He tried, since everybody expected 
 it of him, to enter the Church. A tradition has it that the 
 Bishop refused him on account of the red breeches in which he 
 made his application. He tried teaching; but after a time 
 finding himself independent, retired with a fortune of thirty 
 pounds, which was soon lost at cards. Fifty pounds advanced 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH xix 
 
 by the good uncle to help him to the study of law disappeared 
 in the same way. Three of the learned professions were thus dead 
 to Goldsmith. But there was a fourth to be tried ; and it was 
 not long before he persuaded his uncle to send him to Edin- 
 burgh to study medicine. He was never to see Ireland 
 again. 
 
 At Edinburgh he lived " and informed his uncle that he 
 studied," says Mr. Black for a year and a half. At the end 
 of that time we find him once more applying > in one of his plausible 
 begging letters, for means to proceed with his studies in Ley- 
 den. He did not stay long in Holland. His money gave out, 
 and, having no further professional training in mind, or per- 
 haps taking pity on his Uncle Contarine, he determined to 
 shift for himself. Accordingly, in February, 1755, "with one 
 clean shirt, and no money in his pocket," he set out, on foot, 
 to see Europe. Our knowledge of that journey is vague ; we 
 are only certain that for a year he wandered through France 
 and Germany, Switzerland and Italy, winning his way by the 
 aid of his flute and his good-humored face. Of guide-book in- 
 formation he absorbed little enough ; but we may be sure that 
 in this experience, as in all the experiences of his life, he 
 gained a constantly widening knowledge of himself and his 
 kind : a knowledge which comes not peculiarly to the traveller 
 or the stay-at-home, but to that union of warm sympathy and 
 subtle intelligence which are so rare, at home or abroad. Gold- 
 smith returned from Europe somewhat mysteriously the pos- 
 sessor of a degree. Where he got it we do not know, but we 
 shall see that it represented a very slight scientific attainment 
 on his part. 
 
 The spring of 1756 found him in London, an unknown Dr. 
 Goldsmith, with no money, few friends, and apparently fewer 
 prospects. The good Uncle Contarine had died while the good- 
 for-nothing nephew was in Italy ; that door was closed forever. 
 The experience of the next few years was still unpromising 
 
XX INTRODUCTION 
 
 enough. The new-fledged physician tried to practice medicine 
 in a humble way, but without success. He became proof- 
 reader in the establishment of Samuel Richardson, printer and 
 novelist. He wrote a tragedy, and on Richardson's advice put 
 it out of misery at once. He became usher in a boarding- 
 school, and suffered much. At the table of Dr. Milner, his 
 superior, he met a Mr. Griffiths, a bookseller (which at that 
 time meant also a publisher), and was by him shortly persuaded 
 to become writer of odds and ends to a Griffiths periodical, The 
 Monthly Review. Goldsmith soon found this position intolera- 
 ble. In less than a year he was back with Dr. Milner, through 
 whom presently another opportunity offered itself for his ad- 
 vancement, in the form of a medical appointment in India. 
 After some delay the appointment was actually made ; the com- 
 mission was drawn up and signed ; and at the last moment, 
 for some unknown reason, the whole matter fell through. 
 Driven to a last resource, the poor Doctor applied for a posi- 
 tion as hospital mate in London, and was found not qualified. 
 This was in 1758 ; Goldsmith had passed his thirtieth birth- 
 day, and had as yet made nothing of himself. The future 
 looked dark indeed. 
 
 But, as it happened, he was at that moment on the eve of 
 his first success in the field for which nature intended him. 
 He could not be a surgeon in Coromandel, or a hospital mate 
 in London ; he was destined to be something better. To de- 
 fray the necessary expenses connected with the proposed Indian 
 appointment, he had planned and begun to write a little book, 
 to be entitled An Enquiry into the Present State of Polite 
 Learning in Europe. Its title is more weighty than its con- 
 tents; but in manner it has something of the lightness and 
 ease which belong to Goldsmith's mature style. The little 
 work was not received with enthusiasm by the critics it told 
 too many truths about them but it was not ignored. Gold- 
 smith had made his first impression as a man of letters. From 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH XXI 
 
 this time, what had been only a makeshift employment became 
 something more ; the hack-writer seriously desired to become 
 an author. 
 
 Indeed, the impression of this first work was not altogether 
 negative. Soon after its publication a sanguine bookseller 
 thought well enough of the new writer to consign to his hand 
 the entire authorship of a new periodical. In The Bee, more 
 distinctly than in the Enquiry, we find the flavor of the real 
 Goldsmith. Some of the papers are impersonal, even conven- 
 tional ; but in a few the man himself appears, tender, whimsical, 
 full of his own concerns, yet conscious of their unimpor- 
 tance to others, and no less alive to his own foibles than to 
 those of his neighbors. Only eight numbers of the little peri- 
 odical were published. It lacked the authority of a great name, 
 as it lacked the element of gossip and scandal which needs no 
 authority ; above all, its strain was too fine, its humor too 
 subtle, to catch the popular ear. 
 
 But though The Bee was commercially a failure, it made 
 new friends for its author : Smollett the novelist, Burke the 
 statesman, and Johnson the literary dictator of all England. 
 The good opinion of these superior critics was confirmed by the 
 appearance during 1760 of The Citizen of the World, a series 
 of letters printed in The Public Ledger., commenting upon 
 England and the English, and purporting to be written by a 
 Chinese visitor. The idea was an old one ; the application of 
 it was quite original. No one but Goldsmith could have written 
 these papers, which display the same odd mingling of keen 
 insight and childlike simplicity that marks the author's 
 conduct of his life. Political weaknesses, foibles of fashion, 
 long-accepted usages of society all are quietly satirized by 
 the pen of this quasi-Oriental, who is after all only an English- 
 man independent enough to take life at first hand. Several 
 figures, too, appear, as distinct and humanly probable as Sir 
 Roger de Coverley and his friends, or as the Vicar himself. The 
 
xxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 Man in Black and Beau Tibbs, especially, deserve a far wider 
 circle of modern acquaintance, v From this time on, Goldsmith's 
 work was sought by the booksellers ; and the occasional priva- 
 tions of his subsequent experience were due not to a lack of 
 resources, but to the utter carelessness and prodigality of his 
 mode of life. Not long after the publication of The Citizen 
 of the World he found it possible to take better lodgings, in 
 Wine pffice Court, and there entertained some of his new and 
 distinguishes acquaintances. 
 
 I" In 1762 is recorded the fact of the sale to a printer 
 ^ named Collins of a third share in a new book, to be published 
 in two volumes, The Vicar of Wakefield. This makes it 
 probable that the incident to be quoted took place earlier in 
 the same year, when the story, it is to be supposed, had already 
 taken the form of a first rough draft. Goldsmith had by this 
 time found his rooms in Wine Office Court beyond his means. 
 His rent fell farther and farther in arrears, till the landlady 
 in despair called in the bailiffs, and the poet found himself a 
 prisoner in his own rooms. What follows is best told in 
 Johnson's own words, as reported by the scrupulous Boswell : 
 " I received one morning a message from poor Goldsmith that 
 he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to 
 come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as 
 possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to come to him 
 directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was drest, and found 
 that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he 
 was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already 
 changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a 
 glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired him 
 to be calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he 
 might be extricated. He then told me that he had a novel 
 ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into 
 it, and saw its merit ; told the landlady I should soon return ; 
 and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH xxiil 
 
 brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged the rent, not 
 without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him 
 so ill." It seems clear that Johnson did not bring Goldsmith 
 the whole of the sixty pounds. Probably he arranged for its I 
 sale in shares, for one or two of which Newbury very likel^j^ 
 paid at "the moment. This would account for the subsequent " 
 sale of a share to Collins, who, mnrp tliiyj^JJ^r^fijeajs-Jato,^, 
 printed the first edition nf thp. atmy The reasons for jhis 
 delay in publication we shall speak of later. 
 
 It is amusing to note that shortly after this clash over the 
 business of rent, Goldsmith contrived to rid himself entirely, for 
 the time, of the landlady question. He entered into an agree- 
 ment with Francis Newbury by which he was to receive board 
 and lodgmg^nd whatever else his services might be worth 
 after the payment of rent. On his employer's adviceJie-*eveL^ 
 to retired Tplingtfm The landlady was a relative of Newbury's. 
 " Tne bookseller, indeed," says Dobson, "was paymasteFtn the 
 business, deducting with businesslike regularity the amount for 
 Goldsmith's keep and incidental expenses, from the account cur- 
 rent between the poet and himself." Under this sort of guardian- 
 ship he lived for two years and more, making copy of all sorts 
 for Newbury, and in the main living up to his part of the agree- 
 ment. But during this period he had other work in hand, not 
 called for in Newbury's contract. It was at Islington that The 
 Traveller, which he had conceived in 1755 during his tramp in 
 Europe, and upon which he had worked at intervals subsequently, 
 received its finishing touches. In 1764 the poem was published, 
 and almost at once gave its author a high place as a poet in the 
 critical estimate of the day. Several editions were run through 
 rapidly. Interest was revived in his former work, and an, offer 
 came from the booksellers for a volume of selections from his 
 essays, which was soon prepared and printed. A more impor- 
 tant employment of the next two years was tlm-completion of 
 The Vicar of WakefieM. When Johnson arranged for its sale m 
 
XXIV INTRODUCTION 
 
 1762, it was promised that it should make up two volumes, duo- 
 decimo. From internal evidence we can see that in its original 
 form the story was far too short to meet the bookseller's require- 
 ment. Its publication was delayed, therefore, until it should 
 be expanded to the necessary bulk. The author, who had re- 
 ceived his money, and was busy in other matters, let the story 
 lie for two or three years, and at last, very likely under press- 
 ure from the bookseller, hurriedly padded it with whatever 
 material he could command, and got rid of it It was probably 
 Goldsmith's fault, then, rather than Newbury's, that the book 
 was not published, in its two volumes duodecimo, till March, 
 1766, something like three years and a half after its sale by 
 Johnson. 
 
 The critics seem to have had nothing to say of the story; in- 
 deed, one could hardly imagine a work more unlike the novels 
 yjth which they were accustomed to deal. But the public was 
 ja^'at^a loss. Two other editions were called for before the 
 the year^ Goldsmith's reputation was immediately and 
 greatly increased by his book, but the 60 was all that he ever 
 received for it; the drudgery had to go on. He had again 
 taken elegant lodgings, and stocked himself with fine clothes. 
 In the hope, perhaps, of escaping the toils of the booksellers, 
 he made a second and final attempt at doctoring, and failed; 
 clearly, only task-work of the familiar sort could enable him to 
 support the dignity which his poem and story had given him. 
 One more attempt was to be made, in a field as yet untried. 
 He had always been interested in the stage, but as yet, unless we 
 except the luckless tragedy, had not written for it. Now, casting 
 about in his own experience for a comedy subject, he as usual 
 chose the nearest, himself. The Good-Natured Man was writ- 
 ten. Dr. Johnson furnished a prologue, and the play was sub- 
 mitted to the greatest actor and manager of the time, David 
 Garrick. While Garrick did not refuse the comedy, he was not 
 enthusiastic. A coolness resulted, and the play was finally pro- 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH XXV 
 
 duced not at Drury Lane, but at Covent Garden, the rival 
 theatre. In the interval between its acceptance and production, 
 the author, who was as usual in pecuniary straits, was offered a 
 salaried position as political writer. Kightly feeling that to sell 
 his pen to a political party was quite a different matter from 
 selling it to a bookseller, he refused. In January, 1768, The 
 Good-Natured Man was brought out. It was received, on the 
 whole, not unfavorably, and the 500 which came to its author 
 once more set him on his feet. Only for the moment, however ; 
 with characteristic short-sightedness, he spent four-fifths of this 
 windfall in the purchase of new and fine chambers in the Middle 
 Temple, and with much entertaining and many gorgeous clothes 
 the rest was not long about him. He fell in debt, and was again 
 an easy prey to the booksellers. A History of Rome, a History 
 of Animated Nature (about which he knew nothing), and other 
 similar performances occupied most of his time for the next year 
 or two. 
 
 In the meantime he had been polishing and repolishing The 
 Deserted Village, which had been begun at least two years 
 before. It was published in May, 1770. Whether sweet 
 Auburn is an English or an Irish village ; whether this or that 
 person mentioned is positively of this or that relationship to 
 the author; whether the political theory of the poem is sound 
 or not : these are unimportant questions to the mass of its 
 readers. Its tenderness, its easy grace, its humor, place it 
 among the few English poems which do not depend upon critics 
 for their constituency: "Johnson," says Dobson, "thought it 
 .inferior to The Traveller, probably because it was less didactic ; 
 we, on the contrary, prefer it, because, with less obtrusion of 
 moral, it presents in larger measure those qualities of chastened 
 sympathy and descriptive grace which are Goldsmith at his 
 best. 7 ' I Johnson had contributed some lines both to The Trav- 
 eller and to The Deserted Village. Nor was his friendship 
 limited to mere literary offices. As early as 1764 he had 
 
XXVI INTRODUCTION 
 
 caused Goldsmith to be included in the original membership of 
 " The Club," that famous company which was later known as 
 " The Literary Club," but which never needed to borrow dig- 
 nity of an adjective. Burke, Reynolds, Johnson, and Gold- 
 smith were, as we know now, the most noteworthy of its mem- 
 bers ; but then, the six or eight others little dreamed that they 
 were to owe the preservation of their names partly to the fact 
 of their association with the unimposing Irish scribbler, whom 
 they were willing to tolerate but not to respect. By 1770, 
 Goldsmith had become a person of some social consideration in 
 London, had made many acquaintances, and figured as some- 
 thing of a lion in certain middle-class circles. Everybody liked 
 him, but still with a rebate of condescension. Even at the 
 Club, where his literary standing was now placed beyond ques- 
 tion, he continued to be misunderstood. His anxiety to please 
 was taken for officiousness ; his busy ways and eager speech were 
 found to be lacking in dignity ; and his humorous sallies of self- 
 flattery, which were merely his own peculiar method of self- 
 depreciation, were supposed to indicate intolerable conceit. The 
 fact is, his humor was too subtle for the broad taste of his time ; 
 one can easily imagine his continual despair in the presence of 
 so much thick-headed toleration on the part of inferior minds. 
 
 In the summer of 1770 Goldsmith made a little journey 
 upon the Continent, but in spite of agreeable companionship 
 and the ordinary comforts of travelling, he regretted the simple 
 charm of his first vagabond experience abroad. It is a pathetic 
 fact that this man who lived, to all appearances, so heedlessly 
 for the pleasure of the present, should have found his moments 
 of real happiness in dreaming of an impossible future and of an 
 equally impossible past. 
 
 Various pieces of task-work occupied the next two years, the 
 most important of them a Life of Bolinybroke and a History of 
 England; these books are, like all Goldsmith's work of the sort, 
 readable, if superficial. But in the intervals of his drudgery 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH xxvii 
 
 he was busy with a far more significant task, the production 
 of a new comedy. This play, like his first, was based on his 
 personal experience. Not only was the mistake on which the 
 plot is founded an incident of his own boyhood : he is 
 young Marlow, glib with the barmaids, but dumb in the pres- 
 ence of a lady ; he is Tony Lumpkin, king of the tavern, colt- 
 ish and mischievous, but at heart guileless and kind. The play 
 was finished and placed in the hands of Colman of Covent 
 Garden, in 1772. Through the lukewarmness of the manager, 
 and the refractoriness of his company, She Stoops to Conquer 
 was not produced till March, 1773, and then with an inferior 
 cast. It was, however, so far superior to The Good-Natured 
 Man that the public could not fail to see something of its 
 merit. They did not recognize it as one of the few great Eng- 
 lish comedies outside of Shakespeare, but they went to see it, 
 and found it amusing. It was at once assailed by the adher- 
 ents of the conventional school of the period, the " sentimental 
 comedy." But the vigor and rollicking humor of the little 
 work placed it beyond detraction. The play was a success. 
 
 And it was Goldsmith's last success. He had now achieved 
 merit of a high order in four separate types of pure literature 
 the light essay, poetry, fiction, and the drama. His work 
 was done. The story of his last days is a sad one; a story of 
 steadily increasing debt, of failing courage, and of final sur- 
 render. Macaulay estimates that during the last seven years 
 of his life, Goldsmith received the equivalent of .800 in- 
 come. The inference is obvious : Goldsmith died of shiftless- 
 ness. Toward the close of March, 1774, a local disturbance of no 
 apparent seriousness found him in such weak nervous condition as 
 to make him an easy victim. His general symptoms could not 
 account for his failure to rally ; being questioned, he admitted 
 to his physician that his mind was not at ease. On April 4, 
 1774, the end came. His friend Samuel Johnson wrote a 
 grand Latin epitaph, which still stands in Westminster Abbey. 
 
xxviii % INTRODUCTION 
 
 But he spoke a better one : " Let not his frailties be remem- 
 bered : he was a very great man." 
 
 So much, or so little, for the story of his life. Of the thou- 
 sand kind acts of that life, to his brother, to distant kinsmen, to 
 poor outcasts whose only claim upon his friendship was their 
 friendlessness, nothing has been said. He died .2000 in debt 
 to certain forgotten British creditors ; but the debt we owe him 
 is not to be reckoned in pounds sterling. We cherish him, as 
 we quote him, without knowing it. His life was imperfect, his 
 work was scant ; but his eminence as an artist has made him a 
 part of our treasured literary inheritance, as his loving spirit 
 has made him a part of our lives. 
 
 THE VIOAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 THE English novel was barely a quarter of a century old 
 when Goldsmith wrote The Vicar of Wakefield. Yet within 
 that time three recognized masters of fiction, Richardson, Field- 
 ing, and Smollett, had begun and practically completed their 
 work. These men differed greatly from one another; and 
 Goldsmith owed nothing to any of them, except the settled 
 willingness on the part of the public to read extended prose 
 narrative. Whether, indeed, this predisposition of the public and 
 the bookseller was of service to Goldsmith's art as well as to 
 his pocket, is something of a question. (For Goldsmith was 
 not by nature a story-teller; indeed, TheT^icar of Wakefield 
 can hardly be called a story, if we make serious use of that 
 rather vague word. It is a connected series of sketches spun 
 out into a narrative, mainly, we have reason to think, for the 
 purpose of making the work more easily salable (see Introduc- 
 tion, p. xxiii). If Goldsmith had lived a half-century earlier, this 
 expedient would not have been necessary. It is to that period 
 that we must turn to find the prototype of what is most 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKE FIELD XXIX 
 
 valuable in The Vicar of Wakefield, to the period of The Taller, 
 The Spectator, and The Guardian. The Sir Roger de Coverley 
 papers in The Spectator are more nearly akin to what might 
 then have been merely the Primrose papers, than anything 
 else in our literature. Goldsmith's Beau Tibbs series in The 
 Citizen of the World would attest his legitimate descent from 
 Addison and Steele, if any other evidence than The Vicar were 
 needed It is clear that the author attempted in this tale to 
 do two things which were, for him, incongruous : to make a 
 group-portrait, and to tell a story. Whatever is best in the 
 product of this double effort is connected with the portraiture ; 
 whatever is unreal and meretricious is the result of his attempt 
 at romantic narrative. < ^ 
 
 JThe plot of the story is artificial and rnp.lndra.maticj The 
 villain" is a" bold bad man, without a redeeming feature except 
 good looks and assured manners. He seduces one of the Vicar's 
 daughters, and tries to carry off the other. He rids himself of 
 an undesirable rival by procuring him a commission in a regi- 
 ment detailed for foreign service ; advances the necessary money 
 for the purchase of the lieutenancy; and having graciously 
 accepted the Vicar's bond therefor, makes use of it later to clap 
 him into prison. His uncle, who is perfectly virtuous, and at 
 the same time perfectly aware of the Squire's character, does 
 not interfere between him and his victim. That Olivia's life 
 escapes being hopelessly ruined is due, not to a proper inter- 
 position by Sir William, but to the chance trick of the low 
 scamp Jenkinson. The denouement of the story is almost 
 farcical. The admired Sir William carries the jest at his little 
 Sophia's expense well beyond the point of cruelty, and only 
 after having insulted her sufficiently to satisfy his sense of 
 humor, condescendingly permits her to become Lady Thornhill. 
 The Vicar's fortune is miraculously restored ; and the pre- 
 posterous Mr. Wilmot becomes the complaisant father-in-law of 
 a Primrose. And, most surprising circumstance of all, matters 
 
XXX INTRODUCTION 
 
 are understood to be by way of patching up between Olivia and 
 the infamous Squire. 
 
 But, as a matter of fact, though few readers can fail to see 
 the absurdity of these events, few would think of finding offense 
 in them. The ploti^; too shadowy *n hp tfilrrn nrrlmHy The 
 more tragic porttnTTof it is evidently unreal to the Vicar him- 
 self. After his declamatory burst of passion on first learning 
 of Olivia's betrayal, he sets out in search of her. He lies ill 
 at an inn for a matter of three weeks, during which time pre- 
 sumably Olivia's position has not improved ; but on his recovery 
 the good man finds time to enjoy a week at the house of a 
 chance acquaintance. Nor do we greatly wonder, ^or this 
 tale, in spite of its conscious apparatus of plot, is an idyll, 
 rather than a romance or a study of real life. When 
 Sophia falls into a rapid torrent and is on the point of drowning, 
 the story-teller informs us of it without excitement or raising 
 of the voice. There is no suggestion of " chores " on the Vicar's 
 farm. It is rural life conventionalized ; we hear no more than 
 that " My son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad." 
 What could be more agreeable ! 
 
 We are not deeply incensed, then, at the Squire's misdemeanors, 
 
 | because, as a villain, he has no right to be virtuous. We may 
 
 f hiss him, as the gallery hisses the villain of stage melodrama ; 
 
 but it is a half-compliment a confession that he is doing his 
 
 duty. Something of our toleration of this particular villain is 
 
 "doubtless due to the Vicar's own attitude. Theoretically he 
 
 condemns young Thornhill ; actually, he does not find him too 
 
 disreputable, in view of his youth, good looks, and wealth, to 
 
 be admitted as a frequent visitor at the vicarage. And upon 
 
 the two girls the only effect of their enlightenment as to his 
 
 character is to fill them with the ambition to make a genuine 
 
 conquest of the young rake. The whole question of honor 
 
 between the sexes evidently suggests itself to the Vicar, and to 
 
 Goldsmith, as a question of manners rather than of morals. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD xxxi 
 
 This is the conventional attitude of the eighteenth century; 
 and Goldsmith was not a reformer : he was content to take life 
 pretty much as he found it. 
 
 But even if this had not been so, he might easily have found 
 it natural in this idyllic tale to ignore the tragic possibilities of 
 the narrative. Shakespeare in the idyllic comedy As You Like 
 It treats lightly the desperate villanies of Oliver and Frederick, 
 that the easy-going sylvan romance may lose nothing of its 
 delicate glamour. The terribly tragic problem of ingratitude 
 and hatred between blood-kin which in Lear receives such 
 searching study, is in As You Like It only a situation, a back- 
 ground against which the lovely figures of the idyll show with 
 a more engaging grace. As is true of the play, the most 
 charming scenes in The Vicar are those which are most purely 
 idyllic. It is the picture of the Primrose family in which we 
 delight. In the first half of the tale there is little to distract 
 us from our simple enjoyment of this good company. After 
 Olivia's disappearance the melodramatic element becomes so 
 prominent as at times to obscure our pleasure in this group of 
 neighbors (for the Flariiboroughs must not be left out) who 
 are at once so whimsical and so natural. Four-fifths of the 
 portraiture that is, the cream of the book is certainly 
 includecTlTrtfoe first seventeen chapters. With the idyllic grace 
 and sample chaflua. oharaGt^rizatipn which belong to this first 
 part of the tale, is mingled not, *^35?n(4 j'nimi'iiuik MAi.im -TTnw 
 inimitably the fancy-portrait fad of the last ceniury *is touched 
 off in the great Primrose mytho-historical group, With Alexander 
 the Great in a queue and buckles, that matronly Venus with 
 her two rawboned cupids, and Diana in a green Joseph. How 
 clearly, again, the follies and vulgarities of the fashionable world 
 are set forth in the glib harangues of the Squire, and the aston- 
 ishing dialogue between those arbiters of taste, Lady Blarney 
 and Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs. 
 
 The style of the tale, if we except certain passages which 
 
xxxii INTRODUCTION 
 
 belong to the didactic habit of the Vicar, is marked by the 
 grace and simplicity which are the characteristics of all of 
 Goldsmith's later prose. It is a remarkable fact, and in itself 
 a proof of Goldsmith's originality, that the influence of Dr. 
 Johnson, one of his best friends and most generous critics, 
 should be so little apparent in his style. At a time when it 
 was the fashion for the aspirant to literary honors to imitate 
 Johnson's formal and Latinized diction, when it was possible 
 for a writer like Miss Burney deliberately to turn from the 
 simple, vigorous prose which was hers by nature to a blood- 
 less echo of the great dictator's pomp, it is a wonder, indeed, 
 that Goldsmith should have preserved his independence. Per- 
 haps the most noteworthy quality of this style is its subtlety. 
 The most satisfying passages in Goldsmith owe much of their 
 charm to the suggestiveness and restraint of his expression. We 
 are conscious of a reserve of power in this man, who would rather 
 half say a good thing than spoil it by over-explicitness. The 
 Vicar himself has, like Dr. Johnson, two styles : one for every- 
 day use, the other for didactic purposes. /Whenever he grows 
 conscious of himself as a licensed preacher, his sentences 
 lengthen. An amusing illustration of this is to be found in 
 his two reported speeches in the prison. The first address to 
 the prisoners, for which the Vicar half apologizes, is colloquial 
 in the extreme : " Though you swore twelve thousand oaths 
 a day, it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what 
 signifies calling every moment upon the devil, and courting 
 his friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses you ? He 
 has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths 
 and an empty belly ; and, by the best accounts I have of him, 
 he will give you nothing that's good hereafter." The second dis- 
 course, upon which the Vicar evidently prides himself, is cast in a 
 very different mould : " Why man should thus feel pain ; why 
 our wretchedness should be requisite in the formation of uni- 
 versal felicity ; why, when all other systems are made perfect 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD xxxiii 
 
 by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great system 
 should require for its perfection parts that are not only subor- 
 dinate to others, but imperfect in themselves these are ques- 
 tions that can never be explained." 
 
 The moral truth expressed in the tale, as several critics have 
 noted, is identical with that of the Book of Job : the triumph of 
 steadfast virtue and piety against "the slings and arrows of out- \ 
 rageous fortune." In spite of some minor moral obliquities in \ 
 character and situation, the general effect of the story is one of 
 wholesomeness ; it rings true, for its keynote is love. 
 
 Its influence has been, and still is, very great, not only among 
 English-speaking peoples, but on the Continent. Especially 
 in France and Germany it has made itself felt. To his early 
 acquaintance with this gentle tale Goethe attributed a large 
 share in the formation of his character. It would, perhaps, 
 be hardly an exaggeration to say that no other English work 
 except Shakespeare has been more widely known and loved by 
 continental readers than The Vicar of Wakefield. And its 
 power is not likely to wane ; it is the sort of book from which, 
 while human nature remains the same, the race cannot grow 
 away. 
 
THE VICAE OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in which a kindred 
 Likeness prevails, as well of Minds as of Persons 
 
 I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who married 
 and brought up a large family did more service than he who 
 continued single, and only talked of population. From this 
 motive, I had scarce taken orders a year before I began to 
 think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife, as she did 
 her wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but for such 
 qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a 
 good-natured uojbable . woman ; and as for breeding, there were 
 few country ladies who could show more. She could read any 
 English book without much spelling ; but for pickling, preserv- 
 ing, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself 
 also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping ; though 
 I could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. 
 
 However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness in- 
 creased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could 
 make us angry with the world or each other. We had an ele- 
 gant house situated in a fine country, and a good neighbourhood. 
 The year was spent in a moral or rural amusement, in visiting 
 our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had 
 no revolutions to fear, no fatigues to undergo; all our adven- 
 
 B 1 
 
2 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 tures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue 
 bed to the brown. 
 
 As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stran- 
 ger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great 
 reputation ; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, 
 that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins, 
 too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, 
 without any help from the herald's office, and came very fre- 
 quently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by 
 these claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and 
 the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted 
 that, as they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit 
 with us at the same table. So that, if we had not very rich, 
 we generally had very happy friends about us ; for this remark 
 will hold good through life, that the poorer the guest, the better 
 pleased he ever is with being treated ; and as some men gaze 
 with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing of a but- 
 terfly, so I was, by nature, an admirer of happy human faces. 
 However, when any one of our relations was found to be a per- 
 son of very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we de- 
 sired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care 
 to lend him a riding-coat or a pair of boots, or sometimes an horse 
 of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he 
 never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared 
 of such as we did not like ; but never was the family of Wakefield 
 known to turn the traveller or the poor dependant out of doors. 
 
 Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness ; 
 not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Provi- 
 dence sends to enhance the value of its favours. My orchard 
 was often robbed by schoolboys, and my wife's custards plun- 
 dered by the cats or the children. The Squire would some- 
 times fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or 
 his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated 
 curtsey. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such 
 
DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY 3 
 
 accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder 
 how they vexed us. 
 
 My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were edu- 
 cated without softness, so they were at once well-formed and 
 healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful 
 and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, 
 which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could 
 not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, 
 in Henry the Second's progress through Germany, while other 
 courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two chil- 
 dren, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable 
 offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but 
 six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my 
 country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our 
 eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten 
 thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call 
 after her aunt Grissel ; but my wife, who during her pregnancy 
 had been reading romances, insisted on her being called Olivia. 
 In less than another year we had another daughter, and now I 
 was determined that Grissel should be her name ; but a rich 
 relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by 
 her directions, called Sophia ; so that we had two romantiepj 
 names in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in/ 
 it. Moses was our next, and, after an interval of twelve years, 
 we had two sons more. 
 
 It would be fruitless to deny exultation when I saw my little 
 ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife 
 were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, 
 " Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest 
 children in the country." "Ay, neighbour," she would answer, 
 " they are as heaven made them handsome enough, if they 
 be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does." And 
 then she would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to con- 
 ceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so 
 
4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 very trifling a circumstance with me, that I should scarce have 
 remembered to mention it, had it not been a general topic of 
 conversation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had 
 that luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw 
 Hebe ; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features 
 were not so striking at first, but often did more certain execu- 
 tion ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one van- 
 quished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully 
 repeated. 
 
 The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of 
 her features : at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia 
 wished for many lovers ; Sophia to secure one. Olivia was 
 often affected, from too great a desire to please ; Sophia even 
 repressed excellence, from her fears to offend. The one enter- 
 tained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with 
 her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never 
 carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange 
 characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourning has 
 transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribands 
 has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My 
 eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one 
 of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I 
 designed for business, received a sort of miscellaneous education 
 at home. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular 
 characters of young people that had seen but very little of the 
 world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all, and, 
 properly speaking, they had but one character that of being 
 all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 
 
FAMILY MISFORTUNES 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Family Misfortunes. The Loss of Fortune only serves to increase 
 the Pride of the Worthy 
 
 THE temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed 
 to my wife's management ; as to the spiritual, I took them 
 entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, 
 which amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over 
 to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for, 
 having a fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, 
 and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward, I 
 also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being ac- 
 quainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married 
 men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony ; so that 
 in a few years it was a common saying that there were three 
 strange wants at Wakefield a parson wanting pride, young 
 men wanting wives, and alehouses wanting customers. 
 
 Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote 
 several sermons to prove its happiness : but there was a pecul- 
 iar tenet which I made a point of supporting ; for I maintained 
 with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the Church 
 of England, after the death of his first wife, to take a second ; 
 or, to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being a 
 strict monogamist. 
 
 I was early initiated into this important dispute, on which 
 so many laborious volumes have been written. I published 
 some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as they never sold, 
 I have the consolation of thinking were read only by the happy 
 few. Some of my friends called this my weak side ; but, alas ! 
 they had not, like me, made it the subject of long contempla- 
 tion. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it ap- 
 peared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my 
 
6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 principles ; as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she 
 was the only wife of William Whiston, so I wrote a similar 
 epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled 
 her prudence, economy, and obedience till death ; and having 
 got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the 
 chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes : 
 it admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to 
 her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly 
 put her in mind of her end. 
 
 It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recom- 
 mended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his 
 affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who 
 was a dignitary in the Church, and in circumstances to give her 
 a large fortune. But fortune was her smallest accomplishment. 
 Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two 
 daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and 
 innocence were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, 
 and such a happy sensibility of look, as even age could not 
 gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could 
 make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse 
 to the match ; so both families lived together in all that har- 
 mony which generally precedes an expected alliance. Being 
 convinced, by experience, that the days of courtship are the 
 most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the 
 period ; and the various amusements which the young couple 
 every day shared in each other's company seemed to increase 
 their passion. We were generally awaked in the morning by 
 music, and on fine days rode a-hunting. The hours between 
 breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study; 
 they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves in the 
 glass, which, even philosophers might own, often presented the 
 page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead ; 
 for, as she always insisted upon carving everything herself, it 
 being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the 
 
FAMILY MISFORTUNES 7 
 
 history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the 
 ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be removed ; 
 and sometimes, with the music-master's assistance, the girls 
 would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drink- 
 ing tea, country-dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the 
 day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of 
 gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I 
 sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can I here pass over an 
 ominous circumstance that happened the last time we played 
 together. I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw 
 deuce ace five times running. 
 
 Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was 
 thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young 
 couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the prepara- 
 tions for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance 
 of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters ; in fact, my at- 
 tention was fixed on another object the completing a tract, 
 which I intended shortly to publish, in defence of my favourite 
 principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both for 
 argument and style, I could not, in the pride of my heart, avoid 
 showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of 
 receiving his approbation : but not till too late I discovered that 
 he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and 
 with good reason ; for he was at that time actually courting a 
 fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute, 
 attended with some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt 
 our intended alliance ; but on the day before that appointed 
 for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at large. 
 
 It was managed with proper spirit on both sides. He 
 asserted that I was heterodox ; I retorted the charge : he 
 replied, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the con- 
 troversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my relations, 
 who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, 
 at least till my son's wedding was over. " How," cried I, 
 
8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 "relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be a husband, 
 already driven to the very verge of absurdity 1 You might as 
 well advise me to give up my fortune as my argument." 
 "Your fortune," returned my friend, "I am now sorry to 
 inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in 
 whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid 
 a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a 
 shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you or the 
 family with the account till after the wedding : but now it may 
 serve to moderate your warmth in the argument ; for, I suppose 
 your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at 
 least till your son has the young lady's fortune secure." 
 "Well," returned I, "if what you tell me be true, and if I am 
 to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me 
 to disavow my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the 
 company of my circumstances; and, as for the argument, I 
 even here retract my former concessions in the old gentleman's 
 favour, nor will allow him now to be a husband in any sense of 
 the expression." 
 
 It would be endless to describe the different sensations of 
 both families when I divulged the news of our misfortune ; but 
 what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to 
 endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined 
 to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined : one 
 virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence, too often the 
 only one that is left us at seventy-two. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A Migration. The Fortunate Circumstances of our Lives are gen- 
 erally found at last to le of our own procuring 
 
 THE only hope of my family now was, that the report of our 
 misfortune might be malicious or premature ; but a letter from 
 
A MIGRATION 9 
 
 my agent in town soon came, with a confirmation of every par- 
 ticular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been 
 trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were 
 to be humbled without an education to render them callous to 
 contempt. 
 
 Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain 
 their affliction; for premature consolation is but the remem- 
 brancer 'of sorrow. During this interval my thoughts were 
 employed on some future means of supporting them ; and at 
 last a small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a 
 distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my principles 
 without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed, 
 having determined to increase my salary by managing a little 
 farm. 
 
 Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get 
 together the wrecks of my fortune; and, all debts collected 
 and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four 
 hundred remaining. My chief attention, therefore, was now to 
 bring down the pride of my family to their circumstances ; for 
 ' I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. " You 
 cannot be ignorant, my children," cried I, " that no prudence 
 of ours could have prevented our late misfortune ; but prudence 
 may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, 
 my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situa- 
 tion. Let us then, without repining, give up those splendours 
 with which numbers are wretched, and seek in humbler circum- 
 stances that peace with which all may be happy. The poor 
 live pleasantly without our help; why, then, should not we 
 learn to live without theirs 1 ? No, my children, let us from this 
 moment give up all pretensions to gentility : we have still 
 enough left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon 
 content for the deficiencies of fortune." 
 
 As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send 
 him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support 
 
10 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, 
 one of the most distressful circumstances attendant on penury. 
 The day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for the first 
 time. My son, after taking leave of his mother and the rest, 
 who mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a bless- 
 ing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, 
 added to five guineas, was all the ^ajrimony I had now to 
 bestow. "You are going, my boy," cried I, "to London on 
 foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled 
 there before you. Take from me the same horse that was 
 given him by the good Bishop Jewel this staff; and take 
 this book too ; it will be your comfort on the way : these two 
 lines in it are worth a million ' I have been young, and now 
 am old ; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his 
 seed begging their bread.' Let this be your consolation as you 
 travel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy fortune, let me see 
 thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, and farewell." As he 
 was possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no appre- 
 hensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of 
 life ; for I knew he would act a good part, whether vanquished 
 or victorious. 
 
 His departure only prepared the way for our own, which 
 arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood 
 in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity was not 
 without a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could suppress. 
 Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto 
 never been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension ; 
 and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, con- 
 tributed to increase it. The first day's journey brought us in 
 safety within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up 
 for the night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When 
 we were shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual 
 way, to let us have his company, with which he complied, as 
 what he drank would increase the bill next morning. He 
 
A MIGRATION 11 
 
 knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was re- 
 moving, particularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my land- 
 lord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This 
 gentleman he described as one who desired to know little more 
 of the world than its pleasures, being particularly remarkable 
 for his attachment for the fair sex. He observed that no virtue *! 
 was able to resist his arts and_assidujty, and that scarce a 
 farmer's daughter within ten miles round but what had found him 
 successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some 
 pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose 
 features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approach- 
 ing triumph : nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their 
 allurements and virtue. While our thoughts were thus em- 
 ployed, the hostess entered the room to inform her husband 
 that the strange gentleman who had been two days in the 
 house wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckon- 
 ing. " Want money ! " replied the host, " that must be im- 
 possible; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three 
 guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to 
 be whipped through the town for dog-stealing." The hostess, 
 however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing 
 to leave the room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way 
 or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce me to 
 a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he 
 complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about 
 thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His person 
 was well formed, and his face marked with the lines of think- 
 ing. He had something short and dry in his address, and 
 seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon 
 the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing 
 my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such cir- 
 cumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy the present 
 demand. " I take it with all my heart, sir," replied he, "and 
 am glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had 
 
12 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 about me has shown me there are still some men like you. I 
 must, however, previously entreat being informed of the name 
 and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon 
 as possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning 
 my name and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was 
 going to remove. "This," cried he, "happens still more luckily 
 than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having 
 been detained here two days by the floods, which I hope by 
 to-morrow will be found passable." I testified the pleasure I 
 should have in his company; and my wife and daughters join- 
 ing in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The 
 stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and in- 
 structive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it 
 was now high time to retire and take refreshment against the 
 fatigues of the following day. 
 
 The next morning we all set forward together, my family on 
 horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new companion, walked along 
 the footpath by the roadside, observing with a smile that, as we 
 were ill-mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving 
 us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, we were 
 obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and 
 I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road 
 with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to understand per- 
 fectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he was 
 a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much ob- 
 stinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also in- 
 formed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our 
 view as we travelled the road. " That," cried he, pointing to a 
 very magnificent house which stood at some distance, " belongs 
 to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, 
 though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William 
 Thornhill, a gentleman who, content with a little himself, per- 
 mits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town." 
 " What ! " cried I, " is my young landlord, then, the nephew 
 
A MIGRATION 13 
 
 of a man whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so uni- 
 versally known? I have heard Sir William Thornhill repre- 
 sented as one of the most generous yet whimsical men in the 
 kingdom; a man of consummate benevolence." "Something, 
 perhaps, too much so," replied Mr. Burchell; "at least he car- 
 ried benevolence to an excess when young ; for his passions were 
 then strong, and as they were all upon the side of virtue, they 
 led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the 
 qualifications of the soldier and the scholar, was soon distin- 
 guished in the army, and had some reputation among men of 
 learning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone 
 receive most pleasure from flattery. He was surrounded with 
 crowds, who showed him only one side of their character ; so 
 that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal 
 sympathy. He loved all mankind ; for fortune prevented him 
 from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a 
 disorder in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible that 
 the slightest touch gives pain : what some have thus suffered in 
 their persons, this gentleman felt in his mind : the slightest dis- 
 tress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and 
 his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of 
 others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured 
 he found numbers disposed to solicit ; his profusions began to 
 impair his fortune, but not his good-nature that, indeed, was 
 seen to increase as the other seemed to decay : he grew im- 
 provident as he grew poor ; and though he talked like a man of 
 sense7his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being 
 surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every 
 request that was made him, instead of money he gave promises. 
 They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution 
 enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew 
 round him crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to disap- 
 point, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, 
 and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in 
 
14 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 proportion as he became contemptible to others, he became des- 
 picable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, 
 and that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the 
 applause of his heart, which he had never learned to reverence. 
 The world now began to wear a different aspect : the flattery of 
 his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation ; approba- 
 tion soon took the more friendly form of advice ; and advice, 
 when rejected, produced their reproaches. He now therefore 
 found that such friends as benefits had gathered round him, 
 were little estimable: he now found that a man's own heart 
 must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found that 
 that I forget what I was going to observe : in short, sir, he 
 resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his 
 fallen fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, 
 he travelled through Europe on foot ; and now, though he has 
 scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more 
 affluent than ever. At present, his bounties are more rational 
 and moderate than before ; but still he preserves the character 
 of an humourist, and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues." 
 My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burch ell's ac- 
 count, that I scarce looked forward as he went along, till we 
 were alarmed by the cries of my family ; when, turning, I per- 
 ceived my youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown 
 from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She had sunk 
 twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring 
 her relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my at- 
 tempting her rescue : she must have certainly perished had not 
 my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to 
 her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the 
 opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the 
 rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity 
 of joining our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may 
 be more readily imagined than described : she thanked her 
 deliverer more with looks than with words, and continued to 
 
HUMBLE HAPPINESS 15 
 
 lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive assistance. My 
 wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning his 
 kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at 
 the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr. Burchell was go- 
 ing to a different part of the country, he took leave, and we pur- 
 sued our journey, my wife observing as he went, that she liked 
 him extremely, and protesting that if he had birth and fortune 
 to entitle. him to match into such a family as ours, she knew 
 no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to 
 hear her talk in this lofty strain ; but I was never much dis- 
 pleased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more 
 happy. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A Proof that even the humblest Fortune may grant Happiness, 
 which depends, not on Circumstances, but Constitution 
 
 THE place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood con- 
 sisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal 
 strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the 
 conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns 
 or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the polite^ they 
 still retained the primeval simplicity of manners ; and, frugal by 
 habit, they scarce knew that temperance was a virtue. They 
 wrought with cheerfulness on days of labour ; but observed 
 festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up 
 the Christmas carol, sent true-love-knots on Valentine morning, 
 ate pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their wit on the first of 
 April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being 
 apprised of our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to 
 meet their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded 
 by a pipe and tabor. A feast also was provided for our recep- 
 tion, at which we sat cheerfully down ; and what the conversa- 
 tion wanted in wit was made up in laughter. 
 
16 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping 
 hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prat- 
 tling river before ; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. 
 My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, hav- 
 ing given an hundred pounds for my predecessor's good- will. 
 Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures, the 
 elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My 
 house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, 
 which gave it an air of great snugness ; the walls, on the inside, 
 were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn 
 them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same 
 room served us for parlour and kitchen, that only made it the 
 warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, 
 the dishes, plates, and coppers being well scoured, and all dis- 
 posed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably re- 
 lieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three 
 other apartments; one for my wife and me, another for our 
 two daughters within our own, and the third, with two beds, 
 for the rest of the children. 
 
 The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the 
 following manner : By sunrise we all assembled in our com- 
 mon apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the servant. 
 After we had saluted each other with proper ceremony for I 
 always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good 
 breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship we 
 all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. 
 This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our 
 usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed 
 themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at 
 a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an 
 hour for dinner, which time was taken up in innocent mirth 
 between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical argu- 
 ments between my son and me. 
 ) As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours 
 
HUMBLE HAPPINESS 17 
 
 after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting 
 family, where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire, 
 were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests : 
 sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and 
 often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our goose- 
 berry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither the 
 receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had several 
 ways of being good company ; while one played, the other 
 would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's Last 
 Good-night, or the Cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was 
 concluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest 
 boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he 
 that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a halfpenny 
 on Sunday to put into the poor's box. 
 
 When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which 
 all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever 
 I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of 
 my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all 
 their former finery ; they still loved laces, ribands, bugles, and 
 catgut; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson 
 paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. 
 
 The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to 
 mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be 
 dressed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at church 
 a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punc- 
 tually obeyed my directions ; but when we were to assemble in 
 the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters 
 dressed out in all their former splendour : their hair plastered 
 up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains 
 bundled up in a heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I 
 could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my 
 wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this exi- 
 gence, therefore, my only resource was to order my son, with 
 an important air, to call our coach. The girls were amazed at 
 
18 THE VICAR OF WAKEFlELD 
 
 the command; but I repeated it with more solemnity than 
 before. " Surely, my dear, you jest," cried my wife; "we 
 can walk it perfectly well ; we want no coach to carry us now." 
 " You mistake, child," returned I,, "we do want a coach ; 
 for if we walk to church in this trim, the very children in the 
 parish will hoot after us." "Indeed," replied my wife; "I 
 always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his chil- 
 dren neat and handsome about him." " You may be as neat 
 as you please," interrupted I, "and I shall love you the better 
 for it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These ruf- 
 flings, and pinkings, and patchings will only make us hated by 
 all the wives of our neighbours. No, my children," continued 
 I, more gravely, " those gowns may be altered into something 
 of a plainer cut ; for finery is very unbecoming in us who want 
 the means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing 
 and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, 
 upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent 
 world might be clothed from the trimmings of the vain." 
 
 This remonstrance had the proper effect : they went with 
 great composure, that very instant, to change their dress ; and 
 the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at 
 their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into 
 Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones, and 
 what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved 
 by this curtailing. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A new and great Acquaintance introduced. What we place most 
 Hopes upon, generally proves most fatal 
 
 AT a small distance from the house, my predecessor had 
 made a seat, overshadowed by a hedge of hawthorn and honey- 
 suckle. Here, when the weather was fine and our labour soon 
 
A NEW AND GEEAT ACQUAINTANCE 19 
 
 finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive land- 
 scape in the calm of the evening. Here, too, we drank tea, 
 which now was become an occasional banquet ; and as we had 
 it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it 
 being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On 
 these occasions our two little ones always read for us, and they 
 were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give 
 a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the guitar ; and 
 while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would 
 stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished with blue- 
 bells and centaury, talk of our children with rapture, and 
 enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony. 
 
 In this manner we began to find that every situation in life 
 may bring its own peculiar pleasures ; every morning waked us 
 to a repetition of toil, but the evening repaid it withjvacant 
 hilarity. 
 
 It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday for I 
 kept such as intervals of relaxation from labour that I had 
 drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and 
 our yoang musicians began their usual concert. As we were 
 thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about 
 twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting it 
 seemed pressed by the hunters. We had not much time to 
 reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when we perceived the 
 dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance 
 behind, and making the very path it had taken. I was in- 
 stantly for returning in with my family, but either curiosity, or 
 surprise, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and daugh- 
 ters to their seats. The huntsman who rode foremost passed 
 us with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, 
 who seemed in equal haste. At last a young gentleman of 
 more genteel appearance than the rest came forward, and for a 
 while regarding us, instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, 
 and giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us 
 
20 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 with a careless, superior air. He seemed to want no intro- 
 duction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain 
 of a kind reception; but they had early learnt the lesson of 
 looking presumption out of countenance : upon which he let us 
 know that his name was Thornhill, and that he was owner of 
 the estate that lay for some extent round us. He again there- 
 fore offered to salute the female part of the family, and such 
 was the power of fortune and fine clothes, that he found no 
 second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy, 
 we soon became more familiar ; and perceiving musical instru- 
 ments lying near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As 
 I did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintances, I 
 winked upon my daughters in order to prevent their compli- 
 ance ; but my hint was counteracted by one from their mother ; 
 so that, with a cheerful air, they gave us a favourite song of 
 Dryden's. Mr. Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their 
 performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. 
 He played but very indifferently ; however, my eldest daughter 
 repaid his former applause with interest, and assured him that his 
 tones were louder than even those of her master. At this com- 
 pliment he bowed, which she returned with a curtsey. He 
 praised her taste, and she commended his understanding; an 
 age could not have made them better acquainted : while the 
 fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's 
 stepping in and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole 
 family seemed earnest to please him: my girls attempted to 
 entertain him with topics they thought most modern ; while 
 Moses, on the contrary, gave him a question or two from 
 the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of being laughed 
 at. My little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck 
 close to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarce keep 
 their dirty fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his 
 clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes to see what 
 was there. At the approach of evening he took leave ; but not 
 
A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE 21 
 
 till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, as 
 he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the 
 conduct of the day. She was of opinion that it was a most 
 fortunate hit; -for she had known even stranger things than 
 that brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which 
 we might hold up our heads with the best of them; and 
 concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two 
 Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children 
 get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I pro- 
 tested I could see no reason for it neither ; nor why Mr. Simp- 
 kins got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we sat 
 down with a blank. "I protest, Charles," cried my wife, "this 
 is the way you always damp my girls and me when we are in 
 spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our 
 new visitor? Don't you think he seemed to be good-natured?" 
 "Immensely so, indeed, mamma," replied she : "I think he 
 has a great deal to say upon everything, and is never at a loss ; 
 and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say." 
 "Yes," cried Olivia, "he is well enough for a man; but for 
 my own part I don't much like him ; he is so extremely impu- 
 dent and familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking." These 
 two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this, 
 that Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly 
 admired him. " Whatever may be your opinions of him, my 
 children," cried I, "to confess a truth, he has not prepossessed 
 me in his favour. Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in 
 disgust ; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he 
 seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us 
 keep to companions of our own rank. There is no character 
 more contemptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter ; and I 
 can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be 
 contemptible too Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if 
 his views are honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! I should 
 
22 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 shudder but to think of that. It is true, I have no apprehen- 
 sions from the conduct of my children ; but I think there are 
 some from his character." I would have proceeded but for the 
 interruption of a servant from the Squire, who, with his com- 
 pliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with 
 us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more 
 powerfully in his favour than anything I had to say could obvi- 
 ate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having 
 pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to 
 avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is 
 scarce worth the sentinel. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 The Happiness of a Country Fireside 
 
 As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of 
 warmth, in order to accommodate matters it was universally 
 agreed that we should have a part of the venison for supper ; 
 and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. " I am sorry," 
 cried I, " that we have no neighbour or stranger to take part 
 in this good cheer ; feasts of this kind acquire a double relish 
 from hospitality." "Bless me," cried my wife, "here comes 
 our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that 
 run you down fairly in the argument." " Confute me in argu- 
 ment, child ! " cried I. " You mistake there, my dear ; I be- 
 lieve there are but few that can do that. I never dispute your 
 abilities at making a goose-pie, and I beg you'll leave argument 
 to me." As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the house, and 
 was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the 
 hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair. 
 
 I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons : 
 
A COUNTRY FIRESIDE 23 
 
 because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be 
 friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our neighbour- 
 hood by the character of the poor gentleman that would do no 
 good when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He 
 would at intervals talk with great good sense ; but in general 
 he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to 
 call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing 
 them ballads and telling them stories, and seldom went out 
 without something in his pockets for them a piece of ginger- 
 bread or a halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few 
 days into our neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the 
 neighbours' hospitality. He sat down to supper among us, and 
 my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went 
 round ; he sang us old songs, and gave the children the story of 
 the Buck of Beverland, with the history of Patient Grissel, the 
 adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Kosamond's Bower. Our 
 cock, which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for 
 repose ; but an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the 
 stranger all our beds were already taken up, and it was too 
 late to send him to the next alehouse. In this dilemma little 
 Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses 
 would let him lie with him: "And I," cried Bill, "will give 
 Mr. Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs. "- 
 "Well done, my good children," cried I, "hospitality is one of 
 the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its shelter, and 
 the bird flies to its nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge 
 from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world 
 was He that came to save it. He never had a house, as if 
 willing to see what hospitality was left remaining among us. 
 Deborah, my dear," cried I to my wife, "give those boys a 
 lump of sugar each ; and let Dick's be the largest, because he 
 spoke first." 
 
 In the morning early I called out my whole family to help 
 at saving an aftergrowth of hay, and our guest offering his 
 
24 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 assistance, he was accepted among the number. Our labours 
 went on lightly ; we turned the swath to the wind. I went 
 foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not 
 avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in 
 assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When 
 he had finished his own, he would join in hers, and enter into 
 a close conversation ; but I had too good an opinion of Sophia's 
 understanding, and was too well convinced of her ambition, to 
 be under any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When 
 we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on 
 the night before, but he refused, as he was to lie that night at 
 a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a whistle. When 
 gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late unfortu- 
 nate guest. "What a strong instance," said I, "is that poor 
 man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extrava- 
 gance. He by no means wants sense, which only serves to 
 aggravate his former folly. Poor forlorn creature ! where are 
 now the revellers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and 
 command 1 Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown 
 rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now 
 they applaud the pander : their former raptures at his wit are 
 now converted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and per- 
 haps deserves poverty ; for he has neither the ambition to be 
 independent nor the skill to be useful." Prompted perhaps by 
 some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much 
 acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. " Whatsoever his 
 former conduct may have been, papa, his circumstances should 
 exempt him from censure now. His present indigence is a 
 sufficient punishment for former folly; and I have heard my 
 papa himself say, that we should never strike one unnecessary 
 blow at a victim over whom Providence holds the scourge of 
 its resentment." "You are right, Sophy," cried my son 
 Moses; "and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious 
 a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose 
 
A COUNTRY FIRESIDE 25 
 
 skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stripped off by another. 
 Besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be so bad 
 as my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the 
 feelings of others by what we might feel in their place. How- 
 ever dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal 
 itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And, to con- 
 fess a truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station ; for I 
 never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day when 
 he conversed with you." This was said without the least 
 design ; however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover 
 by an affected laugh, assuring him that she scarce took any 
 notice of what he said to her, but that she believed he might 
 once have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with 
 which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, 
 were symptoms I did not internally approve ; but I repressed 
 my suspicions. 
 
 As we expected our landlord the next day, iny wife went to 
 make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading, while I taught 
 the little ones. My daughters seemed equally busy with the 
 rest, and I observed them for a good while cooking something 
 over the fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their 
 mother, but little Dick informed me in a whisper that they 
 were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a 
 natural antipathy to ; for I knew that, instead of mending the 
 complexion, they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair 
 by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it 
 wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole 
 composition, and it was too late to begin another. 
 
26 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A Town Wit described. The dullest Fellows may learn to be 
 comical for a Night or two 
 
 WHEN the morning arrived on which we were to enter- 
 tain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what pro- 
 visions were exhausted to make an appearance. It may also 
 be conjectured that my wife and daughters expanded their 
 gayest plumage on this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a 
 couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants, who 
 were numerous, he politely ordered to the next alehouse : but 
 my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining 
 them all ; for which, by the by, our family was pinched for 
 three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us the day 
 before that he was making some proposals of marriage to Miss 
 Wilmot, my son George's former mistress, this a good deal 
 damped the heartiness of his reception : but accident in some 
 measure relieved our embarrassment ; for one of the company 
 happening to mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with 
 an oath, that he never knew anything more absurd than calling 
 such a fright a beauty: "For, strike me ugly," continued he, 
 " if I should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress 
 by the information of a lamp under the clock of St. Dunstan's." 
 At this he laughed, and so did we : the jests of the rich are 
 ever successful. Olivia, too, could not avoid whispering, loud 
 enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. 
 
 After dinner I began with my usual toast, the Church. 
 For this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church 
 was the only mistress of his affections. " Come, tell us hon- 
 estly, Frank," said the Squire, with his usual archness, "sup- 
 pose the Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves, 
 on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on 
 
A TOWN WIT 27 
 
 the other, which would you be for ? " - " For both, to be sure," 
 cried the chaplain. " Right, Frank," cried the Squire ; " for 
 may this glass suffocate me, but a fine girl is worth all the 
 priestcraft in the creation ! For what are tithes and tricks but 
 an imposition, all a confounded imposture 1 and I can prove 
 it." "I wish you would," cried my son Moses; "and I 
 think," continued he, " that I should be able to answer you." 
 " Very well, sir," cried the Squire, who immediately smoked 
 him, and winking on the rest of the company to prepare us 
 for the sport ; "if you are for a cool argument upon that sub- 
 ject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And, first, whether 
 are you for managing it analogically or dialogically ?" "! 
 am for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite happy at 
 being permitted to dispute. "Good again," cried the Squire ; 
 " and, firstly, of the first, I hope you'll not deny that whatever 
 is, is. If you don't grant me that, I can go no further." - 
 "Why," returned Moses, "I think I may grant that, and 
 make the best of it." "I hope, too," returned the other, 
 "you'll grant that a part is less than the whole."- "I 
 grant that too," cried Moses ; " it is but just and reasonable." 
 "I hope," cried the Squire, "you will not deny that the 
 two angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones." "Noth- 
 ing can be plainer," returned t'other, and looked round with his 
 usual importance. "Very well," cried the Squire, speaking 
 very quick, "the premisses being thus settled, I proceed to 
 observe that the concatenation of self-existences, proceeding in 
 a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical 
 dialogism, which, in some measure, proves that the essence of 
 spirituality may be referred to the second predicable." " Hold, 
 hold ! " cried the other, " I deny that. Do you think that 
 I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines ? " 
 "What ! " replied the Squire, as if in a passion, " not submit ! 
 Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right 
 when he says that relatives are related 1" " Undoubtedly," 
 
28 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 replied the other. " If so, then," cried the Squire, " answer me 
 directly to what I propose : Whether do you judge the analyt- 
 ical investigation of the first part of my enthymein deficient 
 secundum quoad, or quoad minus ; and give me your reasons 
 give me your reasons, I say, directly." "I protest," cried 
 Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the force of your reason- 
 ing ; but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it 
 may then have an answer." "Oh, sir," cried the Squire, "I 
 am your most humble servant ; I find you want me to fur- 
 nish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir; there 
 I protest you are too hard for me." This effectually raised 
 the laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal figure 
 in a group of merry faces ; nor did he offer a single syllable 
 more during the whole entertainment. 
 
 But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very 
 different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though 
 but a mere act of the memory. She thought him, there- 
 fore, a very fine gentleman ; and such as consider what power- 
 ful ingredients a good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are 
 in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
 notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could 
 expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. 
 It is not surprising, then, that such talents should win the 
 affections of a girl who by education was taught to value an 
 appearance in herself, and consequently to set a value upon 
 it in another. 
 
 Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon 
 the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks 
 and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that 
 she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor 
 did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of 
 her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah her- 
 self seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her 
 daughter's victory as if it were her own. "And now, my 
 
A TOWN WIT 29 
 
 dear," cried she to me, "111 fairly own that it was I that 
 instructed my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. I 
 had always some ambition, and you now see that I was right ; 
 for who knows how this may end?" "Ay, who knows that 
 indeed ! " answered I with a groan : "for my part, I don't much 
 like it ; and I could have been better pleased with one that 
 was poor and honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune 
 and infidelity ; for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, 
 no freethinker shall ever have a child of mine." 
 
 "Sure, father," cried Moses, "you are too severe in this; 
 for Heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but 
 for what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, 
 which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of 
 religion may be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that, 
 allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely passive 
 in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for his errors than the 
 governor of a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to 
 afford an invading enemy." 
 
 "True, my son," cried I; "but if the governor invites the 
 enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always the 
 case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in 
 assenting to the proofs they see ; but being blind to many of 
 the proofs that offer; so that, though our erroneous opinions 
 be involuntary when formed, yet, as we have been wilfully 
 corrupt or very negligent in forming them, we deserve punish- 
 ment for our vice or contempt for our folly." 
 
 My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argu- 
 ment : she observed that several very prudent men of our ac- 
 quaintance were freethinkers, and made very good husbands; 
 and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make 
 converts of their spouses. "And who knows, my dear," con- 
 tinued she, " what Olivia may be able to do : the girl has a 
 great deal to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is 
 very well skilled in controversy." 
 
30 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read ? " cried 
 I. "It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into 
 her hands : you certainly overrate her merit." " Indeed, 
 papa," replied Olivia, "she does not; I have read a great deal 
 of controversy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum 
 and Square; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and 
 Friday the savage ; and I am now employed in reading the con- 
 troversy in ' Religious Courtship.' " " Very well," cried I, 
 "that's a good girl; I find you are perfectly qualified for mak- 
 ing converts, and so go help your mother to make the goose- 
 berry pie." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 An Amour, which promises little good Fortune, yet may be produc- 
 tive of much 
 
 THE next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, 
 though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the 
 frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse him my com- 
 pany and fireside. It is true, his labour more than requited 
 his entertainment ; for he wrought among us with vigour, and, 
 either in the meadow or at the hayrick, put himself foremost. 
 Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened 
 our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, 
 that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike 
 arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter. He 
 would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress; and 
 when he bought each of the girls a set of ribands, hers was the 
 finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become 
 more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume 
 the superior airs of wisdom. 
 
 Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, 
 round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while 
 
AN UNPROMISING AMOUR 31 
 
 Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our 
 satisfaction, two blackbirds answered each other from opposite 
 hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from 
 our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. 
 "I never sit thus," says Sophia, "but I think of the two 
 lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead 
 in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the 
 description, that I have read it an hundred times with new rap- 
 ture." "In my opinion," cried my son, "the finest strokes in 
 that description are much below those in the ' Acis and Galatea ' 
 of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast 
 better ; and upon that figure, artfully managed, all strength in 
 the pathetic depends." "It is remarkable," cried Mr. Bur- 
 chell, "that both the poets you mention have equally contrib- 
 uted to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by 
 loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found 
 them most easily imitated in their defects ; and English poetry, 
 like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present 
 but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connec- 
 tion a string of epithets that improve the sound without 
 carrying on the sense. But, perhaps, madam, while I thus rep- 
 rehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an 
 opportunity to retaliate ; and, indeed, I have made this remark 
 only to have an opportunity of introducing to the company a 
 ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least 
 free from those I have mentioned." 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 " TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
 
 And guide my lonely way 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 " For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 With fainting steps and slow, 
 
32 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
 Seem lengthening as I go." 
 
 " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doom. 
 
 " Here to the houseless child of want 
 
 My door is open still ; 
 And, though my portion is but scant, 
 
 I give it with good-will. 
 
 " Then turn to-night, and freely share 
 Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 " No flocks that range the valley free 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 I learn to pity them : 
 
 "But from the mountain's grassy side 
 A guiltless feast I bring; 
 
 A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 "Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego; 
 
 All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends 
 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 A refuge to the neighbouring poor, 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 Required a master's care ; 
 
 The wicket, opening with a latch, 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
AN UNPROMISING AMOUR 33 
 
 And now, when busy crowds retire 
 
 To take their evening rest, 
 The Hermit trimmed his little fire 
 
 And cheered his pensive guest ; 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 
 And gaily press'd, and smiled, 
 And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 Around, in sympathetic mirth, 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries, 
 The cricket chirrups on the hearth, 
 
 The crackling fagot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 
 To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
 
 With answering care oppress'd ; 
 And " Whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 
 " The sorrows of thy breast? 
 
 " From better habitations spurn'd, 
 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 " Alas! the joys that fortune brings 
 
 Are trifling, and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things, 
 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 " And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 
 But leaves the wretch to weep? 
 
 " And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 The modern fair one's jest; 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 And spurn the sex," he said ; 
 
34 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betrayed. 
 
 Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies, 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 Alternate spread alarms : 
 
 The lovely stranger stands confess'd 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 And, " Ah ! forgive a stranger rude 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried ; 
 
 " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 Where Heaven and you reside. 
 
 " But let a maid thy pity share, 
 Whom love has taught to stray ; 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 " My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he ; 
 And all his wealth was mark'd as mine - 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 " To win me from his tender arms 
 Unnumber'd suitors came, 
 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 
 
 " Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest offers strove ; 
 
 Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
 But never talked of love. 
 
 " In humble, simple habit clad, 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 " And when, beside me in the dale, 
 He caroll'd lays of love, 
 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
 And music to the grove. 
 
AN UNPROMISING AMOUR 35 
 
 " The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 Could nought of purity display 
 ^ To emulate his mind. 
 
 " The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 
 With charms inconstant shine : 
 Their charms were his, but, woe to me, 
 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 " For still I tried each fickle art, 
 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 
 I triumphed in his pain : 
 
 " Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 He left me to my pride, 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 " But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
 
 And well my life shall pay ; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 " And there, forlorn, despairing, hid; 
 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 
 And so for him will I." 
 
 " Forbid it, Heaven! " the Hermit cried, 
 
 And clasp'd her to his breast : 
 The wondering fair one turned to chide 
 
 'Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 
 
 "Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 And every care resign : 
 And shall we never, never part, 
 
 My life, my all that's mine? 
 
 " No, never from this hour to part, 
 
 We'll live and love so true, 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin's too." 
 
36 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air 
 of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was 
 soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immedi- 
 ately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge to take 
 up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the Squire's 
 chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agree- 
 ably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled 
 my daughters ; and I could perceive that Sophia, in the fright, 
 had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protection. 
 The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed 
 us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so near. He 
 therefore sat down by my youngest daughter, and, sportsman- 
 like, offered her what he had killed that morning. She was 
 going to refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced 
 her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though with 
 some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a 
 whisper, observing that Sophy had made a conquest of the 
 chaplain, as well as her sister had of the Squire. I suspected, 
 however, with more probability, that her affections were placed 
 upon a different object. The chaplain's errand was to inform 
 us that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and refreshments ; 
 and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by 
 moonlight on the grass plat before our door. " Nor can I 
 deny," continued he, " but I have an interest in being first to 
 deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured 
 with Miss Sophy's hand as a partner." To this my girl replied 
 that she should have no objection, if she could do it with 
 honour ; " But here," continued she, "is a gentleman," looking 
 at Mr. Burchell, " who has been my companion in the task for 
 the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements." Mr. 
 Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions, but 
 resigned her up to the chaplain ; adding that he was to go 
 that night five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His 
 refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary ; nor could I con- 
 
TWO LADIES OF DISTINCTION 37 
 
 ceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest could thus prefer a 
 man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations were much 
 greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit 
 in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. 
 The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are 
 furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced. Superior Finery ever 
 seems to confer superior Breeding 
 
 MR. BUECHELL had scarce taken leave, and Sophia con- 
 sented to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came 
 running out to tell us, that the Squire was come with a crowd 
 of company. Upon our return, we found our landlord with a 
 couple of under gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, 
 whom he introduced as women of very great distinction and 
 fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough 
 for the whole company; but Mr. Thornhill immediately pro- 
 posed, that every gentleman should sit in a lady's lap. This 
 I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of disapproba- 
 tion from my wife. Moses was therefore despatched to borrow 
 a couple of chairs ; and as we were in want of ladies to make 
 up a set at country-dances, the two gentlemen went with him 
 in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners were 
 soon provided. The gentlemen returned with my neighbour 
 Flamborough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots ; 
 but an unlucky circumstance was not adverted to, though the 
 Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the 
 parish, and understood the jig and roundabout to perfection, 
 yet they were totally unacquainted with country-dances. This 
 at first discomposed us : however, after a little shoving and 
 
38 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 dragging, they at last went merrily on. Our music consisted 
 of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright. 
 Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the ball, to the 
 great delight of the spectators ; for the neighbours, hearing 
 what was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl 
 moved with so much grace and vivacity, that my wife could 
 not avoid discovering the pride of her heart by assuring me 
 that, though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were 
 stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to be 
 equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled, lan- 
 guished, and frisked ; but all would not do : the gazers indeed 
 owned that it was fine ; but neighbour Flamborough observed 
 that Miss Livy's feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. 
 After the dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, 
 who were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the 
 ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon 
 this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed that, 
 "by the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat." Upon 
 our return to the house, we found a very elegant cold supper, 
 which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. 
 The conversation at this time was more reserved than before. 
 The two ladies threw my girls into the shade ; for they would 
 talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived company; with 
 other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, 
 and the musical glasses. 'Tis true they once or twice mortified 
 us sensibly by slipping out an oath ; but that appeared to me 
 as the surest symptom of any distinction (though I am since 
 informed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable). Their 
 finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their con- 
 versation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior 
 accomplishments with envy ; and what appeared amiss, was 
 ascribed to tip-top quality breeding. But the condescension 
 of the ladies was still superior to their accomplishments. One 
 of them observed, that had Miss Olivia seen a little more of 
 
TWO LADIES OF DISTINCTION 39 
 
 the world, it would greatly improve her ; to which the other 
 added, that a single winter in town would make her little 
 Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly assented to 
 both ; adding, that there was nothing she more ardently wished 
 than to give her girls a single winter's polishing. To this I 
 could not help replying, that their breeding was already supe- 
 rior to their fortune ; and that greater refinement would only 
 serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste 
 for pleasures they had no right to possess. " And what pleas- 
 ures," cried Mr. Thornhill, " do they not deserve to possess, 
 who have so much in their power to bestow? As for my part," 
 continued he, " my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and 
 pleasure are my maxims ; but curse me, if a settlement of half 
 my estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be 
 hers ; and the only favour I would ask in return would be to 
 add myself to the benefit." I was not such a stranger to the 
 world as to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to 
 disguise the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I made an 
 effort to suppress my resentment. " Sir," cried I, " the family 
 which you now condescend to favour with your company has 
 been bred with as nice a sense of honour as you. Any attempts 
 to injure that may be attended with very dangerous conse- 
 quences. Honour, sir, is our only possession at present, and of 
 that last treasure we must be particularly careful." I was soon 
 sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the 
 young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my 
 spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. "As to your 
 present hint," continued he, "I protest nothing was farther 
 from my heart than such a thought. No, by all that's tempt- 
 ing ! the virtue that will stand a regular siege was never to my 
 taste ; for all my amours are carried by a coup de main." c 
 
 The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, 
 seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, and 
 began a very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue : in this, 
 
40 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon joined ; and the Squire him- 
 self was at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow for his 
 former excesses. We talked of the pleasures of temperance, 
 and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was 
 so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the 
 usual time to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr. 
 Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any 
 objection to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal ; 
 and in this manner the night was passed in the most comfort- 
 able way, till at last the company began to think of returning. 
 The ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my daughters, 
 for whom they had conceived a particular affection, and joined 
 in a request to have the pleasure of their company home. The 
 Squire seconded the proposals, and my wife added her entreaties ; 
 the girls, too, looked upon me as if they wished to go. In this 
 perplexity, I made two or three excuses, which my daughters 
 as readily removed ; so that at last I was obliged to give a 
 peremptory refusal, for which we had nothing but sullen looks 
 and short answers the whole day ensuing. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The Family endeavour to cope with their Betters. The Miseries of 
 the Poor when they attempt to appear above their Circumstances 
 
 I NOW began to find that all my long and painful lectures 
 upon temperance, simplicity, and contentment were entirely 
 disregarded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters 
 awakened that pride which I had laid r askep, but not jemoved. 
 Our windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the 
 neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin 
 without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion 
 
THE FAMILY COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS 41 
 
 within. My wife observed that rising too early would hurt 
 her daughters' eyes, that working after dinner would redden 
 their noses ; and she convinced me that the hands aever looked 
 so white as when they did nothing. Instead therefore of finish- 
 ing George's shirts, we now had them new-modelling their old 
 gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flam- 
 boroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as mean 
 acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life, and 
 high-lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the 
 musical glasses. 
 
 But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune-telling 
 gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity. The tawny sibyl 
 no sooner appeared, than my girls came running to me for a 
 shilling a-piece to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, 
 
 J^I was tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying 
 their request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave each 
 of them a shilling ; though for the honour of the family it must 
 be observed, that they never went without money themselves, 
 as my wife always generously let them have a guinea each, to 
 
 f } keep in their pockets, but with strict injunctions never to change 
 it. After they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for 
 some time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning, that 
 they had been promised something great. "Well, my girls, 
 how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given 
 thee a penny worth ?"- " I protest, papa," says the girl, "I 
 believe she deals with somebody that's not right ; for she posi- 
 tively declared, that I am to be married to a Squire in less than 
 a twelvemonth !" " Well, now, Sophy, my child," said I, 
 "and what sort of a husband are you to have ?"- " Sir," 
 replied she, "I am to have a Lord soon after my sister has 
 married the Squire." " How ! " cried I, "is that all you are to 
 have for your two shillings? Only a Lord and a Squire for 
 two shillings 1 You fools, I could have promised you a Prince 
 and a Nabob for half the money." 
 
42 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very seri- 
 ous effects : we now began to think ourselves designed by the 
 stars to something exalted, and already anticipated our future 
 grandeur. 
 
 It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe 
 it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in 
 view, are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In 
 the first case, we cook the dish to our own appetite; in the 
 latter, Nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the 
 train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. 
 We looked upon our fortunes as once more . rising ; and, as the 
 whole parish asserted that the Squire was in love with my 
 daughter, she was actually so with him ; for they persuaded her 
 into the passion. In this agreeable interval my wife had the 
 most lucky dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us 
 every morning with great solemnity and exactness. It was one 
 night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approaching wed- 
 ding; at another time she imagined her daughters' pockets 
 filled with farthings, a certain sign of their being shortly stuffed 
 with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They felt 
 strange kisses on their lips ; they saw rings in the candle ; 
 purses bounced from the fire, and true-love-knots lurked in the 
 bottom of every teacup. 
 
 Towards the end of the week we received a card from the 
 two ladies, in which, with their compliments, they hoped to see 
 all our family at church the Sunday following. All Saturday 
 morning I could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and 
 daughters in close conference together, and now and then glanc- 
 ing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sin- 
 cere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was 
 preparing for appearing with splendour the next day. In the 
 evening they began their operations in a very regular manner, 
 and my wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when 
 I seemed in spirits, she began thus : "I fancy, Charles, my 
 
THE FAMILY COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS 43 
 
 dear, we shall have a great deal of good company at our 
 church to-morrow." "Perhaps we may, my dear," returned I, 
 "though you need be under no uneasiness about that; you 
 shall have a sermon whether there be or not." "That is 
 what I expect," returned she; "but I think, my dear, we ought 
 to appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what 
 may happen?" "Your precautions," replied I, "are highly 
 commendable. A decent behaviour and appearance in church 
 is what charms me. We should be devout and humble, cheer- 
 ful and serene." " Yes," cried she, " I know that ; but I 
 mean we should go there in as proper a manner as possible; 
 not altogether like the scrubs about us." "You are quite 
 right, my dear," returned I, "and I was going to make the very 
 same proposal. The proper manner of going is to go there as 
 early as possible, to have time for meditation before the service 
 begins." "Phoo, Charles," interrupted she, "all that is very 
 true ; but not what I would be at : I mean, we should go there 
 genteelly. You know the church is two miles off, and I pro- 
 test I don't like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew 
 all blowzed and red with walking, and looking for all the world 
 as if they had been winners at ajsmock race. Now, my dear, 
 my proposal is this : there are our two plough-horses, the Colt 
 that has been in our family these nine years, and his compan- 
 ion Blackberry, that has scarce done an earthly thing for this 
 month past. They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should 
 not they do something as well as we? And let me tell you, 
 when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very 
 tolerable figure." 
 
 To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty 
 times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Black- 
 berry was wall-eyed, and the Colt wanted a tail; that they 
 had never been broke to the rein, but had a hundred vicious 
 tricks ; and that we had but one saddle and pillion in the whole 
 house. All these objections, however, were overruled ; so that I 
 
44 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 was obliged to comply. The next morning I perceived them 
 not a little busy in collecting such materials as might be neces- 
 sary for the expedition ; but, as I found it would be a business 
 of time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised 
 speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading desk 
 for their arrival ; but not finding them come as expected, I was 
 obliged to begin, and went through the service, not without 
 some uneasiness at finding them absent. This was increased 
 when all was finished, and no appearance of the family. I 
 therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was five miles 
 round, though the footway was but two, and, when got about 
 half-way home, perceived the procession marching slowly for- 
 ward towards the church ; my son, my wife, and the two little 
 ones exalted on one horse, and my two daughters upon the 
 other. I demanded the cause of their delay ; but I soon found 
 by their looks they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the 
 road. The horses had at first refused to move from the door, 
 till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward for 
 about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of 
 my wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop to 
 repair them before they could proceed. After that, one of the 
 horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor 
 entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. It was just re- 
 covering from this dismal situation that I found them ; but per- 
 ceiving everything safe, I own their present mortification did 
 not much displease me, as it would give me many opportunities 
 of future triumph, and teach my daughters more humility. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads 
 
 MICHAELMAS-EVE happening on the next day, we were in- 
 vited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbour Flamborough's. 
 
THEY STILL HOLD UP THEIE HEADS 45 
 
 Our late mortifications had humbled us a little, or it is probable 
 we might have rejected such an invitation with contempt : how- 
 ever, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neigh- 
 bour's goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb's-wool, 
 even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, was ex- 
 cellent. It is true, his manner of telling stories was not quite 
 so well. They were very long, and very dull, and all about 
 himself, and we had laughed at them ten times before: how- 
 ever, we were kind enough to laugh at them once more. 
 
 Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of see- 
 ing some innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys 
 and girls to blind-man's-buff. My wife, too, was persuaded to 
 join in the diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she was 
 not yet too old. In the meantime, my neighbour and I looked 
 on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when 
 we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions and 
 commands followecPthat, and, last of all, they sat down to 
 hunt the slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with 
 this primeval pastime, it may be necessary to observe, that the 
 company at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, 
 all except one, who stands in the middle, whose business it is 
 to catch a shoe, which the company shove about under their 
 hams from one to another, something like a weaver's shuttle. 
 As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who is up to face 
 all the company at once, the great beauty of the play lies in hit- 
 ting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side least 
 capable of making a defence. It was in this manner that my 
 eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, 
 in spirits, and bawling for "fair play," with a voice that 
 might deafen a ballad-singer, when, confusion on confusion ! 
 who should enter the room but our two great acquaintances 
 from town, Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia 
 Skeggs ! Description would but beggar, therefore it is unneces- 
 sary to describe, this new mortification. Death ! To be seen 
 
46 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes ! Noth- 
 ing better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flambo- 
 rough's proposing. We seemed struck to the ground for some 
 ^ time, as if actually petrified with amazement. 
 
 The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding 
 us from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to 
 know what accident could have kept us from church the day 
 before. Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered 
 the whole in a summary way, only saying, " We were thrown 
 from our horses." At which account the ladies were greatly 
 concerned ; but being told the family received no hurt, they 
 were extremely glad ; but being informed that we were almost 
 killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry ; but hearing that 
 we had a very good night, they were extremely glad again. 
 Nothing could exceed their complaisance to my daughters : their 
 professions the last evening were warm, but now they were ardent. 
 They protested a desire of having a more lasting acquaint- 
 ance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to Olivia ; Miss 
 Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to give the whole 
 name) took a greater fancy to her sister. They supported the 
 conversation between themselves, while my daughters sat silent, 
 admiring their exalted breeding. But as every reader, however 
 beggarly himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes 
 of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, I must beg leave 
 to give him the concluding part of the present conversation. 
 
 " All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs, " is this, 
 that it may be true or may not be true ; but this I can assure 
 your Ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze : his Lord- 
 ship turned all manner of colours, my Lady fell into a j,qund, 
 but Sir Tomkyn, drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the 
 last drop of his blood." 
 
 "Well," replied our Peeress, "this I can say, that the 
 Duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I believe 
 her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. This you may 
 
THEY STILL HOLD UP THEIR HEADS 47 
 
 depend upon as fact, that the next morning my Lord Duke 
 cried out three times to his valet-de-chambre, ' Jernigan ! Jerni- 
 gan ! Jernigan ! bring me my garters.' " 
 
 But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite 
 behaviour of Mr. Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat with 
 his face turned to the fire, and, at the conclusion of every 
 sentence, would cry out "Fudge!" an expression which dis- 
 pleased us all, and, in some measure, damped the rising spirit 
 of the conversation. 
 
 "Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress, " there is 
 nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock made 
 upon the occasion." - "Fudge I " 
 
 " I am surprised at that," cried Miss Skeggs : "for he seldom 
 leaves anything out, as he writes only for his own amusement. 
 But can your Ladyship favour me with a sight of them ? " 
 "Fudge!" 
 
 "My dear creature," replied our Peeress, "do you think I 
 carry such things about me ? Though they are very fine, to be 
 sure, and I think myself something of a judge at least I know 
 what pleases myself. Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr. 
 Burdock's little pieces; for except what he does, and our dear 
 Countess at Hanover Square, there's nothing comes out but the 
 most lowest stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life among them." 
 "Fudge ! " 
 
 "Your Ladyship should except," says the other, "your own 
 things in the Lady's Magazine. I hope you'll say there's 
 nothing low-lived there ? But I suppose we are to have no 
 more from that quarter ? " - "Fudge /" 
 
 "Why, my dear," says the lady, "you know my reader and 
 companion has left me, to be married to Captain Roach, and as 
 my poor eyes won't suffer me to write myself, I have been for 
 some time looking out for another. A proper person is no easy 
 matter to find ; and, to be sure, thirty pounds a year is a small 
 stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can read, write, 
 
48 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 and behave in company : as for the chits about town, there is 
 no bearing them about one." "Fudge ! " 
 
 "That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, "by experience. For of 
 the three companions I had this last half year, one of them 
 refused to do plain- work an hour in the day ; another thought 
 twenty-five guineas a year too small a salary ; and I was obliged 
 to send away the third, because I suspected an intrigue with the 
 chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue is worth any 
 price; but where is that to be found ? " "Fudge ! " 
 
 My wife had been, for a long time, all attention to this dis- 
 course, but was particularly struck with the latter part of it. 
 Thirty pounds and twenty-five guineas a year, made fifty-six 
 pounds five shillings English money, all which was in a 
 manner going a-begging, and might easily be secured in the 
 family. She for a moment studied my looks for approbation ; 
 and, to own a truth, I was of opinion that two such places 
 would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the Squire 
 had any real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the 
 way to make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife, 
 therefore, was resolved that we should not be deprived of such 
 advantages for want of assurance, and undertook to harangue 
 for the family. " I hope," cried she, "your Ladyships will 
 pardon my present presumption. It is true, we have no right 
 to pretend to such favours ; but yet it is natural for me to wish 
 putting my children forward in the world. And, I will be bold 
 to say, my two girls have had a pretty good education and capacity; 
 at least the country can't show better. They can read, write, 
 and cast accounts ; they understand their needle, bread-stitch, 
 cross and change, and all manner of plain-work ; they can pink, 
 point, and frill, and know something of music ; they can do up 
 smallclothes, work upon catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and 
 my youngest has a very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon 
 the cards." "Fudge!" 
 
 When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the 
 
FORTUNE HUMBLES THEM 49 
 
 two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with 
 an air of doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wilhel- 
 mina Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe that the young 
 ladies, from the opinion she could form of them from so slight 
 an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employments. " But 
 a thing of this kind, madam," cried she, addressing my spouse, 
 " requires a thorough examination into characters, and a more 
 perfect knowledge of each other. Not, madam," continued she, 
 " that I in the least suspect the young ladies' virtue, prudence, 
 and discretion ; but there is a form in these things, madam 
 there is a form." 
 
 My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing that 
 she was very apt to be suspicious herself, but referred her to all 
 the neighbours for a character ; but this our Peeress declined as 
 unnecessary, alleging that " our cousin Thornhill's " recommenda- 
 tion would be sufficient ; and upon this we rested our petition. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Fortune seems resolved to humble the Family of Wakejield. Mor- 
 tifications are often more painful than real Calamities 
 
 WHEN we returned Jiome, the night was dedicated to schemes 
 of future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjectur- 
 ing which of the two girls was likely to have the best place, and 
 most opportunities of seeing good company. The only obstacle 
 to our preferment was in obtaining the Squire's recommendation ; 
 but he had already shown us too many instances of his friendship 
 to doubt of it now. Even in bed my wife kept up the usual 
 theme : " Well, faith, my dear Charles, between ourselves, I 
 think we have made an excellent day's work of it." " Pretty 
 well ! " cried I, not knowing what to say. " What, only pretty 
 well ! " returned she : " I think it is very well. Suppose the girls 
 
50 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 should come to make acquaintances of taste in town ! This I 
 am assured of, that London is the only place in the world for 
 all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, stranger things hap- 
 pen every day : and as ladies of quality are so taken with my 
 daughters, what will not men of quality be 1 Entre nous, I 
 protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly so very obliging. How- 
 ever, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs has my warm 
 heart. But yet, when they came to talk of places in town, you 
 saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don't you 
 think I did for my children there?"- "Ay," returned I, not 
 knowing well what to think of the matter ; " Heaven grant 
 they may be both the better for it this day three months ! " 
 This was one of those observations I usually made to impress 
 my wife with an opinion of my sagacity : for if the girls suc- 
 ceeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but if anything un- 
 fortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. 
 All this conversation, however, was only preparatory to another 
 scheme ; and indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less 
 than that, as we were now to hold up our heads a little higher 
 in the world, it would be proper to sell the Colt, which was 
 grown old, at a neighbouring fair, and buy us a horse that 
 would carry a single or double upon an occasion, and make a 
 pretty appearance at church, or upon a visit. This at first I 
 opposed stoutly ; but it was stoutly defended. However, as I 
 weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it was 
 resolved to part with him. 
 
 As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions 
 of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a 
 cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from 
 home. "No, my dear," said she, "our son Moses is a discreet 
 boy, and can buy and sell to a very good advantage : you know 
 all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands 
 out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain." 
 
 As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing 
 
FORTUNE HUMBLES THEM 51 
 
 enough to entrust him with this commission : and the next 
 morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out 
 Moses for the fair; trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, 
 and cocking his hat with pins. The business of the toilet being 
 over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted 
 upon the Colt, with a deal box before him to bring home 
 groceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call 
 thunder-and-lightning, which, though grown too short, was 
 much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of a 
 gosling green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad 6- 
 black riband. We all followed him several paces from the 
 door bawling after him, " Good luck ! good luck ! " till we 
 could see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarce gone, when Mr. Thornhill's butler came to 
 congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying that he overheard 
 his young master mention our names with great commendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another 
 footman from the same family followed, with a card for my 
 daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such 
 pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that after a 
 few previous inquiries they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. 
 "Ay," cried my wife, "I now see it is no easy matter to get 
 into the families of the great ; but when one once gets in, then, 
 as Moses says, one may go to sleep." To this piece of humour, 
 for she intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a loud 
 laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satisfaction at this 
 message, that she actually put her hand in her pocket and gave 
 the messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 
 
 This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was 
 Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little 
 ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife under- 
 took to keep for them, and give them by letters at a time. 
 He brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they 
 might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, when they 
 
52 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as 
 being the most lucky; but this by the by. We had still a 
 regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behaviour was 
 in some measure displeasing ; nor could we now avoid com- 
 municating our happiness to him, and asking his advice : al- 
 though we seldom followed advice, we were all ready enough 
 to ask it. When he read the note from the two ladies, he 
 shook his head, and observed, that an affair of this sort de- 
 manded the utmost circumspection. This air of diffidence 
 highly displeased my wife. " I never doubted, sir," cried she, 
 "your readiness to be against my daughters and me. You 
 have more circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy 
 when we come to ask advice, we will apply to persons who 
 seem to have made use of it themselves." "Whatever my 
 own conduct may have been, madam," replied he, " is not the 
 present question : though, as I have made no use of advice 
 myself, I should in conscience give it to those that will." As 
 I was apprehensive this answer might draw on a repartee, mak- 
 ing up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the subject, 
 by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so long at the 
 fair, as it was now almost nightfall. " Never mind our son," 
 cried my wife ; " depend upon it he knows what he is about. 
 I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I 
 have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I'll tell 
 you a good story about that, that will make you split your sides 
 with laughing. But, as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a 
 horse, and the box at his back." 
 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under 
 the deal box, which he had strapt round his shoulders like a 
 pedlar. " Welcome, welcome, Moses ! well, my boy, what have 
 you brought us from the fair ?" "! have brought you my- 
 self," cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the 
 dresser. "Ay, Moses," cried my wife, "that we know; but 
 where is the horse?" "I have sold him," cried Moses, "for 
 
FORTUNE HUMBLES THEM 53 
 
 three pounds five shillings and twopence." "Well done, my 
 good boy," returned she ; " I knew you would touch them off. 
 Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is 
 no bad day's work. Come, let us have it then." "I have 
 brought back no money," cried Moses again. " I have laid it 
 all out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from 
 his breast : " here they are ; a gross of green spectacles, with 
 silver rims and shagreen cases." "A gross of green spec- 
 tacles ! " repeated my wife, in a faint voice. " And you have 
 parted with the Colt, and brought us back nothing but 
 a gross of green paltry spectacles!" "Dear mother," cried 
 the boy, " why won't you listen to reason ? I had them a dead 
 bargain, or I should not have bought them. The silver rims 
 alone will sell for double the money." "A fig for the silver 
 rims," cried my wife, in a passion : "I dare swear they won't 
 sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, five 
 shillings an ounce." " You need be under no uneasiness," cried 
 I, " about selling the rims, for they are not worth sixpence ; for 
 I perceive they are only copper varnished over." "What!" 
 cried my wife, "not silver! the rims not silver?" "No," 
 cried I, "no more silver than your sauce-pan." "And so," 
 returned she, " we have parted with the Colt, and have only 
 got a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen 
 cases 1 A murrain take such trumpery ! The blockhead has 
 been imposed upon, and should have known his* company better." 
 "There, my dear," cried I, "you are wrong; he should not 
 v have known them at all." " Marry, hang the idiot ! " re- 
 turned she, "to bring me such stuff: if I had them I would 
 throw them in the fire." " There again you are wrong, my 
 dear," cried I, " for though they be copper, we will keep them 
 by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing." 
 By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He 
 now saw that he had been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, 
 who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I 
 
54 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 therefore asked the circumstances of his deception. He sold the 
 horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A 
 reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of 
 having one to sell. " Here," continued Moses, " we met another 
 man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds 
 upon these, saying that he wanted money, and would dispose 
 of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman, who 
 pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cau- 
 tioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. 
 Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did me ; 
 and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between 
 us." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 Mr. Burchell is found to be an Enemy, for he has the Condejije 
 to give disagreeable A dvice 
 
 OUR family had now made several attempts to be fine ; but 
 some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. 
 I endeavoured to take the advantage of every disappointment to 
 improve their good sense, in proportion as they were frustrated 
 in ambition. " You see, my children/' cried I, " how little is 
 to be got by attempts to impose upon the world in coping with 
 our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate with none but 
 the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and despised by those 
 they follow. Unequal combinations are always disadvantageous 
 to the weaker side, the rich having the pleasure, and the poor 
 the inconveniences that result from them. But come, Dick, 
 my boy, and repeat the fable you were reading to-day, for the 
 good of the company." 
 
 "Once upon a time," cried the child, "a Giant and a Dwarf 
 were friends, and kept together. They made a bargain that 
 they would never forsake each other, but go seek adventures. 
 
MR. BURCHELL AN ENEMY 55 
 
 The first battle they fought was with two Saracens, and the 
 Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a 
 most angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little injury, 
 who, lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarfs 
 arm. He was now in a woful plight ; but the Giant, coming to 
 his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the 
 plain, and the Dwarf cut off the dead man's head out of spite. 
 They then travelled on to another adventure. This was against 
 three bloody-minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel 
 in distress. The Dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before, 
 but for all that struck the first blow, which was returned by 
 another that knocked out his eye ; but the Giant was soon up 
 with them, and had they not fled, would certainly have killed 
 them every one. They were all very joyful for this victory, and 
 the damsel, who was relieved, fell in love with the Giant, and 
 married him. They now travelled far, and farther than I can 
 tell, till they met with a company of robbers. The Giant, for 
 the first time, was foremost now ; but the Dwarf was not far 
 behind. The battle was stout and long. Wherever the Giant 
 came, all fell before him ; but the Dwarf had like to have been 
 killed more than once. At last the victory declared for the two 
 adventurers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf had now 
 lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was without a 
 single wound ; upon which he cried out to his little companion, 
 1 My little hero, this is glorious sport ! let us get one victory 
 more, and then we shall have honour for ever.' 'No,' cries 
 the Dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, f no, I declare 
 off : I'll fight no more : for I find in -every battle that you get 
 all the honours and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.' " 
 
 I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was 
 called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Burchell 
 upon my daughters' intended expedition to town. My wife 
 very strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would re- 
 sult from it ; Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with 
 
56 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 great ardour; and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions 
 seemed but the second part of those which were received with 
 so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high; while 
 poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and 
 at last was obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. 
 The conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly displeas- 
 ing to us all : she knew, she said, of some who had their own 
 secret reasons for what they advised ; but, for her part, she 
 wished such to stay away from her house for the future. 
 "Madam," cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which 
 tended to inflame her the more, " as for secret reasons, you are 
 right : I have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, be- 
 cause you are not able to answer those of which I make no 
 secret ; but I- find my visits here are become troublesome ; I'll 
 take my leave, therefore, now, and perhaps come once more to 
 take a final farewell when I am quitting the country." Thus 
 saying, he took up his hat ; nor could the attempts of Sophia, 
 whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, present his 
 going. 
 
 When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes 
 with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, 
 strove to hide her concern with a forced smile and an air of 
 assurance, which I was willing to reprove. "How, woman," 
 cried I to her, "is it thus we treat strangers? Is it thus we 
 return their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, that these were 
 the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing, that ever 
 escaped your lips ! " " Why would he provoke me, then ? " 
 replied she ; " but I know the motives of his advice perfectly 
 well. He would prevent my girls from going to town that he 
 may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter's company here 
 at home. But, whatever happens, she shall choose better com- 
 pany than such low-lived fellows as he." " Low-lived, my 
 dear, do you call him ? " cried I ; "it is very possible we may 
 mistake this man's character, for he seems, upon some occasions, 
 
FRESH MORTIFICATIONS 57 
 
 the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, 
 my girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his 
 attachment?" "His conversation with me, sir," replied my 
 daughter, " has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. As 
 to aught else no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have 
 heard him say, he never knew a woman who could find merit in 
 a man that seemed poor." "Such, my dear," cried I, "is the 
 common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope you 
 have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it 
 would be even madness to expect happiness from one who has 
 been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother and I 
 have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which 
 you will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of 
 making a more prudent choice." 
 
 What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion I cannot 
 pretend to determine ; but I was not displeased at the bottom 
 that we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. 
 Our breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little ; but I 
 quickly silenced that monitor by two or three specipus reasons, 
 which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myseUT The pain 
 which conscience gives the man who has already done wrong is 
 soon got over. Conscience is a coward ; and those faults it has 
 not strength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to 
 accuse. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration that seeming Calamities 
 may be real Blessings 
 
 THE journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, 
 Mr. Thornhill having kindly promised to inspect their conduct 
 himself, and inform us by letter of their behaviour. But it was 
 thought indispensably necessary that their appearance should 
 equal the greatness of their expectations, which could not be 
 
58 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 done without expense. We debated therefore in full council 
 what were the easiest methods of raising money, or, more prop- 
 erly speaking, what we could most conveniently sell. The de- 
 liberation was soon finished : it was found that our remaining 
 horse was utterly useless for the plough without his companion, 
 and equally unfit for the road, as wanting an eye : it was there- 
 fore determined that we should dispose of him, for the purpose 
 above mentioned, at the neighboring fair ; and, to prevent im- 
 position, that I should go with him myself. Though this was 
 one of the first mercantile transactions of my life, yet I had no 
 doubt about acquitting myself with reputation. The opinion a 
 man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the com- 
 pany he keeps ^and as mine was most in the family way, I had 
 conceived no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. 
 My wife, however, next morning at parting, after I had got some 
 paces from the door, called me back to advise me in a whisper 
 to have all my eyes about me. 
 
 I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my 
 horse through all his paces, but for some time had no bidders. 
 At last a chapman approached, and after he had for a good 
 while examined the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, 
 he would have nothing to say to him ; a second came up, but 
 observing he had a spavin, declared he would not take him for 
 the driving home; a third perceived he had a windgall, and 
 would bid no money ; a fourth knew by his eye tliatThe had 
 the botts ; a fifth wondered what a plague I could do at the 
 fair with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to 
 be cut up for a dog kennel. By this time, I began to have a 
 most hearty contempt for the poor animal myself, and was 
 almost ashamed at the approach of every customer : for though 
 I did not entirely believe all the fellows told me, yet I reflected 
 that the number of witnesses was a strong presumption they 
 were right ; and St. Gregory upon Good Works professes him- 
 self to be of the same opinion. 
 
FRESH MORTIFICATIONS 59 
 
 I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergyman, 
 an old acquaintance, who had also business at the fair, came 
 up, and, shaking me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a 
 public-house, and taking a glass of whatever we could get. I 
 readily closed with the offer, and entering an alehouse, we 
 were shown into a little back room, where there was only a 
 venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over a large book, 
 which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure that 
 prepossessed me more favourably. His locks of silver grey vener- 
 ably shaded his temples, and hisj^reen old age seemed to be the 
 result of health and benevolence. However, his presence did 
 not interrupt our conversation : my friend and I discoursed on 
 the various turns of fortune we had met ; the Whistonian con- 
 troversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon's reply, and the 
 hard measure that was dealt me. But our attention was in 
 a short time taken off, by the appearance of a youth, who, 
 entering the room, respectfully said something softly to the old 
 stranger. "Make no apologies, my child," said the old man; 
 " to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow- creatures : take 
 this, I wish it were more; but five pounds will relieve your 
 distress, and you are welcome." The modest youth shed tears 
 of gratitude, and yet his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. 
 I could have hugged the old man in my arms, his benevolence 
 pleased me so. He continued to read, and we resumed our con- 
 versation, until my companion, after some time, recollecting 
 that he had business to transact in the fair, promised to be 
 soon back ; adding, that he always desired to have as much of 
 Dr. Primrose's company as possible. The old gentleman, hear- 
 ing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention 
 for some time ; and when my friend was gone, most respectfully 
 demanded if I was in any way related to the great Primrose, 
 that courageous monogamist, who had been the bulwark of the 
 Church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that 
 moment. " Sir," cried I, " the applause of so good a man as 
 
60 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I am sure you are, adds to that happiness in my breast which 
 your benevolence has already excited. You behold before you, 
 sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have been 
 pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate divine, 
 who has so long, and it would ill become me to say, success- 
 fully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age." " Sir," 
 cried the stranger, struck with awe, "I fear I have been too 
 familiar, but you'll forgive my curiosity, sir : I' beg pardon." 
 "Sir," cried I, grasping his hand, "you are so far from dis- 
 pleasing me by your familiarity, that I must beg you'll accept 
 my friendship, as you already have my esteem." " Then with 
 gratitude I accept the offer," cried he, squeezing me by the 
 hand, "thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy! and do I 
 behold "I here interrupted what he was going to say ; for 
 though, as an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, 
 yet now my modesty would permit no more. However, no lovers 
 in romance ever cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We , 
 talked upon several subjects : at first I thought he seemed 
 rather devout than learned, and began to think he despised all 
 human doctrines as dross. Yet this no way lessened him in 
 my esteem, for I had for some time begun privately to harbour 
 such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to observe, 
 that the world in general began to be blameably indifferent 
 as to doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too 
 much. "Ay, sir," replied he, as if he had reserved all his 
 learning to that moment, " ay, sir, the world is in its dotage ; 
 and yet the cosmogony, or creation of the world, has puzzled 
 philosophers of all ages. What a medley of opinions have they 
 not broached upon the creation of the world ! Sanchoniathon, 
 Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it 
 in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelu- 
 taion to pan, which imply that all things have neither begin- 
 ning nor end. Manetho also, who lived about the time of 
 Nebuchadon-Asser Asser being a Syriac word, usually ap- 
 
FRESH MORTIFICATIONS 61 
 
 plied as a surname to the kings of that country, as Teglat 
 Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser he, I say, formed a conjecture 
 equally absurd ; for as we usually say, ek to biblion kubernetes, 
 which implies that books will never teach the world; so he 
 
 attempted to investigate But, sir, I ask pardon, I arn 
 
 straying from the question." That he actually was ; nor 
 could I, for my life, see how the creation of the world had 
 anything to do with the business I was talking of; but it was 
 sufficient to show me that he was a man of letters, and I now 
 reverenced him the more. I was resolved, therefore, to bring 
 him to the touchstone : but he was too mild and too gentle to 
 contend for victory. Whenever I made an observation that 
 looked like a challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake 
 his head, and say nothing ; by which I understood he could say 
 much, if he thought proper. The subject, therefore, insensibly 
 changed from the business of antiquity, to that which brought 
 us both to the fair : mine, I told him, was to sell a horse, and 
 very luckily, indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants. 
 My horse was soon produced ; and, in fine, we struck a bargain. 
 Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly 
 pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me change it. Not 
 being in a capacity of complying with this demand, he ordered 
 his footman to be called up, who made his appearance in a very 
 genteel livery. "Here, Abraham," cried he, "go and get gold 
 for this; you'll do it at neighbour Jackson's, or anywhere." 
 While the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a pathetic 
 harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I undertook to 
 improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of gold ; so that, 
 by the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money 
 was never so hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned 
 to inform us, that he had been over the whole fair, and could 
 not get change, though he had offered half-a-crown for doing it. 
 This was a very great disappointment to us all ; but the old 
 gentleman, having paused a little, asked me if I knew one Solo- 
 
62 THE VIGAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 mon Flamborough in my part of the country. Upon replying 
 that was my next-door neighbour : "If that be the case, then," 
 returned he, "I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draft 
 upon him, payable at sight ; and, let me tell you, he is as warm 
 a man as any within five miles round him. Honest Solomon 
 and I have been acquainted for many years together. I remem- 
 ber I always beat him at three jumps ; but he could hop on 
 one leg farther than I." A draft upon my neighbour was to 
 me the same as money ; for I was sufficiently convinced of his 
 ability. The draft was signed, and put into my hands, and 
 Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my 
 horse, old Blackberry, trotted off very well pleased with each, 
 other. 
 
 After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to 
 recollect that I had done wrong in taking a draft from a 
 stranger, and so prudently resolved upon following the pur- 
 chaser, and having back my horse. But this was now too late ; 
 I therefore made directly homewards, resolving to get the draft 
 changed into money at my friend's as fast as possible. I found 
 my honest neighbour smoking his pipe at his own door, and 
 informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it 
 twice over. "You can read the name, I suppose," cried I, 
 "Ephraim Jenkinson." "Yes," returned he, "the name is 
 written plain enough, and I know the gentleman too, the 
 greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. This is the very 
 same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a vener- 
 able-looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his pocket- 
 holes ? And did he not talk a long string of learning about 
 Greek, and cosmogony, and the world ! " To this I replied 
 with a groan. "Ay," continued he, "he has but that one 
 piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it away 
 whenever he finds a scholar in company; but I know the 
 rogue, and will catch him yet." 
 
 Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest 
 
VILLANY DETECTED 63 
 
 struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No 
 truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to 
 behold the master's visage, than I was of going home. I was 
 determined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first falling 
 into a passion myself. 
 
 But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed 
 for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. Thornhill 
 having been there that day to inform them that their journey 
 to town was entirely over. The two ladies, having heard 
 reports of us from some malicious person about us, were that 
 day set out for London. He could neither discover the ten- 
 dency nor the author of these ; but whatever they might be, or 
 whoever might have broached them, he continued to assure our 
 family of his friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that 
 they bore my disappointment with great resignation, as it was 
 eclipsed in the greatness of their own. But what perplexed us 
 most, was to think who could be so base as to asperse the char- 
 acter of a family so harmless as ours ; too humble to excite 
 envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 All Mr. BurchelVs Villany at once detected. The Folly of being 
 overwise 
 
 THAT evening, and a part of the following day, was employed 
 in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies : scarcely a family 
 in the neighbourhood but incurred our suspicions, and each of us 
 had reasons for our opinions best known to ourselves. As we 
 were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who had been 
 playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he found on the 
 green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr. Burchell, with 
 whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, contained some 
 
64 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 hints upon different subjects ; but what particularly engaged our 
 attention was a sealed note, superscribed, The copy of a letter 
 to be sent to the ladies at Thornhill Castle. It instantly oc- 
 curred that he was the base informer, and we deliberated 
 whether the note should not be broken open. I was against it ; 
 but Sophia, who said she was sure that of all men he would be 
 the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being 
 read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the family, and 
 at their joint solicitation I read as follows : 
 
 " Ladies, The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the 
 person from whom this comes : one at least the friend of inno- 
 cence, and ready to prevent its being seduced. I am informed 
 for a truth, that you have some intention of bringing two young 
 ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of, under the 
 character of companions. As I would neither have simplicity 
 imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as my 
 opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended 
 with dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to 
 treat the infamous or the lewd with severity ; nor should I now 
 have taken this method of explaining myself, or reproving folly, 
 did it not aim at guilt. Take, therefore, the admonition of a 
 friend, and seriously reflect on the consequences of introducing 
 infamy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have 
 hitherto resided." 
 
 Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed, indeed, 
 something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its cen- 
 sures might as well be referred to those to whom it was written, 
 as to us ; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went 
 no farther. My wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the 
 end, but railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment. 
 Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed 
 at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the 
 vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had ever met with ; 
 nor could I account for it in any other manner than by imputing 
 
VILLANY DETECTED 65 
 
 it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the coun- 
 try, to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. 
 In this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, 
 when our other little boy came running in to tell us that Mr. 
 Burchell was approaching at the other end of the field. It is 
 easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensations which 
 are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and the pleasure of 
 approaching vengeance. Though our intentions were only to 
 upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in 
 a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we 
 agreed to meet him with our usual smiles ; to chat in the begin- 
 ning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little ; 
 and then, in the midst of a flattering calm, to burst upon him 
 like an earthquake, and overwhelm him with a sense of his own 
 baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook to 
 manage the business herself, as she really had some talents for 
 such an undertaking. We saw him approach : he entered, drew 
 a chair, and sat down. "A fine day, Mr. Burchell." U A 
 very fine day, Doctor ; though I fancy we shall have some rain 
 by the shooting of my corns." " The shooting of your horns ! " 
 cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon 
 for being fond of a joke. " Dear madam," replied he, "I par- 
 don you with all my heart, for I protest I should not have thought 
 it a joke had you not told me." " Perhaps not, sir," cried my 
 wife, winking at us ; " and yet I dare say you can tell us how 
 many jokes go to an ounce."- "I fancy, madam," returned 
 Burchell, "you have been reading a jest book this morning, 
 that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit; and yet, madam, 
 I had rather see half an ounce of understanding." "I believe 
 you might," cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh 
 was against her; "and yet I have seen some men pretend to 
 understanding that have very little."- " And no doubt," re- 
 turned her antagonist, " you have known ladies set up for wit 
 tiiat had none." I quickly began to find that my wife was 
 
 p 
 
 ^Yj-v 
 
66 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 likely to gain but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat 
 him in a style of more severity myself. " Both wit and under- 
 standing," cried I, "are trifles, without integrity; it is that 
 which gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant with- 
 out fault, is greater than the philosopher with many ; for what 
 is genius or courage without an heart ? 
 
 " ' An honest man 's the noblest work of God.' " 
 
 "I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope," returned 
 Mr. Burchell, "as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base 
 desertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books is 
 raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness of 
 their beauties ; so should that of men be prized, not for their 
 exemption from fault but the size of those virtues they are pos- 
 sessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the statesman may 
 have pride, and the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to 
 these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through life 
 without censure or applause? We might as well prefer the 
 tame correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous 
 but sublime animations of the Roman pencil." 
 
 "Sir," replied I, "your present observation is just, when 
 there are shining virtues and minute defects ; ' but when it 
 appears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as 
 extraordinary virtues, such a character deserves contempt." 
 
 " Perhaps, "cried he, " there maybe some such monsters as you 
 describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet in my prog- 
 ress through life, I never yet found one instance of their exist- 
 ence : on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the 
 mind was capacious, the affections were good. And indeed 
 Providence seems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to 
 debilitate the understanding where the heart is corrupt, and 
 diminish the power where there is the will to do mischief. This 
 rule seems to extend even to other animals ; the little vermin 
 
VILLANY DETECTED 67 
 
 race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst those en- 
 dowed with strength and power are generous, brave, and 
 gentle." 
 
 " These observations sound well," returned I, " and yet it 
 would be easy this moment to point out a man," and I fixed my 
 eye steadfastly upon him, " whose head and heart form a most 
 detestable contrast. Ay, sir," continued I, raising my voice, 
 " and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting him in 
 the midst of his fancied security. Do you know this, sir, this 
 pocket-book 1 " " Yes, sir," returned he, with a face of impene- 
 trable assurance, "that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you 
 have found it." "And do you know," cried I, "this letter? 
 Nay, never falter, man ; but look me full in the face : I say, do 
 you know this letter ? " " That letter," returned he ; " yes, it 
 was I that wrote that letter." "And how could you," said I, 
 "so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this letter?" 
 " And how came you," replied he, with looks of unparalleled 
 effrontery, " so basely presume to break open this letter ? Don't 
 you know, now, I could hang you all for this ? All that I have 
 to do is to swear at the next justice's that you have been guilty 
 of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you 
 all up at his door." This piece of unexpected insolence raised 
 me to such a pitch, that I could scarce govern my passion. 
 " Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and no longer pollute my dwell- 
 ing with thy baseness ! begone, and never let me see thee again ! 
 Go from my door, and the only punishment I wish thee is an 
 alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor ! " So 
 saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a 
 smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost composure, left 
 us, quite as v tonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife 
 was particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, 
 or make him seem ashamed of his villanies. "My dear," cried 
 I, willing to calm those passions that had been raised too high 
 among us, "we are not to be surprised that bad men want 
 
68 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 shame : they only blush at being detected in doing good, but 
 glory in their vices. 
 
 "Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at first compan- 
 ions, and, in the beginning of their journey, inseparably kept 
 together. But their union was soon found to be disagreeable 
 and inconvenient to both. Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasi- 
 ness, and Shame often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. 
 After long disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to 
 part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake 
 Fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner ; but 
 Shame, being naturally timorous, returned back to keep com- 
 pany with Virtue, which in the beginning of their journey they 
 had left behind. Thus, my children, after men have travelled 
 through a few stages in vice, shame forsakes them, and returns 
 back to wait upon the few virtues they have still remaining." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The Family use Art, which is opposed with still greater 
 
 WHATEVER might have been Sophia's sensations, the rest of 
 the family was easily consoled for Mr. Burchell's absence by 
 the company of our landlord, whose visits now became more 
 frequent, and longer. Though he had been disappointed in 
 procuring my daughters the amusements of the town, as he 
 designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them with 
 those little recreations which our retirement would admit of. 
 He usually came in the morning; and, while my son and I fol- 
 lowed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, 
 and amused them by describing the town, with every part of 
 which he was particularly acquainted. He could repeat all the 
 observations that were retailed in the atmosphere of the play- 
 houses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rote, 
 
THE FAMILY USE ART 69 
 
 long before they made their way into the jest books. The 
 intervals between conversation were employed in teaching my 
 daughters piquet, or sometimes in setting my 'two little 
 ones to box, to make them sharp, as he called it : but the 
 hopes of having him for a son-in-law in some measure blinded 
 us to all his imperfections. It must be owned, that my wife 
 laid a thousand schemes to entrap him ; or, to speak more ten- 
 derly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If 
 the cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; 
 if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of 
 her gathering ; it was her fingers which gave the pickles their 
 peculiar green ; and, in the composition of a pudding, it was 
 her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor woman 
 would sometimes tell the Squire that she thought him and 
 Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see 
 which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which she 
 thought impenetrable, yet which everybody saw through, were 
 very pleasing to our benefactor, who gave every day some new 
 proofs of his passion, which, though they had not arisen to 
 proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of it ; 
 and his slowness was attributed sometimes to native bashful- 
 ness, and sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. An 
 occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put it beyond 
 a doubt that he designed to become one of our family; my wife 
 even regarded it as an absolute promise. 
 
 My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to neigh- 
 bour Flamborough's, found that family had lately got their pic- 
 tures drawn by a limner, who travelled the country, and took 
 likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours 
 had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the 
 alarm at this stolen march upon us ; and, notwithstanding all I \ " 
 could say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have 
 our pictures done too. 
 
 Having, therefore, engaged the limner for what could I do 1 
 
70 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 our next deliberation was to show the superiority of our taste 
 in the attitudes. As for our neighbour's family, there were 
 seven of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, a 
 thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the 
 world. We desired to have something in a brighter style ; and, 
 after many debates, at length came to a unanimous resolution 
 of being drawn together, in one large historical family piece. 
 This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and 
 it would be infinitely more genteel ; for all families of any taste 
 were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not immedi- 
 ately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were contented 
 each with being drawn as independent historical figures. My 
 wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was 
 desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher 
 and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side ; 
 while I, in my gown and band, was to present her with my 
 books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn 
 as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green 
 Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia 
 was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could 
 put in for nothing ; and Moses was to be dressed out with a hat 
 and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire, that 
 he insisted on being put in as one of the family, in the character 
 of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered 
 by us all as an indication of his desire to be introduced into the 
 family, nor could we refuse his request. The painter was there- 
 fore set to work, and, as he wrought with assiduity and expedi- 
 tion, in less than four days the whole was completed. The 
 piece was large, and, it must be owned, he did not spare his 
 colours ; for which -my wife gave him great encomiums. We 
 were all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but an unfor- 
 tunate circumstance had not occurred till the picture was fin- 
 ished, which now struck us with dismay. It was so very large, 
 that we had no place in the house to fix it. How we all came 
 
THE FAMILY USE ART 71 
 
 to disregard so material a point is inconceivable ; but certain it 
 is, we had been all greatly remiss. The picture, therefore, in- 
 stead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most 
 mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where the canvas 
 was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through any 
 of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbours. One compared it 
 to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large to be removed ; another 
 thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle : some wondered 
 how it could be got out, but still more were amazed how it ever 
 got in. 
 
 But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised 
 more malicious suggestions in many. The Squire's portrait being 
 found united with ours was an honour too great to escape envy. 
 Scandalous whispers began to circulate at our expense, and our 
 tranquillity was continually disturbed by persons, who came as 
 friends to tell us what was said of us by enemies, These re- 
 ports we always resented with becoming spirit ; / but scandal j 
 ever improves by opposition^ 
 
 We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation upon 
 obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a reso- 
 lution which had too much cunning to give me entire satisfac- 
 tion. It was this : as our principal object was to discover the 
 honour of Mr. Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound 
 him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a husband 
 for her eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to in- 
 duce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him 
 with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no means 
 give my consent, till Olivia gave rne the most solemn assurances 
 that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon 
 this occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. , 
 Such was the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously 
 oppose, I did not entirely approve. 
 
 The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us, 
 my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their 
 
72 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 mamma an opportunity of putting her scheme in execution ; 
 but they only retired to the next room, from whence they could 
 overhear the whole conversation. My wife artfully introduced 
 it, by observing, that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to 
 have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the 
 Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who had 
 warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands : 
 "But Heaven help," continued she, "the girls that have none ! 
 What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill 1 or what signifies all the 
 virtue, and all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self- 
 interest *? It is not, What is she ? but, What has she ? is all 
 the cry." 
 
 ""Madam," returned he, "I highly approve the justice, as 
 well as the novelty of your remarks ; and if I were a king, it 
 should be otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times with 
 the girls without fortunes : our two young ladies should be the 
 first for whom I would provide." 
 
 " Ah, sir," returned my wife, " you are pleased to be factious : 
 but I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest 
 daughter should look for a husband. But, now that you have 
 put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't you recom- 
 mend me a proper husband for her ? She is now nineteen years 
 old, well grown, and well educated, and, in my humble opinion, 
 does not want for parts." 
 
 "Madam," replied he, "if I were to choose, I would find out 
 a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an 
 angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and 'sincerity ; 
 such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband." 
 " Ay, sir," said she, " but do you know of any such person ? " 
 "No, madam," returned he, "it is impossible to know any 
 person that deserves to be her husband : she's too great a treas- 
 ure for one man's possession ; she's a goddess ! Upon my soul, 
 I speak what I think she's an angel ! " - " Ah, Mr. Thorn- 
 hill, you only flatter my poor girl : but we have been thinking 
 
POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION 73 
 
 of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately 
 dead, and who wants a manager ; you know whom I mean, 
 farmer Williams ; a warm man, Mr. Thorn hill, able to give her 
 good bread, and who has several times made her proposals " 
 (which was actually the case); "but, sir," concluded she, "I 
 should be glad to have your approbation of our choice." " How, 
 madam," replied he, " my approbation ! my approbation 
 of such a choice ! Never. What ! sacrifice so much beauty 
 and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the blessing ! 
 Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice. 
 And I have my reasons." "Indeed, sir," cried Deborah, "if 
 you have your reasons, that's another affair ; but I should be 
 glad to know those reasons." -" Excuse me, madam," re- 
 turned he, " they lie too deep for discovery " (laying his hand 
 upon his bosom) ; "they remain buried, riveted here." 
 
 After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we could 
 not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. Olivia consid- 
 ered them as instances of the most exalted passion ; but I was 
 not quite so sanguine ; it seemed to me pretty plain, that they 
 had more of love than matrimony in them ; yet, whatever they 
 might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of farmer 
 Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in the coun- 
 try, had paid her his addresses. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the Power of long and pleasing 
 Temptation 
 
 As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of 
 Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, pru- 
 dent, and sincere. It required but very little encouragement to 
 revive his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he and 
 
74 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each other for 
 some time with looks of anger ; but Williams owed his landlord 
 no rent, and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, 
 acted the coquette to perfection, if that might be called acting 
 which was her real character, pretending to lavish all her ten- 
 derness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared quite de- 
 jected at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, 
 though I own it puzzled me to find him in so much pain as he 
 appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily to remove 
 the cause, by declaring an honourable passion. But whatever 
 uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived that 
 Olivia's anguish was still greater. After any of these interviews 
 between her lovers, of which there were several, she usually re- 
 tired to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was in such 
 a situation I found her one evening, after she had been for some 
 time supporting a fictitious gaiety. " You now see, my child," 
 said I, " that your confidence in Mr. Thornhill's passion was all 
 a dream : he permits the rivalry of another, every way his infe- 
 rior, though he knows it lies in his power to secure you to him- 
 self by a candid declaration." " Yes, papa," returned she ; "but 
 he has his reasons for this delay : I know he has. The sincerity 
 of his looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. A short 
 time, I hope, will discover the generosity of his sentiments, and con- 
 vince you that my opinion of him has been more just than yours." 
 "Olivia, my darling," returned I, "every scheme that has 
 been hitherto pursued to compel him to a declaration has been 
 proposed and planned by yourself; nor can you in the least say 
 that I have constrained you. But you must not suppose, my 
 dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest 
 rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time 
 you require to bring your fancied admirer to an explanation shall 
 be granted; but at the expiration of that term, if he is still 
 regardless, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams 
 shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I have 
 
POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION 75 
 
 hitherto supported in life demands this from me, and my ten- 
 derness as a parent shall never influence my integrity as a man. 
 Name, then, your day ; let it be as distant as you think proper ; 
 and in the meantime, take care to let Mr. Thornhill know the 
 exact time on which I design delivering you up to another. If 
 he really loves you, his own good sense will readily suggest that 
 there is but one method alone to prevent his losing you for ever." 
 This proposal, which she could not avoid considering as perfectly 
 just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed her most posi- 
 tive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in case of the other's 
 insensibility; and at the next opportunity, in Mr. ThornhuTs 
 presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with 
 his rival. 
 
 Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thornhill's 
 anxiety : but what Olivk really felt gave me some uneasiness. 
 In this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity 
 quite forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought, 
 and spent in tears. One week passed away ; but Mr. Thornhill 
 made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week 
 he was still assiduous, but not more open. On the third he dis- 
 continued his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter testify- 
 ing any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive 
 tranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own 
 part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child 
 was going to be secured in a continuance of competence and 
 peace, and frequently applauded her resolution, in preferring 
 happiness to ostentation. 
 
 It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that 
 my little family at night were gathered round a charming fire, 
 telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future : 
 busied in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at whatever 
 folly came uppermost. " Well, Moses," cried I, " we shall soon, 
 my boy, have a wedding in the family : what is your opinion of 
 matters and things in general 1 " " My opinion, father, is, that 
 
76 . THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 all things go on very well : and I was just now thinking, that 
 when sister Livy is married to farmer Williams, we shall then 
 have the loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing." 
 " That we shall, Moses," cried I, "and he will sing us 'Death 
 and the Lady,' to raise our spirits into the bargain." "He 
 has taught that song to our Dick," cried Moses; "and I think 
 he goes through it very prettily." "Does he so?" cried I; 
 "then let us have it: where's little Dick? let him up with it 
 boldly." "My brother Dick," cried Bill, my youngest, "is 
 just gone out with sister Livy : but Mr. Williams has taught 
 me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which song 
 do you choose, The Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the Death of 
 a Mad Dog?" " The elegy, child, by all means," said I ; " I 
 never heard that yet ; and Deborah, my life, grief, you know, is 
 dry ; let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry wine, to keep 
 up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of 
 late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure this will over- 
 come me ; and Sophy, love, take your guitar and thrum in with 
 the boy a little." 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 
 
 GOOD people all, of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song, 
 And if you find it wond'rous short, 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man, 
 
 Of whom the world might say 
 That still a godly race he ran, 
 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had, 
 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 The naked every day he clad, 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
 And in that town a dog was found, 
 As many dogs there be, 
 
POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION 11 
 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends ; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 The dog, to gain some private ends, 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the neighbouring streets 
 
 The wond'ring neighbours ran, 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 And while they swore the dog was mad, 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light, 
 
 That show'd the rogues they lied : 
 The man recovered of the bite 
 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 " A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an elegy that 
 may truly be called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's 
 health, and may he one day be a bishop ! " 
 
 " With all my heart," cried my wife : " and if he but preaches 
 as well as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his 
 family, by the mother's side, could sing a good song : it was a 
 common saying in our country, that the family of the Blenkin- 
 sops could never look straight before them, nor the Hugginsons 
 blow out a candle ; that there were none of the Grograms but 
 could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a story." 
 " However that be," cried I, "the most vulgar ballad of them 
 all generally pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and 
 things that petrify us in a single stanza, productions that we 
 at once detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, 
 Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in 
 despair for griefs that give the sensible part of mankind very 
 little pain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and 
 so the silly poet runs home to versify the disaster." 
 
78 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 "That maybe the mode," cried Moses, "in sublimer com- 
 positions : but the Ranelagh songs that come down to us are 
 perfectly familiar, and all cast in the same mould : Colin meets 
 Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together ; he gives her a fair- 
 ing to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay ; 
 and then they go together to church, where they give good ad- 
 vice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they 
 can." 
 
 "And very good advice too," cried I : "and I am told there 
 is not a place in the world where advice can be given with so 
 much propriety as there : for as it persuades us to marry, it 
 also furnishes us with a wife ; and surely that must be an ex- 
 cellent market, my boy, where we are told what we want, and 
 supplied with it when wanting." 
 
 "Yes, sir," returned Moses, "and I know but of two such 
 markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and 
 Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish market is open once a year ; 
 but our English wives are saleable every night." 
 
 "You are right, my boy," cried his mother; "Old England 
 is the only place in the world for husbands to get wives." 
 "And for wives to manage their husbands," interrupted I. 
 "It is a proverb abroad, that if a bridge were built across the 
 sea, all the ladies of the Continent would come over to take 
 pattern from ours ; for there are no such wives in Europe as 
 our own. But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life ; 
 and, Moses, give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe 
 to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and compe- 
 tence ! I think myself happier now than the greatest monarch 
 upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces 
 about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old ; but the 
 evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended 
 from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good 
 and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live, they 
 will be our support and our pleasure here; and when we die, they 
 
POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION 79 
 
 will transmit our honour untainted to posterity. Come, my 
 son, we wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But where is 
 my darling Olivia 1 that little cherub's voice is always sweetest 
 in the concert." Just as I spoke Dick came running in. " 
 papa, papa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us ; my sister 
 Livy is gone from us for ever ! " - " Gone, child ! " " Yes, 
 she is gone off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and one of 
 them kissed her, and said he would die for her : and she cried 
 very much, and was for coming back; but he persuaded her 
 again, and she went into the chaise, and said, l Oh, what will 
 my poor papa do when he knows I am undone ! " " Now, 
 then," cried I, "my children, go and be miserable ; for we shall 
 never enjoy one hour more. And oh, may Heaven's everlasting 
 fury light upon him and his ! thus to rob me of my child ! 
 And sure it will, for taking back my sweet innocent that I was 
 leading up to Heaven. Such sincerity as my child was pos- 
 sessed of ! But all our earthly happiness is now over ! Go, 
 my children, go and be miserable and infamous ; for my heart is 
 broken within me ! " "Father," cried my son, " is this your 
 fortitude ?" " Fortitude, child? yes, ye shall see I have 
 fortitude ! Bring me my pistols. I'll pursue the traitor 
 while he is on earth I'll pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find 
 I can sting him yet. The villain, the perfidious villain ! " I 
 had by this time reached down my pistols, when my poor wife, 
 whose passions were not so strong as mine, caught me in her 
 arms. "My dearest, dearest husband ! " cried she, "the Bible 
 is the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open 
 that, my love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has 
 vilely deceived us." "Indeed, sir," resumed my son, after a 
 pause, " your rage is too violent and unbecoming. You should 
 be my mother's comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill 
 suited you and your reverend character thus to curse your 
 greatest enemy : you should not have cursed him, villain as he 
 is." "I did not curse him, child, did I?" "Indeed, sir, 
 
80 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 you did ; you cursed him twice." " Then may Heaven forgive me 
 and him if I did ! And now, my son, I see it was more than human 
 benevolence that first taught us to bless our enemies : Blessed 
 be His holy name for all the good He hath given, and for all that 
 He hath taken away. But it is not it is not a small distress 
 that can wring tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for 
 so many years. My child ! to undo my darling ! May confusion 
 
 seize Heaven forgive me ! what am I about to say ! you 
 
 may remember, my love, how good she was, and how charming : 
 till this vile moment all her care was to make us happy. Had 
 she but died ! But she is gone, the honour of our family con- 
 taminated, and I must look out for happiness in other worlds 
 than here. But, my child, you saw them go off : perhaps he 
 forced her away ? If he forced her, she may yet be innocent." 
 " Ah, no, sir," cried the child ; " he only kissed her, and 
 called her his angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon 
 his arm, and they drove off very fast." "She's an ungrateful 
 creature," cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, 
 " to use us thus. She never had the least constraint put upon 
 her affections. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her 
 parents without any provocation, thus to bring your grey hairs 
 to the grave ; and I must shortly follow." 
 
 In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, 
 was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported 
 sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our 
 betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The 
 next morning we missed our wretched child at breakfast, where 
 she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as 
 before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. " Never," 
 cried she, "shall that vilest stain of our family again darken 
 these harmless doors. I will never call her daughter more. 
 No, let the strumpet live with her vile seducer : she may bring 
 us to shame, but she shall never more deceive us." 
 
 "Wife," said I, "do not talk thus hardly: my detestation 
 
THE PURSUIT 81 
 
 of her guilt is as great as yours ; but ever shall this house and 
 this heart be open to a poor returning repentant sinner. The 
 sooner she returns from her transgressions, the more welcome 
 shall she be to me. For the first time the very best may err ; 
 art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first 
 fault is the child of simplicity, but every other, the offspring 
 of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this 
 heart and this house, though stained with ten thousand vices. 
 I will again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I 
 hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My 
 son, bring hither my Bible and my staff: I will pursue her, 
 wherever she is ; and though I cannot save her from shame, I 
 may prevent the continuance of iniquity." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a lost Child to Virtue 
 
 THOUGH the child could not describe the gentleman's person 
 who handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions 
 fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose character for such 
 intrigues was but too well known. I therefore directed my 
 steps towards Thorn hill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, and, 
 if possible, to bring back my daughter : but before I had reached 
 his seat, I was met by one of my parishioners, who said he saw 
 a young lady resembling my daughter in a post-chaise with a 
 gentleman, whom by the description I could only guess to be 
 Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This information, 
 however, did by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the 
 young Squire's, and, though it was yet early, insisted upon see- 
 ing him immediately. He soon appeared with the most open 
 familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter's 
 elopement, protesting, upon his honour, that he was quite a 
 
82 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former sus- 
 picions, and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I 
 recollected, had of late several private conferences with her; 
 but the appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt 
 his villany, who averred, that he and my daughter were actu- 
 ally gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where 
 there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that 
 state of mind in which we all are more ready to act precipi- 
 tately than to reason right, I never debated with myself whether 
 these accounts might not have been given by persons purposely 
 placed in my way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my 
 daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked along with 
 earnestness, and inquired of several by the way ; but received 
 no accounts, till, entering the town, I was met by a person on 
 horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the Squire's/ 
 and he -assured me that if I followed them to the races, which 
 were but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking 
 them ; for he had seen them dance there the night before, and 
 the whole assembly seemed charmed with my daughter's per- 
 formance. Early the next day, I walked forward to the races, 
 and about four in the afternoon I came upon the course. The 
 company made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly em- 
 ployed in one pursuit, that of pleasure : how different from 
 mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I thought 
 I perceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me; but, as if 
 he dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him he mixed 
 among a crowd, and I saw him no more. 
 
 I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to continue 
 my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent 
 family, who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my 
 mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a fever, 
 the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the course. 
 This was another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy 
 miles distant from home : however, I retired to a little alehouse 
 
THE PURSUIT 83 
 
 by the roadside ; and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence 
 and frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my 
 disorder. I languished here for near three weeks ; but at last 
 my constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with money 
 to defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is possible the 
 anxiety from this last circumstance alone might have brought 
 on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller, who stopped 
 to take a cursory refreshment. This person was no other than 
 the philanthropic bookseller in St. Paul's Churchyard who has 
 written so many little books for children : he called himself 
 their friend, but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no 
 sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he was 
 ever on business of the utmost importance, and was at that time 
 actually compiling materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas 
 Trip. I immediately recollected this good-natured man's red 
 pimpled face ; for he had published for me against the Deuter- 
 ogamists of the age ; and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to 
 be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet 
 but weak, I resolved to return home by easy journeys of ten 
 miles a day. My health and usual tranquillity were almost 
 restored, and I now condemned that pride which had made me 
 refractory to the hand of correction. Man little knows what 
 calamities are beyond his patience to bear, till he tries them : 
 as in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from 
 below, every step we rise shows us some new and gloomy pros- 
 pect of hidden disappointment; so in our descent from the 
 summits of pleasure, though the vale of misery below may ap- 
 pear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive 
 to its own amusement, finds, as we descend, something to flatter 
 and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest objects 
 appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its 
 gloomy situation. 
 
 I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, 
 when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a waggon, 
 
84 . THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 which I was resolved to overtake ; but when I came up with it, 
 found it to be a strolling company's cart, that was carrying 
 their scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next village, 
 where they were to exhibit. The cart was attended only by 
 the person who drove it, and one of the company, as the rest of 
 the players were to follow the ensuing day. " Good company 
 upon the road," says the proverb, "is the shortest cut." I 
 therefore entered into conversation with the poor player; and 
 as I once had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on 
 such topics with my usual freedom : but as I was pretty much 
 unacquainted with the present state of the stage, I demanded 
 who were the present theatrical writers in vogue who the 
 Drydens and Otways of the day? "I fancy, sir," cried the 
 player, "few of our modern dramatists would think themselves 
 much honoured, by being compared to the writers you mention. 
 Dryden's and Howe's manner, sir, are quite out of fashion : our 
 taste has gone back a whole century ; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, 
 and all the plays of Shakespeare are the only things that go 
 down." c " How," cried I, " is it possible the present age can 
 be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humour, 
 those overcharged characters, which abound in the works you 
 mention ? " " Sir," returned my companion, " the public think 
 nothing about dialect, or humour, or character, for that is none 
 of their business ; they only go to be amused, and find them- 
 selves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime, under the 
 sanction of Jonson's or Shakespeare's name." "So, then, I 
 suppose," cried I, "that our modern dramatists are rather 
 imitators of Shakespeare than of nature." " To say the truth," 
 returned my companion, " I don't know that they imitate any- 
 thing at all ; nor, indeed, does the public require it of them ; it 
 is not the composition of the piece, but the number of starts 
 and attitudes that may be introduced into it, that elicits 
 applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest in the whole, 
 shrugged into popularity, and another saved, by the poet's 
 
THE PURSUIT 85 
 
 throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve 
 and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present 
 taste ; our modern dialect is much more natural." 
 
 By this time, the equipage of the strolling company was 
 arrived at the village, which, it seems, had been apprised of our 
 approach, and was come out to gaze at us ; for my companion 
 observed, that strollers always have more spectators without 
 doors than within. I did not consider the impropriety of my 
 being in such company, till I saw a mob gather about me. I 
 therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first alehouse 
 that offered; and being shown into the common room, was 
 accosted by a very well-dressed gentleman, who demanded 
 whether I was the real chaplain of the company, or whether 
 it was only to be my masquerade character in the play ? Upon 
 informing him of the truth, and that I did not belong, in any 
 sort, to the company, he was condescending enough to desire 
 me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which 
 he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and interest. 
 I set him down, in my own mind, for nothing less than a par- 
 liament-man at least ; but was almost confirmed in my conjec- 
 tures, when, upon asking what there was in the house for 
 supper, he insisted that the player and I should sup with him 
 at his house; with which request, after some entreaties, we 
 were prevailed on to comply. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 The Description of a Person discontented with the present Govern- 
 ment, and apprehensive of the Loss of our Liberties 
 
 THE house where we were to be entertained lying at a small 
 distance from the village, our inviter observed, that as the coach 
 was not ready, he would conduct us on foot ; and we soon 
 arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen in 
 
86 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 that part of the country. The apartment into which we were 
 shown was perfectly elegant and modern : he went to give 
 orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed that 
 we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned ; an 
 elegant supper was brought in ; two or three ladies in easy dis- 
 habille were introduced, and the conversation began with some 
 sprightliness. Politics, however, was the subject on which our 
 entertainer chiefly expatiated ; for he asserted that liberty was 
 at once his boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, 
 he asked me if I had seen the last Monitor? to which, reply- 
 ing in the negative, " What ! nor the Auditor I suppose ? " 
 cried he. " Neither, sir," returned I. " That's strange, very 
 strange ! " replied my entertainer. " Now I read all the poli- 
 tics that come out : the Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the 
 Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the sev- 
 enteen Magazines, and the two Reviews ; and, though they hate 
 each other, I love them all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton's 
 boast ! and, by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its 
 guardians." "Then, it is to be hoped," cried I, "you rever- 
 ence the king?'" "Yes," returned my entertainer, " when he 
 does what we would have him ; but if he goes on as he has 
 done of late, I'll never trouble myself more with his matters. 
 I say nothing. I think only. I could have directed some 
 things better. I don't think there has been a sufficient number 
 of advisers : he should advise with every person willing to give 
 him advice, and then we should have things done in ahother- 
 guess manner." 
 
 "I wish," cried I, "that such intruding advisers were fixed 
 in the pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist 
 the weaker side of our constitution, that sacred power that has 
 for some years been every day declining, and losing its due share 
 of influence in the State. But these ignorants still continue 
 the same cry of liberty, and, if they have any weight, basely 
 throw it into the subsiding scale." 
 
A DISCONTENTED POLITICIAN 87 
 
 "How!" cried one of the ladies, "do I live to see one so 
 base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender 
 of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, that glorious 
 privilege of Britons ! " 
 
 "Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, "that there 
 should be any found at present advocates for slavery? Any 
 who are for meanly giving up the privileges of Britons ? Can 
 any, sir, be so abject 1 " 
 
 "No, sir," replied I, " I am for liberty! that attribute of 
 gods ! Glorious liberty ! that theme of modern declamation ! 
 I would have all men kings ! I would be a king myself. We 
 have all naturally an equal right to the throne : we are all 
 originally equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opinion 
 of a set of honest men who were called Levellers. They tried 
 to erect themselves into a community, where all should be 
 equally free. But, alas ! it would never answer : for there 
 were some among them stronger, and some more cunning, than 
 others, and these became masters of the rest ; for, as sure as 
 your groom rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal 
 than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger or 
 stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, then, 
 it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to 
 command and others to obey, the question is, as there must 
 be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same house 
 with us, or in the same village, or, still farther off, in the me- 
 tropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the 
 face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me the 
 better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are of 
 my way of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, 
 whose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and 
 puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the greatest number 
 of people. Now the great, who were tyrants themselves before 
 the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power raised 
 over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the 
 
88 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, 
 to diminish kingly power as much as possible ; because, what- 
 ever they take from that is naturally restored to themselves ; 
 and all they have to do in the state is to undermine the single 
 tyrant, by which they resume their primeval authority. Now 
 the state may be so circumstanced, or its laws may be so dis- 
 posed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in 
 carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. For, in 
 the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such as to 
 favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still 
 more rich, this will increase their ambition. An accumulation 
 of wealth, however, must necessarily be the consequence, when, 
 as at present, more riches flow in from external commerce than 
 arise from internal industry; for external commerce can only 
 be managed to advantage by the rich, and they have also at 
 the same time all the emoluments arising from internal indus- 
 try ; so that the rich, with us, have two sources of wealth, 
 whereas the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth, in 
 all commercial states, is found to accumulate; and all such 
 have hitherto in time become aristocratical. Again, the very 
 laws also of this country may contribute to the accumulation 
 of wealth ; as when, by their means, the natural ties that bind 
 the rich and poor together are broken, and it is ordained that 
 the rich shall only marry with the rich ; or when the learned 
 are held unqualified to serve their country as counsellors, 
 merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made 
 the object of a wise man's ambition : by these means, I say, 
 and such means as these, riches will accumulate. Now, the 
 possessor of accumulated wealth, when furnished with the neces- 
 saries and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ the 
 superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power. That is, 
 differently speaking, in making dependants, by purchasing the 
 liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to 
 bear the mortification of conii^upus tyranny for bread. Thus 
 
A DISCONTENTED POLITICIAN 89 
 
 each very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of 
 the poorest of the people ; and the polity abounding in accumu- 
 lated wealth may be compared to a Cartesian system, each 
 orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who are will- 
 ing to move in a great man's vortex, are only such as must be 
 slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose educa- 
 tion are adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty 
 except the name. But there must still be a large number of 
 the people without the sphere of the opulent man's influence ; 
 namely, that order of men which subsists between the very rich 
 and the very rabble ; those men who are possessed of too large 
 fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet 
 are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle 
 order of mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, 
 and virtues of society. This order alone is known to be the 
 true preserver of freedom, and may be called THE PEOPLE. 
 Now, it may happen that this middle order of mankind may 
 lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner 
 drowned in that of the rabble : for if the fortune sufficient for 
 qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs 
 be ten times less than was judged sufficient upon forming the 
 constitution, it is evident that great numbers of the rabble will 
 thus be introduced into the political system, and they, ever 
 moving in the vortex of the great, will follow where greatness 
 shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all that the middle 
 order has left, is to preserve the prerogative and privileges of 
 the one principal governor with the most sacred circumspection. 
 For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great 
 from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed 
 beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town 
 of which the opulent are forming the siege, and of which the gov- 
 ernor from without is hastening the relief. While the besiegers 
 are in dread of an enemy over them, it is but natural to offer 
 the townsmen the most specious terms ; to flatter them with 
 
90 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELT) 
 
 sounds, and amuse them with privileges; but if they once 
 defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will 
 be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may 
 then expect, may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, 
 Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the poor, and the 
 rich govern the law. I am then for, and would die for mon- 
 archy, sacred monarchy : for if there be anything sacred amongst 
 men, it must be the anointed SOVEREIGN of his people; and 
 every diminution of his power, in war or in peace, is an infringe- 
 ment upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of 
 Liberty, Patriotism, and Britons, have already done much; it 
 is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their 
 ever doing more. I have known many of these pretended 
 champions for liberty in my time, yet do I not remember one 
 that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant." 
 
 My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue beyond 
 the rules of good breeding; but the impatience of my enter- 
 tainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could be restrained no 
 longer. " What ! " cried he, " then I have been all this while 
 entertaining a Jesuit in parson's clothes ! But, by all the coal- 
 mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wilkin- 
 son." I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for 
 the warmth with which I had spoken. "Pardon !" returned 
 he in a fury : "I think such principles demand ten thousand 
 pardons. What ! give up liberty, property, and as the Gazet- 
 teer says, lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ! Sir, I 
 insist upon your marching out of this house immediately, to 
 prevent worse consequences : sir, I insist upon it." I was 
 going to repeat my remonstrances, but just then we heard a 
 footman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, " As 
 sure as death, there is our master and mistress come home ! " 
 It seems my entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, 
 in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for 
 a while the gentleman himself; and, to say the truth, he talked 
 
A DISCONTENTED POLITICIAN 91 
 
 politics as well as most country gentlemen do. But nothing 
 could now exceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and 
 his lady enter ; nor was their surprise, at finding such company 
 and good cheer, less than ours. "Gentlemen," cried the real 
 master of the house to me and my companion, " my wife and I 
 are your most humble servants ; but I protest this is so unex- 
 pected a favour, that we almost sink under the obligation." 
 However unexpected our company might be to them, theirs, I 
 am sure, was still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with 
 the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when whom should I 
 next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, 
 who was formerly designed to be married to my son George, but 
 whose match was broken off, as already related. As soon as 
 she saw me, she flew to my arms with the utmost joy. " My 
 dear sir," cried she, "to what happy accident is it that we owe 
 so unexpected a visit ? I am sure my uncle and aunt will be 
 in raptures when they find they have the good Dr. Primrose for 
 their guest." Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and 
 lady very politely stepped up, and welcomed me with most 
 cordial hospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling, upon being 
 informed of the nature of my present visit : but the unfortunate 
 butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was 
 at my intercession forgiven. 
 
 Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now 
 insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days ; and 
 as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some measure 
 had been formed under my own instructions, joined in their en- 
 treaties, I complied. That night I was shown to a magnificent 
 chamber ; and the next morning early Miss Wilmot desired to 
 walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the modern 
 manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of 
 the place, she inquired, with seeming unconcern, when last I 
 had heard from my son George. " Alas ! madam," cried I, 
 " he has now been nearly three years absent, without ever writ- 
 
92 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 ing to his friends or me. Where he is I know not ; perhaps I 
 shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear madam, 
 we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once spent 
 by our fireside at Wakefield. My little family are now dis- 
 persing very fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but 
 infamy upon us." The good-natured girl let fall a tear at this 
 account ; but as I saw her possessed of too much sensibility, I 
 forbore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, how- 
 ever, some consolation to me to find that time had made no 
 alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected several 
 matches that had been made her since our leaving her part of 
 the country. She led me round all the extensive improvements 
 of the place, pointing to the several walks and arbours, and at 
 the same time catching from every object a hint for some new 
 question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the fore- 
 noon, till the bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found 
 the manager of the strolling company that I mentioned before, 
 who was come to dispose of tickets for the "Fair Penitent," 
 which was to be acted that evening : the part of Horatio by a 
 young gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. He 
 seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new performer, 
 and averred that he never saw any who bid so fair for excel- 
 lence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day; "but 
 this gentleman," continued he, " seems born to tread the stage. 
 His voice, his figure, and attitudes are all admirable. We caught 
 him up accidentally in our journey down." This account in 
 some measure excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the 
 ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to the play- 
 house, which was no other than a barn. As the company with 
 which I went was incontestably the chief of the place, we were 
 received with the greatest respect, and placed in the front seat 
 of the theatre, where we sat for some time with no small im- 
 patience to see Horatio make his appearance. The new per- 
 former advanced at last ; and let parents think of my sensations 
 
A DISCONTENTED POLITICIAN 93 
 
 by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son ! He 
 was going to begin ; when, turning his eyes upon the audience, 
 he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless 
 and immovable. 
 
 The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his 
 natural timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but instead of 
 going on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off the 
 stage. I don't know what were my feelings on this occasion, 
 for they succeeded with too much rapidity for description j but 
 I was soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wil- 
 mot, who, pale and with a trembling voice, desired me to con- 
 duct her back to her uncle's. When we got home, Mr. Arnold, 
 who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary behaviour, being 
 informed that the new performer was my son, sent his coach 
 and an invitation for him ; and as he persisted in his refusal to 
 appear again upon the stage, the players put another in his 
 place, and we soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him 
 the kindest reception, and I received him with my usual trans- 
 port; for I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss 
 Wilmot's reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I 
 could perceive she acted a studied part. The tumult in her 
 mind seemed not yet abated : she said twenty giddy things 
 that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want 
 of meaning. At intervals she would try a sly peep at the 
 glass, as if happy in the consciousness of unresisted beauty ; 
 and often would ask questions, without giving any manner of 
 attention to the answers. 
 
94 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 The History of a Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty, but 
 losing Content 
 
 AFTER we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to send 
 a couple of her footmen for my son's baggage, which he at first 
 seemed to decline ; but upon her pressing the request, he was 
 obliged to inform her, that a stick and wallet were all the 
 movable things upon this earth that he could boast of. " Why, 
 ay, my son," cried I, "you left me but poor, and poor I find 
 you are come back : and yet I make no doubt you have seen a 
 great deal of the world." "Yes, sir," replied my son, "but 
 travelling after Fortune is not the way to secure her; and, in- 
 deed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit." "I fancy, 
 sir," cried Mrs. Arnold, "that the account of your adventures 
 would be amusing; the first part of them I have often heard 
 from my niece ; but could the company prevail for the rest, it 
 would be an additional obligation." " Madam," replied my 
 son, " I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing will not be 
 half so great as my vanity in repeating them ; yet in the whole 
 narrative I can scarcely promise you one adventure, as my ac- 
 count is rather of what I saw than what I did. The first mis- 
 fortune of my life, which you all know, was great ; but though 
 it distressed, it could not sink me. No person ever had a better 
 knack at hoping than I. The less kind I found Fortune at one 
 time, the more I expected from her another ; and being now at the 
 bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, but could 
 not depress me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London in a 
 fine morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as 
 the birds that carolled by the road ; and comforted myself with 
 reflecting, that London was the mart where abilities of every 
 kind were sure of meeting distinction and reward. 
 
A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 95 
 
 " Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver 
 your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself 
 in little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you 
 know, sir, was to be usher at an academy ; and I asked his 
 advice on the affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a 
 true sardonic grin. ' Ay,' cried he, 'this is indeed a very pretty 
 career that has been chalked out for you. I have been an usher 
 at a boarding-school myself; and may I die by an anodyne neck- 
 lace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey in Newgate. I was 
 up early and late : I was browbeat by the master, hated for my 
 ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never 
 permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure 
 you are fit for a school 1 Let me examine you a little. Have 
 you been bred apprentice to the business V ' No.' < ' Then you 
 won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' hair ? ' l No.' 
 ' Then you won't do for a school. Have you had the small- 
 pox 1 ' ' No.' * Then you won't do for a school. Can you 
 lie three in a bed?' 'No.' 'Then you will never do for 
 a school. Have you got a good stomach V ' Yes.' ' Then 
 you will by no means do for a school. No, sir : if you are for 
 a genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years an appren- 
 tice to turn a cutler's wheel : but avoid a school by any means. 
 Yet, come,' continued he, 'I see you are a lad of spirit and 
 some learning ; what do you think of commencing author, like 
 me 1 You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starv- 
 ing at the trade. At present I'll show you forty very dull fel- 
 lows about town that live by it in opulence ; all honest, jog-trot 
 men, who go smoothly and dully, and write history and politics, 
 and are praised men, sir, who had they been bred cobblers, 
 would all their lives have only mended shoes, but never made 
 them.' 
 
 " Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed 
 to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal ; 
 and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua 
 
96 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 mater of Grub Street with reverence. I thought it my glory 
 to pursue a track which Dry den and Otway trod before me. I 
 considered the goddess of this region as the parent of excellence ; 
 and however an intercourse with the world might give us good 
 sense, the poverty she granted I supposed to be the nurse of 
 genius ! Big with these reflections, I sat down, and rinding 
 thai, the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I 
 resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I there- 
 fore dressed up three paradoxes with some ingenuity. They 
 were false, indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth 
 have been so often imported by others, that nothing was left for 
 me to import but some splendid things that at a distance looked 
 every bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied impor- 
 tance sat perched upon my quill while I was writing ! The 
 whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise to oppose my 
 systems : but then I was prepared to oppose the whole learned 
 world. Like the porcupine, I sat self-collected, with a quill 
 pointed against every opposer." 
 
 "Well said, my boy," cried I; "and what subject did you 
 treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over the importance of 
 monogamy. But I interrupt : go on. You published your 
 paradoxes ; well, and what did the learned world say to your 
 paradoxes ? " 
 
 "Sir," replied my son, "the learned world said nothing to 
 my paradoxes; nothing at all, sir. Every man of them was 
 employed in praising his friends and himself, or condemning his 
 enemies; and unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the 
 cruellest mortification, neglect. 
 
 " As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate 
 of my paradoxes, a little man, happening to enter the room, 
 placed himself in the box before me, and after some preliminary 
 discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of pro- 
 posals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was going 
 to give to the world of Propertius, with Notes. This demand 
 
A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 97 
 
 necessarily produced a reply that I had no money ; and that con- 
 cession led him to inquire into the nature of my expectations. 
 Finding that my expectations were just as great as my purse 
 ' I see,' cried he, ' you are unacquainted with the town : I'll 
 teach you a part of it. Look at these proposals, upon these 
 very proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. 
 The moment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Creolian arrives 
 from Jamaica, or a dowager from her country seat, I strike for 
 a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, and 
 then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe 
 readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication 
 fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more for 
 engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus,' continued he, 
 1 1 live by vanity, and laugh at it. But, between ourselves, I 
 am now too well known ; I should be glad to borrow your face 
 a bit. A nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy ; 
 my face is familiar to his porter ; but if you bring this copy of 
 verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.' " 
 
 " Bless us, George," cried I, " and is this the employment of 
 poets now ? Do men of exalted talents thus stoop to beggary ? 
 Can they so far disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic 
 of praise for bread 1 " 
 
 " Oh no, sir," returned he, " a true poet can never be so base ; 
 for wherever there is genius, there is pride. The creatures I 
 now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he 
 braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to 
 contempt ; and none but those who are unworthy protection 
 condescend to solicit it. 
 
 "Having a 'mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and 
 yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, 
 I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. 
 But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry 
 alone was to ensure success. I could not suppress my lurking 
 passion for applause ; but usually consumed that time in efforts 
 
98 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 after excellence which takes up but little room, when it should 
 have been more advantageously employed in the diffusive pro- 
 ductions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore 
 come forth in the midst of periodical publications, unnoticed 
 and unknown. The public were more importantly employed 
 than to observe the easy simplicity of my style or the harmony 
 of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. 
 My essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, Eastern 
 tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, 
 Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropes all wrote better, 
 because they wrote faster than I. 
 
 " Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disap- 
 pointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised 
 each other. The satisfaction we found in every celebrated 
 writer's attempts was inversely as their merits. I found that 
 no genius in another could please me. My unfortunate para- 
 doxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could 
 neither read nor write with satisfaction ; for excellence in an- 
 other was my aversion, and writing was my trade. 
 
 " In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day 
 sitting on a bench in St. James's Park, a young gentleman of 
 distinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the uni- 
 versity, approached me. We saluted each other with some 
 hesitation ; he almost ashamed of being known to one who 
 made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But 
 my suspicions soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at the 
 bottom a very good-natured fellow." 
 
 " What did you say, George 1 " interrupted I. " Thornhill 
 was not that his name? It can certainly be no other than my 
 landlord." "Bless me," cried Mrs. Arnold, "is Mr. Thornhill 
 so near a neighbour of yours 1 He has long been a friend in our 
 family, and we expect a visit from him shortly." 
 
 "My friend's first care," continued my son, "was to alter 
 my appearance by a very fine suit of his own clothes, and then 
 
A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 99 
 
 I was admitted to his table, upon the footing of half friend, 
 half underling. My business was to attend him at auctions, to 
 put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left 
 hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to assist at 
 tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when we had a mind for a 
 frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other little employments in 
 the family. I was to do many small things without bidding : 
 to carry the corkscrew ; to stand godfather to all the butler's 
 children ; to sing when I was bid ; to be never out of humour ; 
 always to be humble, and, if I could, to be very happy. 
 
 " In this honourable post, however, I was not without a 
 rival. A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by 
 nature, opposed me in my patron's affections. His mother had 
 been laundress to a man of quality, and thus he early acquired 
 a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it 
 the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was 
 dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of 
 them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his assiduities. 
 As flattery was his trade, he practised it with the easiest ad- 
 dress imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff from me ; and 
 as every day my patron's desire of flattery increased, so every 
 hour, being better acquainted with his defects, I became more 
 unwilling to give it. Thus, I was once more fairly going to 
 give up the field to the captain, when my friend found occasion 
 for my assistance. This was nothing less than to fight a duel 
 for him with a gentleman whose sister it was pretended he had 
 used ill. I readily complied with his request ; and though I 
 see you are displeased at my conduct, yet, as it was a debt in- 
 dispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I undertook 
 the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the pleas- 
 ure of finding that the lady was only a woman of the town, and 
 the fellow her bully and a sharper. This piece of service was 
 repaid with the warmest professions of gratitude ; but, as my 
 friend was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other 
 
100 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 method of serving me but by recommending me to his uncle, 
 Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction, 
 who enjoyed a post under the government. When he was gone, 
 my first care was to carry his recommendatory letter to his 
 uncle, a man whose character for every virtue was universal, yet 
 just. I was received by his servants with the most hospitable 
 smiles ; for the looks of the domestic ever transmit the master's 
 benevolence. Being shown into a grand apartment, where Sir 
 William soon came to me, I delivered my message and letter, 
 which he read, and after pausing some minutes ' Pray, sir,' 
 cried he, l inform me what you have done for my kinsman, to 
 deserve this warm recommendation? But I suppose, sir, I 
 guess your merits : you have fought for him ; and so you would 
 expect a reward from me for being the instrument of his vices. 
 I wish sincerely wish that my present refusal may be some 
 punishment for your guilt ; but still more, that it may be some 
 inducement to your repentance.' The severity of this rebuke I 
 bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole expecta- 
 tions now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the 
 doors of the nobility are almost ever beset with beggars, all 
 ready to thrust in some sly petition, I found it no easy matter 
 to gain admittance. However, after bribing the servants with 
 half my worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious 
 apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his lordship's 
 inspection. During this anxious interval I had full time to 
 look round me. Everything was grand and of happy contriv- 
 ance; the paintings, the furniture, the gildings, petrified me 
 with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to 
 myself, how very great must the possessor of all these things 
 be, who carries in his head the business of the state, and whose 
 house displays half the wealth of a kingdom ! Sure his genius 
 must be unfathomable ! During these awful reflections I heard 
 a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man him- 
 self! No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was 
 
A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 101 
 
 heard soon after. This must be he. No; it was only the 
 great man's valet de chambre. At last his lordship actually 
 made his appearance. 'Are you,' cried he, 'the bearer of this 
 here letter?' I answered with a bow. ' I learn by this,' con- 
 tinued he, ' as how that ' But just at that instant a ser- 
 vant delivered him a card, and without taking farther notice, he 
 went out of the room, and left me to digest my own happiness 
 at leisure. I saw no more of him, till told by a footman that 
 his lordship was going to his coach at the door. Down I im- 
 mediately followed, and joined my voice to that of three or four 
 more, who came, like me, to petition for favours, His lordship, 
 however, went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door 
 with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I was to have 
 any reply. He was by this time got in, and muttered an an- 
 swer, half of which only I heard ; the other half was lost in the 
 rattling of his chariot wheels. I stood for some time with 
 my neck stretched out, in the posture of one that was listening 
 to catch the glorious sounds, till, looking round me, I found 
 myself alone at his lordship's gate. 
 
 "My patience," continued my son, "was now quite exhausted : 
 stung with the thousand indignities I had met with, I was will- 
 ing to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. 
 I regarded myself as one of those vile things that Nature de- 
 signed should be thrown by into her lumber-room, there to per- 
 ish in obscurity. I had still, however, half-a-guinea left, and of 
 that I thought Nature herself should not deprive me ; but in 
 order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and 
 spend it while I had it, and then trust to occurrences for the 
 rest. As I was going along with this resolution, it happened 
 that Mr. Crispe's office seemed invitingly open to give me a 
 welcome reception. In this office Mr. Crispe kindly offers all 
 His Majesty's subjects a generous promise of 30 a year, for 
 which promise all they give in return is their liberty for life, 
 and permission to let him transport them to America as slaves. 
 
102 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I was happy at finding a place where I could lose my fears in 
 desperation, and entered this cell (for it had the appearance of 
 one) with the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a number 
 of poor creatures, all in circumstances like myself, expecting 
 the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome of English 
 impatience. Each untractable soul at variance with Fortune 
 wreaked her injuries on their own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at 
 last came down, and all our murmurs were hushed. He deigned 
 to regard me with an air of peculiar approbation, and indeed he 
 was the first man who, for a month past, had talked to me with 
 smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for every- 
 thing in the world. He paused a while upon the properest 
 means of providing for me : and slapping his forehead as if he 
 had found it, assured me that there was at that time an embassy 
 talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw 
 Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me made 
 secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and 
 yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was something so mag- 
 nificent in the sound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half- 
 guinea, one half of which went to be added to his thirty 
 thousand pounds, and with the other half I resolved to go to 
 the next tavern, to be there more happy than he. 
 
 "As 'I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the 
 door by the captain of a ship with whom I had formerly some 
 little acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over a 
 bowl of punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my cir- 
 cumstances, he assured me that I was upon the very point of 
 ruin, in listening to the office-keeper's promises; for that he 
 only designed to sell me to the plantations. ' But,' continued 
 he, 'I fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very 
 easily put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My 
 ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam : what if you go in her as 
 a passenger ? The moment you land, all you have to do is to 
 teach the Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you'll get pupils 
 
A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 103 
 
 and money enough. I suppose you understand English/ added 
 he, 'by this time, or the deuce is in it.' I confidently assured 
 him of that ; but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would 
 be willing to learn English. He affirmed, with an oath, that 
 they were fond of it to distraction ; and upon that affirmation 
 I agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day to teach 
 the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage 
 short ; and after having paid my passage with half my mov- 
 ables, I found myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in 
 one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation 
 I was unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. 
 I addressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those I met 
 whose appearance seemed most promising ; but it was impossi- 
 ble to make ourselves mutually understood. It was not till 
 this very moment I recollected, that in order to teach the Dutch- 
 men English, it was necessary that they should first teach me 
 Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to 
 me amazing : but certain it is I overlooked it. 
 
 " This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly 
 shipping back to England again, but falling into company with 
 an Irish student, who was returning from Louvain, our conver- 
 sation turning upon topics of literature (for, by the way, it may 
 be observed that I always forgot the meanness of my circum- 
 stances when I could converse upon such subjects), from him I 
 learned that there were not two men in his whole university 
 who understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved 
 to travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek : and in 
 this design I was heartened by my brother student, who threw 
 out some hints that a fortune might be got by it. 
 
 "I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day lessened 
 the burden of my movables, like JSsop and his basket of bread ; 
 for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch, as I travelled on. 
 When I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneaking to 
 the lower professors, but openly tendered my talents to the 
 
104 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Principal himself. I went, had admittance, and offered him 
 my service as a master of the Greek language, which I had been 
 told was a desideratum in his university. The Principal seemed 
 at first to doubt of my abilities ; but of these I offered to con- 
 vince him, by turning a part of any Greek author he should 
 fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my pro- 
 posal, he addressed me thus : ' You see me, young man ; I never 
 learned Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I 
 have had a Doctor's cap and gown without Greek ; I have ten 
 thousand florins a year without Greek ; I eat heartily without 
 Greek; and, in short,' continued he, 'as I don't know Greek, I 
 do not believe there is any good in it.' 
 
 " I was now too far from home to think of returning ; so I 
 resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with 
 a tolerable voice, and now turned what was my amusement into 
 a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless 
 peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were 
 poor enough to be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly 
 in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peas- 
 ant's house towards night-fall, I played one of my most merry 
 tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence 
 for the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people 
 of fashion, but they always thought my performance odious, and 
 never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the more 
 extraordinary, as, whenever I used, in better days, to play for 
 company, when playing was my amusement, my music never 
 failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; 
 but as it was now my only means, it was received with con- 
 tempt a proof how ready the world is to underrate those 
 talents by which a man is supported. 
 
 "In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but 
 just to look about me, and then to go forward. The people of 
 Paris are much fonder of strangers that have money, than those 
 that have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was no 
 
A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 105 
 
 great favourite. After walking about the town four or five 
 days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was prepar- 
 ing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when passing 
 through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but 
 our cousin, to whom you first recommended me. This meeting 
 was very agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to him. 
 He inquired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and in- 
 formed me of his own business there, which was to collect 
 pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a 
 gentleman in London who had just stepped into taste and a 
 large fortune. I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin 
 pitched upon for this office, as he himself had often assured me 
 he knew nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he had been 
 taught the art of a cognoscente so very suddenly, he assured 
 me that nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in 
 a strict adherence to two rules : the one, always to observe that 
 the picture might have been better if the painter had taken 
 more pains ; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Peru- 
 gino. 'But, 5 says he, 'as I once taught you how to be an 
 author in London, I'll now undertake to instruct you in the art 
 of picture-buying at Paris. 7 
 
 " With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was living, 
 and now all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his 
 lodgings, improved my dress by his assistance ; and, after some 
 time, accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the Eng- 
 lish gentry were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little 
 surprised at his intimacy with people of the best of fashion, who 
 referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture or medal, 
 as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very good use of 
 my assistance upon these occasions ; for, when asked his opin- 
 ion, he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, shrug, look 
 wise, return, and assure the company that he could give no opin- 
 ion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was some- 
 times an occasion for a more supported assurance. I remember 
 
106 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 to have seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring of 
 a picture was not mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush 
 with brown varnish, that was accidentally lying by, and rub it 
 over the piece with great composure before all the company, 
 and then ask if he had not improved the tints. 
 
 " When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me 
 strongly recommended to several men of distinction, as a person 
 very proper for a travelling tutor ; and after some time, I was 
 employed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought his 
 ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour through 
 Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's governor ; but with 
 a proviso, that he should always be permitted to govern himself. 
 My pupil, in fact, understood the art of guiding in money con- 
 cerns much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about 
 two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West 
 Indies ; and his guardians, to qualify him for the management 
 of it, had bound him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice 
 was his prevailing passion : all his questions on the road were, 
 how money might be saved; which was the least expensive 
 course of travel ; whether anything could be bought that would 
 turn to account when disposed of again in London ? Such curi- 
 osities on the way as could be seen for nothing, he was ready 
 enough to look at ; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, 
 he usually asserted that he had been told they were not worth 
 seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not observe how 
 amazingly expensive travelling was ! and all this though he was 
 not yet twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a 
 walk to look at the port and shipping, he inquired the expense 
 of the passage by sea home to England. This he was informed 
 was but a trifle compared to his returning by land ; he was 
 therefore unable to withstand the temptation ; so paying me 
 the small part of my salary that was due, he took leave, and 
 embarked with only one attendant for London. 
 
 " I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large ; 
 
A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND 107 
 
 but then, it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in 
 music could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant 
 was a better musician than I : but by this time I had acquired 
 another talent, which answered my purpose as well, and this 
 was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and 
 convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical theses main- 
 tained against every adventitious disputant ; for which, if the 
 champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity 
 in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, 
 therefore, I fought my way towards England ; walked along 
 from city to city ; examined mankind more nearly ; and, if I 
 may so express it, saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, 
 however, are but few : I found that monarchy was the best 
 government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the 
 rich. I found that riches in general were in every country 
 another name for freedom ; and that no man is so fond of liberty 
 himself, as not to be desirous of subjecting the will of some in- 
 dividuals in society to his own. 
 
 " Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay my respects 
 first to you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expe- 
 dition that was going forward ; but on my journey down, my 
 resolutions were changed by meeting an old acquaintance, who 
 I found belonged to a company of comedians that were going to 
 make a summer campaign in the country. The company seemed 
 not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, how- 
 ever, apprised me of the importance of the task at which I 
 aimed ; that the public was a many-headed monster, and that 
 only such as had very good heads could please it : that acting 
 was not to be learned in a day ; and that without some tradi- 
 tional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, 
 these hundred years, I could never pretend to please. The next 
 difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as almost every character 
 was in keeping. I was driven for some time from one character 
 to another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence 
 of the present company has happily hindered me from acting." 
 
108 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 The short Continuance of Friendship amongst the Vicious, which is 
 coeval only with mutual Satisfaction 
 
 MY son's account was too long to be delivered at once ; the 
 first part of it was begun that night, and he was concluding the 
 rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance of Mr. 
 ThornhilFs equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in 
 the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my 
 friend in the family, informed me, with a whisper, that the 
 Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and 
 that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. 
 Upon Mr. Thornh ill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and 
 me, to start back ; but I readily imputed that to surprise, and 
 not displeasure. However, upon our advancing to salute him, 
 he returned our greeting with the most apparent candour ; and 
 after a short time his presence served only to increase the general 
 good humour. 
 
 After tea he called me aside to inquire after my daughter ; 
 but upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccessful, 
 he seemed greatly surprised; adding that he had been since 
 frequently at my house in order to comfort the rest of my 
 family, whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I com- 
 municated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son ; and upon 
 my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved 
 my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep 
 it a secret: "For at best," cried he, "it is but divulging one's 
 own infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as 
 we alTimagine." We were here interrupted by a servant who 
 came to ask the Squire in, to stand up at country-dances : 
 so that he left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to 
 
FRIENDSHIP AND VICE 109 
 
 take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot 
 were too obvious to be mistaken : and yet, she seemed not per- 
 fectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will 
 of her aunt than from real inclination. I had even the satis- 
 faction to see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate 
 son, which the other could neither extort by his fortune nor 
 assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming composure, however, not a 
 little surprised me : we had now continued here a week at the 
 pressing instances of Mr. Arnold ; but each day the more ten- 
 derness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill's friendship 
 seemed proportionably to increase for him. 
 
 He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using 
 his interest to serve the family ; but now his generosity was not 
 confined to promises alone. The morning I designed for my 
 departure, Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real pleasure, 
 to inform me of a piece of service he had done for his friend 
 George. This was nothing less than his having procured him 
 an ensign's commission in one of the regiments that was going 
 to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one hundred 
 pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement 
 of the other two. "As for this trifling piece of service," con- 
 tinued the young gentleman, " I desire no other reward but the 
 pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred 
 pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will 
 advance it, and you shall repay me at your leisure," This was 
 a favour we wanted words to express our sense of: I readily, 
 therefore, gave my bond for the money, and testified as much 
 gratitude as if I never intended to pay. 
 
 George was to depart for town the next day, to secure his 
 commission, in pursuance of his generous patron's directions, who 
 judged it highly expedient to use despatch, lest in the meantime 
 another should step in with more advantageous proposals. The 
 next morning, therefore, our young soldier was early prepared 
 for his departure, and seemed the only person among us that 
 
110 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was 
 going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress for Miss Wil- 
 mot actually loved him he was leaving behind, any way damped 
 his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, 
 I gave him all I had, my blessing. "And now, my boy," cried 
 I, " thou art going to fight for thy country : remember how thy 
 brave grandfather fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among 
 Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but 
 his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk- 
 land. Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant, exposed, 
 and unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears are 
 those with which Heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier." 
 
 The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had 
 been kind enough to entertain me so long, not without several 
 expressions of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. 
 I left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness which afflu- 
 ence and good breeding procure, and returned towards home, 
 despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh 
 to Heaven to spare and to forgive her. 
 
 I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having 
 hired an horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and com- 
 forted myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest 
 upon earth. But the night coming on, I put up at a little pub- 
 lic-house by the road-side, and asked for the landlord's company 
 over a pint of wine. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which was 
 the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and the news 
 of the country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of 
 young Squire Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as 
 much as his uncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to 
 the country, was loved. He went on to observe, that he made 
 it his whole study to betray the daughters of such as received 
 him to their houses, and, after a fortnight or three weeks' pos- 
 session, turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the 
 world. As we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, 
 
FRIENDSHIP AND VICE 111 
 
 who had been out to get change, returned, and perceiving that 
 her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a 
 sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, what he did there ? to 
 which he only replied, in an ironical way, by drinking her health. 
 "Mr. Symonds," cried she, "you use me very ill, and I'll bear 
 it no longer. Here three parts of the business is left for me 
 to do, and the fourth left unfinished, while you do nothing but 
 soak with the guests all day long; whereas, if a spoonful of 
 liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop." I 
 now found what she would be at, and immediately poured her 
 out a glass, which she received with a curtsey ; and drinking 
 towards my good health, " Sir," resumed she, " it is not so much 
 for the value of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it 
 when the house is going out of the windows. If the customers 
 or guests are to be dunned, all the burden lies upon my back : 
 he'd as lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. There, 
 now, above stairs, we have a young woman who has come to 
 take up her lodging here, and I don't believe she has got any 
 money, by her over-civility. I am certain she is very slow of 
 payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it." "What 
 signifies minding her?" cried the host; "if she be slow, she is 
 sure." "I don't know that," replied the wife ; "but I know 
 that I am sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have not 
 yet seen the cross of her money." "I suppose, my dear," 
 cried he, "we shall have it all in a lump." "In a lump!" 
 cried the other : "I hope we may get it any way ; and that I 
 am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, bag and 
 baggage." "Consider, my dear," cried the husband, "she is 
 a gentlewoman, and deserves more respect." "As for the 
 matter of that," returned the hostess, "gentle or simple, out - 
 she shall pack with a sussarara. Gentry may be good things 
 where they take ; but, for my part, I never saw much good of 
 them at the Sign of the Harrow." Thus saying, she ran up a 
 narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room 
 
112 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 overhead ; and I soon perceived, by the loudness of her voice, 
 and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be 
 had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very dis- 
 tinctly : " Out, I say ; pack out this moment ! tramp, thou 
 infamous strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the 
 better for this three months. What ! you trumpery, to come 
 and take up an honest house without cross or coin to bless your- 
 self with ! Come along, I say!" "Oh, dear madam," cried 
 the stranger, "pity me pity a poor abandoned creature, for 
 one night, and death will soon do the rest ! " I instantly knew 
 the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, 
 while the woman was dragging her along by her hair, and I 
 caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. " Welcome, any 
 way welcome, my dearest lost one my treasure to your 
 poor old father's bosom ! Though the vicious forsake thee, 
 there is yet one in the world that will never forsake thee ; 
 though thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will 
 forget them all ! " " Oh, my own dear " for minutes she 
 could say no more " my own dearest good papa ! Could 
 angels be kinder 1 How do I deserve so much ? The villain, 
 I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to so much goodness ! 
 You can't forgive me, I know you cannot." " Yes, my child, 
 from my heart I do forgive thee : only repent, and we both shall 
 yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia." 
 " Ah ! t never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must 
 be infamy abroad, and shame at home. But, alas ! papa, you 
 look much paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as I 
 am give you so much uneasiness 1 Surely you have too much 
 wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself ."- 
 "Our wisdom, young woman," replied I. "Ah, why so cold 
 a name, papa ? " cried she. " This is the first time you ever 
 called me by so cold a name." "I ask pardon, my darling," 
 returned I ; " but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes 
 but a slow defence against trouble, though at last a sure one." 
 
FRIENDSHIP AND VICE 113 
 
 The landlady now returned, to know if we did not choose a 
 more genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown a 
 room where we could converse more freely. After we had 
 talked ourselves into some degree of tranquillity, I could not 
 avoid desiring some account of the gradations that led her to 
 her present wretched situation. " That villain, sir," said she, 
 " from the first day of our meeting, made me honourable, though 
 private proposals." 
 
 "Villain, indeed!" cried I: "and yet it in some measure 
 surprises me how a person of Mr. BurchelPs good sense and 
 seeming honour could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, 
 and thus step into a family to undo it." 
 
 "My dear papa," returned my daughter, "you labour under 
 a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive 
 me : instead of that, he took every opportunity of privately 
 admonishing me against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who, I 
 now find, was even worse than he represented him." "Mr. 
 Thornhill," interrupted I ; " can it be ?" " Yes, sir," returned 
 she, " it was Mr. Thornhill who seduced me ; who employed the 
 two ladies, as he called them, but who in fact were abandoned 
 women of the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up 
 to London. Their artifices, you may remember, would have cer- 
 tainly succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed those 
 reproaches at them which we all applied to ourselves. How he 
 came to have so much influence as to defeat their intentions still 
 remains a secret to me; but I am convinced he was ever our 
 warmest, sincerest friend." 
 
 " You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I find my 
 first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's baseness were too well 
 grounded. But he can triumph in security; for he is rich, 
 and we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it was no small 
 temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of such 
 an education and so virtuous a disposition as thine ? " 
 
 "Indeed, sir," replied she, "he owes all his triumph to the 
 
114 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 desire I had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew 
 that the ceremony of our marriage, which was privately per- 
 formed by a popish priest, was no way binding, and that I had 
 nothing to trust to but his honour." "What ! " interrupted I, 
 "and were you indeed married by a priest in orders'?" "In- 
 deed, sir, we were," replied she, "though we were both sworn to 
 conceal his name." " Why, then, my child, come to my arms 
 again ; and now you are a thousand times more welcome than 
 before ; for you are now his wife to all intents and purposes ; 
 nor can all the laws of man, though written upon tables of 
 adamant, lessen the force of that sacred connection." 
 
 "Alas! papa," replied she, "you are but little acquainted 
 with his villanies : he has been married already by the same 
 priest to six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has 
 deceived and abandoned." 
 
 " Has he so 1 " cried I ; " then we must hang the priest, and 
 you shall inform against him to-morrow." " But, sir," re- 
 turned she, " will that be right, when I am sworn to secrecy ? " 
 "My dear," I replied, "if you have made such a promise, I 
 cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even though it may 
 benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all 
 human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater 
 good ; as, in politics, a province may be given away to secure a 
 kingdom ; in medicine, a limb may be lopped off to preserve the 
 body : but in religion the law is written, and inflexible, never to 
 do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; for otherwise, if we 
 commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt 
 would be thus incurred in expectation of contingent advantage. 
 And though the advantage should certainly follow, yet the in- 
 terval between commission and advantage, which is allowed to 
 be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer 
 for the things we have done, and the volume of human actions 
 is closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear ; go on." 
 
 " The very next morning," continued she, " I found what 
 
FRIENDSHIP AND VICE 115 
 
 little expectation I was to have from his sincerity. That very 
 morning he introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, 
 like me, he had deceived, but who lived in contented prostitu- 
 tion. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affec- 
 tions, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. 
 With this view I danced, dressed, and talked; but still was 
 unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me every mo- 
 ment of the power of my charms, and this only contributed to 
 increase my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite 
 away. Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more inso- 
 lent, till at last the monster had the assurance to offer me to a 
 young baronet of his acquaintance. Need I describe, sir, how 
 his ingratitude stung me? My answer to this proposal was 
 almost madness. I desired to part. As I was going, he offered 
 me a purse ; but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst 
 from him in a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of the 
 miseries of my situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw 
 myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the 
 world to apply to. Just in that interval, a stage coach happen- 
 ing to pass by, I took a place, it being my only aim to be driven 
 at a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. I was set 
 down here, where, since my arrival, my own anxiety and this 
 woman's unkindness have been my only companions. The hours 
 of pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister now 
 grow painful to me. Their sorrows are much ; but mine are 
 greater than theirs, for mine are fixed with guilt and infamy." 
 
 "Have patience, my child," cried I, "and I hope things will 
 yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I'll 
 carry you home to your mother and the rest of the family, from 
 whom you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this 
 has gone to her heart ; but she loves you still, Olivia, and will 
 forget it." 
 
116 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Offences are easily pardoned where there is Love at bottom 
 
 THE next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set 
 out on my return home. As we travelled along, I strove, by 
 every persuasion, to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her 
 with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. I 
 took every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine country 
 through which we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven 
 was to us than we to each other ; and that the misfortunes of 
 Nature's making were very few. I assured her, that she should 
 never perceive any change in my affections, and that, during 
 my life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a 
 guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the censure 
 of the world, showed her that books were sweet unreproaching 
 companions to the miserable, and that, if they could not bring 
 us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it. 
 
 The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at 
 an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house ; and 
 as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter's recep- 
 tion, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to 
 return for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the 
 next morning. It was night before we reached our appointed 
 stage ; however, after seeing her provided with a decent apart- 
 ment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper refresh- 
 ments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now 
 my heart caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer I ap- 
 proached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that has been 
 frighted from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and 
 hovered round my little fireside with all the rapture of expecta- 
 tion. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and antici- 
 pated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's 
 
PARDONED BY LOVE 117 
 
 tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I 
 walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The labourers of 
 the day were all retired to rest ; the lights were out in every 
 cottage; no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and 
 the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at hollow distance. I approached 
 my little abode of pleasure, and, before I was within a furlong 
 of the place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome me. 
 
 It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door : 
 all was still and silent : my heart dilated with unutterable hap- 
 piness, when, to my amazement, I saw the house bursting out 
 in a blaze of fire, and every aperture red with conflagration. I 
 gave a loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement, in- 
 sensible. This alarmed my son, who had, till this, been asleep ; 
 and he, perceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife and 
 daughter ; and all running out, naked, and wild with apprehen- 
 sion, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to 
 objects of new terror ; for the flames had, by this time, caught 
 the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, 
 while the family stood, with silent agony, looking on, as if 
 they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by 
 turns, and then looked round me for my two little ones; but 
 they were not to be seen. misery! "Where," cried I, 
 "where are my little ones?" "They are burnt to death in 
 the flames," said my wife calmly, "and I will die with them." 
 That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were 
 just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. 
 " Where, where are my children ? " cried I, rushing through the 
 flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in which they 
 were confined ! " Where are my little ones 1 "- " Here, dear 
 papa, here we are," cried they together, while the flames were 
 just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in 
 my arms, and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, 
 while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. " Now," cried J, 
 holding up my children, "now let the flames burn on, and all 
 
118 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 my possessions perish. Here they are ; I have saved my treas- 
 ure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall 
 yet be happy." We kissed our little darlings a thousand times ; 
 they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our trans- 
 ports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns. 
 
 I now stood a calm spectator of the flames ; and, after some 
 time, began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched 
 in a terrible manner. It was, therefore, out of my power to give 
 my son any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or 
 preventing the flames spreading to our corn. By this time the 
 neighbours were alarmed, and came running to our assistance ; 
 but all they could do was to stand, like us spectators of 
 the calamity. 
 
 My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for 
 my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box 
 with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three 
 things more of little consequence, which my son brought away 
 in the beginning. The neighbours contributed, however, what 
 they could to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, 
 and furnished one of our outhouses with kitchen utensils ; so 
 that by daylight we had another, though a wretched dwelling, 
 to retire to. My honest next neighbour and his children were 
 not the least assiduous in providing us with everything neces- 
 sary, and offering whatever consolation untutored benevolence 
 could suggest. 
 
 When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know 
 the cause of my long stay began to take place : having therefore 
 informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them 
 for the reception of our lost one ; and though we had nothing but 
 wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a wel- 
 come to what we had. This task would have been more difficult 
 but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride, 
 and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go 
 for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent 
 
PARDONED BY LOVE 119 
 
 my son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched 
 delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her mother, 
 whom no instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect recon- 
 ciliation ; for women have a much stronger sense of female error 
 than men. "Ah, madam," cried her mother, "this is but a 
 poor place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter 
 Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons who 
 have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss 
 Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late ; 
 but I hope Heaven will forgive you." During this reception, 
 the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep 
 or to reply : but I could not continue a silent spectator of her 
 distress ; wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice 
 and manner, which was ever followed with instant submission, 
 " I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once 
 for all : I have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer ; 
 her return to duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The 
 real hardships of life are now coming fast upon us ; let us not, 
 therefore, increase them by dissension among each other. If 
 we live harmoniously together, -we may yet be contented, as 
 there are enough of us to shut out the censuring world, and 
 keep each other in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is 
 promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the ex- 
 ample. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view 
 a repentant sinner, than ninety-nine persons who have supported 
 a course of undeviating rectitude. And this is right ; for that 
 single effort bywhich we stop short in the down-hill path to 
 perdition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue than a hundred 
 acts of justice." 
 
120 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 None but the Guilty can be long and completely miserable 
 
 SOME assiduity was now required to make our present abode 
 as convenient as possible, and we were soon again qualified to 
 enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled myself from assisting 
 my son in our usual occupations, I read to my family from the 
 few books that were saved, and particularly from such as, by 
 amusing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our 
 good neighbours, too, came every day, with the kindest condo- 
 lence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at repair- 
 ing my former dwelling. Honest Farmer Williams was not last 
 among these visitors ; but heartily offered his friendship. He 
 would even have renewed his addresses to my daughter ; but 
 she rejected him in such a manner as totally repressed his 
 future solicitations. Her grief seemed formed for continuing ; 
 and she was the only person of our little society that a week 
 did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing 
 innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to seek 
 pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession 
 of her mind ; her beauty began to be impaired with her consti- 
 tution, and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every 
 tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her 
 heart, and a tear to her eye; and as one vice, though cured, 
 ever plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, though 
 driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind. I 
 strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot my 
 own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages 
 of history as a strong memory and some reading could suggest. 
 "Our happiness, my dear," I would say, "is in the power of 
 One who can bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways, that 
 mock our foresight. If example be necessary to prove this, I'll 
 
NONE BUT THE GUILTY MISERABLE 121 
 
 give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, though some- 
 times a romancing historian. 
 
 " Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman 
 of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at 
 the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant 
 son in the open window of an apartment which hung over the 
 river Volturna, the child with a sudden spring leaped from her 
 arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The 
 mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to 
 save him, plunged in after ; but far from being able to assist 
 the infant, she herself with great difficulty escaped to the oppo- 
 site shore, just when some French soldiers were plundering the 
 country on that side, who immediately made her their prisoner. 
 
 " As the war was then carried on between the French and 
 Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once 
 to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite and 
 cruelty. This base resolution, however, was opposed by a 
 young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost 
 expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety to 
 his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye ; her merit, 
 soon after, his heart. They were married : he rose to the high- 
 est posts; they lived long together, and were happy. But 
 the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent : after 
 an interval of several years, the troops which he commanded 
 having met with repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the 
 city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a 
 siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories can pro- 
 duce more various instances of cruelty than those which the 
 French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It 
 was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the 
 French prisoners to death ; but particularly the husband of the 
 unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in pro- 
 tracting the siege. Their determinations were, in general, exe- 
 cuted almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was 
 
122 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood ready, while 
 the spectators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which 
 was only suspended till the general who presided as judge should 
 give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and expecta- 
 tion that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband 
 and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty 
 of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature death 
 in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of still greater calami- 
 ties. The general, who was a young man, was struck with sur- 
 prise at her beauty, and pity at her distress; but with still 
 stronger emotions when he heard her mention her former dan- 
 gers. He was her son, the infant for whom she had encountered 
 so much danger. He acknowledged her at once as his mother, 
 and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed : the 
 captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, 
 and duty could confer on each, were united." 
 
 In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter : but 
 she listened with divided attention ; for her own misfortunes 
 engrossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and 
 nothing gave her ease. In company she dreaded contempt ; and 
 in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her 
 wretchedness, when we received certain information that Mr. 
 Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I 
 always suspected he had a real passion, though he took every 
 opportunity before me to express his contempt both of her per- 
 son and fortune. This news only served to increase poor Olivia's 
 affliction : such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her 
 courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more 
 certain information, and to defeat, if possible, the completion of 
 his designs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot's, with in- 
 structions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss 
 Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my 
 family. My son went in pursuance of my directions, and in 
 three days returned, assuring us of the truth of the account ; 
 
NONE BUT THE GUILTY MISERABLE 123 
 
 but that he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which 
 he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miss 
 Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were to be 
 married, he said, in a few days, having appeared together at 
 church the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour, the 
 bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as many gentle- 
 men. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole country with 
 rejoicing, and they usually rode out together in the grandest 
 equipage that had been seen in the country for many years. 
 All the friends of both families, he said, were there, particularly 
 the Squire's uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a 
 character. He added, that nothing but mirth and feasting were 
 going forward ; that all the country praised the young bride's 
 beauty, and the bridegroom's fine person, and that they were 
 immensely fond of each other; concluding, that he could not 
 help thinking Mr. .Thornhill one of the most happy men in the 
 world. 
 
 "Why, let him, if he can," returned I: "but, my son, ob- 
 serve this bed of straw and unsheltering roof; those mouldering 
 walls and humid floor ; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, 
 and my children weeping round me for bread : you have come 
 home, my child, to all this ; yet here, even here, you see a man 
 that would not for a thousand worlds exchange situations. Oh, 
 my children, if you could but learn to commune with your own 
 hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you 
 would little regard the elegance and splendour of the worthless. 
 Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and 
 themselves the travellers. The similitude still may be improved, 
 when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, like trav- 
 ellers that are going towards home ; the wicked but by intervals 
 happy, like travellers that are going into exile." 
 
 My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new 
 disaster, interrupted what I had further to observe. I bade her 
 mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. She 
 
124 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 appeared from that time more calm, and I imagined had gained 
 a new degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived me : for 
 her tranquillity was the languor of over-wrought resentment. 
 A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by my kind parishion- 
 ers, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness among the rest of the 
 family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly 
 and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their satisfac- 
 tions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to burden 
 them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more the 
 tale went round, and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness 
 condescended to hover round our little habitation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Fresh Calamities 
 
 THE next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for the 
 season, so that we agreed to breakfast together on the honey- 
 suckle bank ; where, while we sat, my youngest daughter at my 
 request joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. It 
 was in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, and every 
 object served to recall her sadness. But that melancholy which 
 is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of har- 
 mony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, 
 too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, and 
 loved her daughter as before. "Do, my pretty Olivia," cried 
 she, " let us have that little melancholy air your papa was so 
 fond of; your sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child; 
 it will please your old father." She complied in a manner so 
 exquisitely pathetic as moved me : 
 
 When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
FRESH CALAMITIES 125 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 
 And wring his bosom, is to die. 
 
 As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interrup- 
 tion in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appear- 
 ance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, 
 but particularly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, 
 who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, returned to the house 
 with her sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from his 
 chariot, and making up to the place where I was still sitting, 
 inquired after my health with his usual air of familiarity. " Sir," 
 replied I, " your present assurance only serves to aggravate the 
 baseness of your character ; and there was a time when I would 
 have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to appear be- 
 fore me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions, 
 and my calling restrains them." 
 
 " I vow, my dear sir," returned he, "I am amazed at all this ; 
 nor can I understand what it all means ! I hope you don't think 
 your daughter's late excursion with me had anything criminal in 
 it?" 
 
 "Go," cried I: "thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful wretch, 
 and every way a liar : but your meanness secures you from my ' 
 anger ! Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that would not 
 have borne this ! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momen- 
 tary passion, thou hast made one poor creature wretched for 
 life, and polluted a family that had nothing but honour for 
 their portion ! " 
 
 " If she or you," returned he, " are resolved to be miserable, 
 I cannot help it. But you may still be happy ; and whatever 
 opinion you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me 
 ready to contribute to it. We can marry her to another in a 
 short time ; and, what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; 
 for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard for her," 
 
126 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading pro- 
 posal ; for though the mind may often be calm under great in- 
 juries, little villany can at any time get within the soul, and 
 sting it into rage. " Avoid my sight, thou reptile ! " cried I, 
 " nor continue to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave 
 son at home, he would not suffer this ; but I am old and dis- 
 abled, and every way undone." 
 
 "I find," cried he, "you are bent upon obliging me to talk 
 in a harsher manner than I intended. But as I have shown 
 you what may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be 
 improper to represent what may be the consequences of my 
 resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has been 
 transferred, threatens hard; nor do I know how to prevent 
 the course of justice, except by paying the money myself, 
 which, as I have been at some expenses lately previous to my 
 intended marriage, is not so easy to be done. And then my 
 steward talks of driving for the rent ; it is certain he knows 
 his duty ; for I never trouble myself with affairs of that nature. 
 Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even to have you and 
 your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be 
 solemnized with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request of my 
 charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse." 
 
 "Mr. Thornhill," replied I, "hear me once for all: as to 
 your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will 
 consent to ; and though your friendship could raise me to a 
 throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I 
 despise both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably deceived 
 me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and have found 
 its baseness. Never more, therefore, expect friendship from 
 me. Go, and possess what fortune has given thee beauty, 
 riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, 
 disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart 
 still vindicate its dignity ; and though thou hast my forgiveness, 
 thou shalt ever have my contempt," 
 
FRESH CALAMITIES 127 
 
 "If so," returned he, " depend upon it you shall feel the 
 effects of this insolence ; and we shall shortly see which is the 
 fittest object of scorn, you or me."- Upon which he departed 
 abruptly. 
 
 My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed 
 terrified with apprehension. My daughters also, finding that 
 he was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our con- 
 ference, which, when known, alarmed them not less than the 
 rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of 
 his malevolence : he had already struck the blow, and now I 
 stood prepared to repel every new effort, like one of those in- 
 struments used in the art of war, which, however thrown, still 
 presents a point to receive the enemy. 
 
 We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain ; 
 for the very next morning his steward came to demand my 
 annual rent, which, by the train of accidents already related, I 
 was unable to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was his 
 driving my cattle that evening, and their being appraised and 
 sold the next day for less than half their value. My wife and 
 children now therefore entreated me to comply upon any terms, 
 rather than incur certain destruction. They even begged of me 
 to admit his visits once more, and used all their little eloquence 
 to paint the calamities I was going to endure, the terrors of 
 a prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with the danger 
 that threatened my health from the late accident that happened 
 by the fire. But I continued inflexible. 
 
 "Why, my treasures," cried I, "why will you thus attempt 
 to persuade me to the thing that is not right ? My duty has 
 taught me to forgive him; but my conscience will not permit 
 me to approve. Would you have me applaud to the world what 
 my heart must internally condemn 1 ? Would you have me 
 tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer ; and, to 
 avoid a prison, continually surfer the more galling bonds of 
 mental confinement ? Ko ? never ! If we are to be taken from 
 
128 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 this abode, only let us hold to the right ; and wherever we are 
 thrown, we can still retire to a charming apartment, when we 
 can look round our own hearts with intrepidity and with pleas- 
 ure ! " 
 
 In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morn- 
 ing, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my 
 son was employed in clearing it away, and opening a passage 
 before the door. He had not been thus engaged long, when he 
 came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two stran- 
 gers, whom he knew to be officers of justice/ were making 
 towards the house. 
 
 Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where 
 I lay, after previously informing me of their employment and 
 business, made me their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with 
 them to the county gaol, which was eleven miles off. 
 
 "My friends," said I, "this is severe weather in which you 
 have come to take me to a prison ; and it is particularly unfort- 
 unate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burnt in 
 a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever, and 
 I want clothes to cover me, and I am now too weak and old to 
 walk far in such deep snow ; but, if it must be so " - 
 
 I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to 
 get together what few things were Left us, and to prepare imme- 
 diately for leaving this place. I entreated them to be expedi- 
 tious ; and desired my son to assist his eldest sister, who, from 
 a consciousness that she was the cause of all our calamities, was 
 fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. I encouraged my 
 wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted little 
 ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading 
 to look round at the strangers. In the meantime my youngest 
 daughter prepared for our departure, and as she received several 
 hints to use despatch, in about an hour we were ready to 
 depart. 
 
SITUATION ALTOGETHER WRETCHED 129 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 No Situation, however wretched it seems, but has some sort of Com- 
 fort attending it 
 
 WE set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and walked 
 on slowly. My eldest daughter being enfeebled by a slow fever, 
 which had begun for some days to undermine her constitution, 
 one of the officers who had an horse kindly took her up behind 
 him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest themselves of 
 humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and 
 my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose 
 tears fell, not for her own, but my distresses. 
 
 We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, 
 when we saw a crowd, running and shouting behind us, con- 
 sisting of about fifty of my poorest parishioners: These, with 
 dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of jus- 
 tice, and swearing they would never see their minister go to 
 gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, were 
 going to use them with great severity. The consequence might 
 have been fatal, had I not immediately interposed, and with 
 some difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the enraged 
 multitude. My children, who looked upon my delivery now as 
 certain, appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of 
 containing their raptures. But they were soon undeceived, upon 
 hearing me address the poor deluded people, who came, as they 
 imagined, to do me service. 
 
 " What ! my friends," cried I, " and is this the way you love 
 me ? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have given 
 you from the pulpit ? Thus to fly in the face of justice, and 
 bring down ruin on yourselves and me ? Which is your ring- 
 leader? Show me the man that has thus seduced you. As 
 sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear 
 
130 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your 
 country, and to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you in 
 greater felicity here, and contribute to make your lives more 
 happy. But let it at least be my comfort, when I pen my fold 
 for immortality, that not one here shall be wanting." 
 
 They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into tears, 
 came one after the other to bid me farewell. I shook each 
 tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my blessing, proceeded 
 forward without meeting any further interruption. Some hours 
 before night, we reached the town, or rather village, for it con- 
 sisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its former 
 opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient superiority but 
 the gaol. 
 
 Upon entering, we put up at an inn where we had such re- 
 freshments as could most readily be procured, and I supped with 
 my family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them prop- 
 erly accommodated for that night, I next attended the sheriff's 
 officers to the prison, which had formerly been built for the pur- 
 poses of war, and consisted of one large apartment, strongly 
 grated, and paved with stone, common to both felons and 
 debtors at certain hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this, 
 every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for 
 the night. 
 
 I expected, upon my entrance, to find nothing but lamenta- 
 tions and various sounds of misery : but it was very different. 
 The prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, that 
 of forgetting thought in merriment or clamour. I was apprised 
 of the usual perquisites required upon these occasions, and im- 
 mediately complied with the demand, though the little money 
 I had was very near being all exhausted. This was immediately 
 sent away for liquor, and the whole prison was soon filled with 
 riot, laughter, and profaneness. 
 
 "How," cried I to myself, "shall men so very wicked be 
 cheerful, and shall I be melancholy 1 I feel only the same con- 
 
NO SITUATION ALTOGETHER WRETCHED 131 
 
 finement with them, and I think I have more reason to be 
 happy." 
 
 With such reflections I laboured to become cheerful; but 
 cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself 
 painful. As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the gaol, in 
 a pensive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and, sit- 
 ting by me, entered into conversation. It was my constant rule 
 in life never to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed 
 to desire it : for if good, I might profit by his instruction ; if 
 bad, he might be assisted by mine. I found this to be a know- 
 ing man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge 
 of the world, as it is called, or, more properly speaking, of human 
 nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care 
 to provide myself with a bed, which was a circumstance I had 
 never once attended to. 
 
 "That's unfortunate," cried he, "as you are allowed here 
 nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. 
 However, you seem to be something of a gentleman, and, as I 
 have been one myself in my time, part of my bed-clothes are 
 heartily at your service." 
 
 I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such human- 
 ity in a gaol in misfortunes ; adding, to let him see that I was 
 a scholar, "That the sage ancient seemed to understand the 
 value of company in affliction, when he said Ton kosmon aire, 
 ei dos ton etairon ; and, in fact," continued I, "what is the 
 world if it affords only solitude 1 " 
 
 "You talk of the world, sir," returned my fellow-prisoner; 
 " the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cosmogony or creation 
 of the world has puzzled the philosophers of every age. What 
 a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation 
 of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus 
 Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these 
 words, Anarchon ara Icai atelutaion to pan, which implies " - 
 "I ask pardon, sir," cried I, "for interrupting so much learn- 
 
132 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 ing ; but I think I have heard all this before. Have I not had 
 the pleasure of once seeing you at Wellbridge fair, and is not 
 your name Ephraim Jenkinson?" At this demand he only 
 sighed. "I suppose you must recollect," resumed I, "one 
 Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought a horse 1 ?" 
 
 He now at once recollected me; for the gloominess of the 
 place and the approaching night had prevented his distinguish- 
 ing my features before. "Yes, sir," returned Mr. Jenkinson, 
 " I remember you perfectly well ; I bought a horse, but forgot 
 to pay for him. Your neighbour Flam borough is the only prose- 
 cutor I am any way afraid of at the next assizes ; for he intends 
 to swear positively against me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, 
 sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed any man ; for you see," con- 
 tinued he, showing his shackles, " what my tricks have brought 
 me to." 
 
 "Well, sir," replied I, "your kindness in offering me assist- 
 ance when you could expect no return, shall be repaid with my 
 endeavours to soften, or totally suppress Mr. Flamborough's 
 evidence, and I will send my son to him for that purpose the 
 first opportunity ; nor do I in the least doubt but he will com- 
 ply with my request ; and as to my own evidence, you need be 
 under no uneasiness about that." 
 
 "Well, sir," cried he, "all the return I can make shall be 
 yours. You shall have more than half my bed-clothes to-night, 
 and I'll take care to stand your friend in the prison, where I 
 think I have some influence." 
 
 I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the 
 present youthful change in his aspect ; for at the time I had 
 seen him before, he appeared at least sixty. "Sir," answered 
 he, "you are little acquainted with the world; I had, at that 
 time, false hair, and have learnt the art of counterfeiting every 
 age from seventeen to seventy. Ah, sir ! had I but bestowed 
 half the pains in learning a trade that I have in learning to be 
 a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day. But, 
 
REFORMATION IN THE GAOL 133 
 
 rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and that, perhaps, 
 when you least expect it." 
 
 We were now prevented from further conversation by the 
 arrival of the gaoler's servants, who came to call over the pris- 
 oners' names, and lock up for the night. A fellow also, with a 
 bundle of straw for my bed, attended, who led me along a dark 
 narrow passage, into a room paved like the common prison, and 
 in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes given me 
 by my fellow-prisoner; which done, my conductor, who was 
 civil enough, bade me a good night. After my usual medita- 
 tions, and having praised my Heavenly corrector, I laid myself 
 down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A Reformation in the Gaol. To make Laws complete, they should 
 reward as well as punish 
 
 THE next morning early, I was awakened by my family, 
 whom I found in tears at my bedside. The gloomy strength of 
 everything about us, it seems, had daunted them. I gently re- 
 buked their sorrow, assuring them I had never slept with greater 
 tranquillity ; and next inquired after my eldest daughter, who 
 was not among them. They informed me that yesterday's un- 
 easiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged 
 proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send my son 
 to procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near the 
 prison as conveniently could be found. He obeyed ; but could only 
 find one apartment, which was hired at a small expense for his 
 mother and sisters, the gaoler, with humanity, consenting to let 
 him and his two little brothers lie in the prison with me. A 
 bed was therefore prepared for them in a corner of the room, 
 which I thought answered very conveniently. I was willing, 
 
134 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 however, previously to know whether my little children chose 
 to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon entrance. 
 
 " Well," cried I, "my good boys, how do you like your bed 1 ? 
 I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears 1 " 
 
 "No, papa," says Dick, "I am not afraid to lie anywhere, 
 where you are." 
 
 "And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years old, "love 
 every place best that my papa is in." 
 
 After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to 
 do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her declin- 
 ing sister's health ; my wife was to attend me ; my little boys 
 were to read to me : "And as for you, my son," continued I, 
 " it is by the labour of your hands we must all hope to be sup- 
 ported. Your wages as a day-labourer will be fully sufficient, 
 with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and comfortably too. 
 Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength; and it was 
 given thee, my son, for very useful purposes ; for it must save 
 from famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare, then, 
 this evening, to look out for work against to-morrow, and bring 
 home every night what money you earn for our support." 
 
 Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked 
 down to the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and 
 room. But I was not long there when the execrations, lewd- 
 ness, and brutality that invaded me on every side, drove me 
 back to my apartment again. Here I sat for some time ponder- 
 ing upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, finding all 
 mankind in open arms against them, were labouring to make 
 themselves a future and a tremendous enemy. 
 
 Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, and blotted 
 my own uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty 
 incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, 
 therefore, once more to return, and, in spite of their contempt, 
 to give them my advice, and conquer them by my perseverance. 
 Going, therefore, among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson 
 
REFORMATION IN THE GAOL 135 
 
 of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated 
 it to the rest. The proposal was received with the greatest 
 good humour, as it promised to afford a new fund of entertain- 
 ment to persons who had now no other resource for mirth but 
 what could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. 
 
 I therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud, 
 unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon 
 the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, 
 winking and coughing, alternately excited laughter. However, 
 I continued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that 
 what I did might mend some, but could itself receive no con- 
 tamination from any. 
 
 After reading, I entered upon my exhortation, which was 
 rather calculated at first to amuse them than to reprove. I 
 previously observed, that no other motive but their welfare 
 could induce me to do this ; that I was their fellow-prisoner, 
 and now got nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear 
 them so very profane ; because they got nothing by it, but might 
 lose a great deal : " For be assured, my friends," cried I, "for 
 you are my friends, however the world may disclaim your friend- 
 ship, though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it 
 would not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies 
 calling every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, 
 since you find how scurvlly he uses you ? He has given you 
 nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty 
 belly ; and, by the best accounts I have of him, he will give 
 you nothing that's good hereafter. 
 
 " If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go 
 elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to try 
 how you may like the usage of another master, who gives you 
 fair promises at least to come to him 1 Surely, my friends, of 
 all stupidity in the world, his must be the greatest, who, after 
 robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. And 
 yet, how are you more wise ? You are all seeking comfort from 
 
136 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious 
 being than any thief-taker of them all ; for they only decoy and 
 then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of 
 all, will not let you loose after the hangman has done." 
 
 When I had concluded, I received the compliments of my 
 audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, 
 swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired 
 my further acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my 
 lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of mak- 
 ing a reformation here ; for it had ever been my opinion, that 
 no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open 
 to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. 
 When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apart- 
 ment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr. Jenkin- 
 son begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the 
 pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, of my conversa- 
 tion. He had not yet seen my family ; for as they came to my 
 apartment by a door in the narrow passage already described, 
 by this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkinson at 
 the first interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with the 
 beauty of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air con- 
 tributed to heighten ; and my little ones did not pass unnoticed. 
 
 "Alas, Doctor," cried he, "these children are too handsome 
 and too good for such a place as this ! " 
 
 "Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, "thank Heaven, my chil- 
 dren are pretty tolerable in morals; and if they be good, it 
 matters little for the rest." 
 
 " I fancy, sir," returned my fellow-prisoner, " that it must 
 give you great comfort to have all this little family about you." 
 
 "A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson !" replied I; "yes, it is indeed 
 a comfort, and I would not be without them for all the world ; 
 for they can make a dungeon seem a palace. There is but one 
 way in this life of wounding my happiness, and that is by 
 injuring them." 
 
REFORMATION IN THE GAOL 137 
 
 " I am afraid then, sir," cried he, " that I am in some measure 
 culpable ; for I think I see here " (looking at my son Moses) 
 "one that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven." 
 
 My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though 
 he had before seen him in disguise, and taking him by the hand, 
 with a smile, forgave him. " Yet," continued he, " I can't help 
 wondering at what you could see in my face, to think me a 
 proper mark for deception." 
 
 " My dear sir," returned the other, " it was not your face, 
 but your white stockings, and the black ribbon in your hair, 
 that allured me. But, no disparagement to your parts, I have 
 deceived wiser men than you in my time ; and yet, with all my 
 tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at last." 
 
 " I suppose," cried my son, "that the narrative of such a life 
 as yours must be extremely instructive and amusing." 
 
 " Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson. " Those 
 relations which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, 
 by increasing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The 
 traveller that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back 
 upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber, 
 seldom arrives in time at his journey's end. 
 
 " Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that the know- 
 ing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought 
 cunning from my very childhood : when but seven years old, the 
 ladies would say that I was a perfect little man : at fourteen, I 
 knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; .at twenty, 
 though I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so 
 cunning, that not one would trust me. Thus I was at last 
 obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever 
 since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, and my heart 
 palpitating with fears of detection. I used often to laugh at 
 your honest simple neighbour Flamborough, and, one way or 
 another, generally cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest 
 man went forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while I still 
 
138 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, without the con- 
 solation of being honest. However," continued he, "let me 
 know your case, and what has brought you here ; perhaps, 
 though I have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may 
 extricate my friends." 
 
 In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole 
 train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into my 
 present troubles, and my utter inability to get free. 
 
 After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapped 
 his forehead, as if he had hit upon something material, and 
 took his leave, saying, he would try what could be done. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 The same Subject continued 
 
 THE next morning I communicated to my wife and children 
 the scheme I had planned of reforming the prisoners, which they 
 received with universal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility 
 and impropriety of it ; adding that my endeavours would no ' 
 way contribute to their amendment, but might probably disgrace 
 my calling. 
 
 " Excuse me," returned I ; " these people, however fallen, are 
 still men ; and that is a very good title to my affections. Good 
 counsel rejected, returns to enrich the giver's bosom ; and 
 though the instruction I communicate may not mend them, yet 
 it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, my children, 
 were princes, there would be thousands ready to offer their min- 
 istry but in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a dungeon 
 is as precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my treasures, 
 if I can mend them, I will : perhaps they will not all despise 
 me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulf, and that 
 will be great gain ; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as 
 the human soul ? " 
 
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED 139 
 
 Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common 
 prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my 
 arrival ; and each prepared with some gaol trick to play upon the 
 Doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig 
 awry, as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, 
 who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting through 
 his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A third would 
 cry Amen in such an affected tone as gave the rest great delight. 
 A fourth had slyly picked my pocket of my spectacles. But 
 there was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all 
 the rest; for, observing the manner in which I had disposed 
 my books on the table before me, he very dexterously displaced 
 one of them, and put an obscene jest-book of his own in the 
 place. However, I took no notice of all that this mischievous 
 group of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible 
 that what was ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth 
 only the first or second time, while what was serious would be 
 permanent. My design succeeded, and in less than six days 
 some were penitent, and all attentive. 
 
 It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address, at 
 thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feel- 
 ing, and now began to think of doing them temporal services 
 also, by rendering their situation somewhat more comfortable. 
 Their time had hitherto been divided between famine and excess, 
 tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only employment 
 was quarrelling among each other, playing at cribbage, and cut- 
 ting tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I 
 took the hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting pegs 
 for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought 
 by a general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold by my 
 appointment ; so that each earned something every day a 
 trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. 
 
 I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment 
 of immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus, in less 
 
140 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 than a fortnight I had formed them into something social and 
 humane, and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legisla- 
 tor, who had brought men from their native ferocity into friend- 
 ship and obedience. 
 
 And it were highly to be wished, that legislative power 
 would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity ; 
 that it would seem convinced that the work of eradicating 
 crimes is not by making punishments familiar, but formidable. 
 Then, instead of our present prisons, which find or make men 
 guilty, which enclose wretches for the commission of one crime, 
 and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the perpetration of 
 thousands ; we should see, as in other parts of Europe, places 
 of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be attended 
 by such as could give them repentance, if guilty, or new motives 
 to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punish- 
 ments, is the way to mend a State. Nor can I avoid even 
 questioning the validity of that right which social combinations 
 have assumed, of capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. 
 In cases of murder, their right is obvious, as it is the duty of 
 us all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man who 
 has shown a disregard for the life of another. Against such, 
 all nature rises in arms ; but it is not so against him who steals 
 my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his 
 life, as by that, the horse he steals is as much his property as 
 mine. If, then, I have any right, it must be from a compact 
 made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse 
 shall die. But this is a false compact ; because no man has a 
 right to barter his life any more than to take it away, as it is 
 not his own. And besides, the compact is inadequate, and 
 would be set aside, even in a court of modern equity, as there 
 is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it is far 
 better that two men should live than that one man should ride. 
 But a compact that is false between two men, is equally so be- 
 tween a hundred or a hundred thousand; for as ten millions 
 
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED 141 
 
 of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of 
 myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It 
 is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same 
 thing. Savages, that are directed by natural law alone, are 
 very tender of the lives of each other ; they seldom shed blood 
 but to retaliate former cruelty. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few 
 executions in times of peace ; and, in all commencing govern- 
 ments that have the print of nature still strong upon them, 
 scarce any crime is held capital. 
 
 It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal 
 laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the 
 poor. Government, while it grows older, seems to acquire the 
 moroseness of age ; and, as if our property were become dearer 
 in proportion as it increased as if the more enormous our 
 wealth the more extensive our fears all our possessions 
 are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with 
 gibbets to scare every invader. 
 
 I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal 
 laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this country 
 should show more convicts in a year than half the dominions 
 of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing to both ; for they mutu- 
 ally produce each other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, 
 a nation beholds the same punishment affixed to dissimilar de- 
 grees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the penalty, the 
 people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime, and 
 this distinction is the bulwark of all morality : thus the multi- 
 tude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh 
 restraints. 
 
 It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriving 
 new laws to punish vice ; instead of drawing hard the cords of 
 society till a convulsion come to burst them ; instead of cutting 
 away wretches as useless before we have tried their utility ; in- 
 stead of converting correction into vengeance, it were to be 
 
142 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 wished that we tried the restrictive arts of government, and 
 made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We 
 should then find that creatures whose souls are held as dross, 
 only wanted the hand of a refiner : we should then find that 
 creatures now stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should 
 feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew 
 the state in times of danger ; that as their faces are like ours, 
 their hearts are so too ; that few minds are so base as that per- 
 severance cannot amend ; that a man may see his last crime 
 without dying for it ; and that very little blood will serve to 
 cement our security. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Happiness and Misery rather the Result of Prudence than of Vir- 
 tue in this Life', Temporal Evils or Felicities being regarded 
 by Heaven as Things merely in themselves trifling, and unworthy 
 its Care in the Distribution 
 
 I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not 
 since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly 
 longed to see her. Having communicated my wishes to my 
 wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apartment, lean- 
 ing on her sister's arm. The change which I saw in her counte- 
 nance struck me. The numberless graces that once resided there 
 were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have moulded 
 every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her fore- 
 head was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek. 
 
 "I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I; "but why this 
 dejection, Livy 1 I hope, my love, you have too great a regard 
 for me to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which 
 I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see 
 happier days." 
 
HAPPINESS AND MISERY 143 
 
 "You have ever, sir," replied she, "been kind to me, and it 
 adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of shar- 
 ing that happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer 
 reserved for me here ; and I long to be rid of a place where I 
 have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make 
 a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill ; it may in some measure 
 induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in dying." 
 
 "Never, child," replied I : "never will I be brought to ac- 
 knowledge my daughter a prostitute ; for though the world may 
 look upon your offence with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as 
 a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way misera- 
 ble in this place, however dismal it may seem ; and be assured, 
 that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never 
 have my consent to make you more wretched by marrying 
 another." 
 
 After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who 
 was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated on my 
 obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me 
 freedom. He observed, that the rest of my family was not to 
 be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only 
 one who had offended me. " Besides," added he, "I don't know 
 if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which 
 you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match you cannot 
 hinder, but may render unhappy." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the man that 
 oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can 
 make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told 
 that even in this very room a debtor of his, no later than last 
 year, died for want. But though my submission and approba- 
 tion could transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment 
 he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as something 
 whispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. 
 While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be 
 legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the 
 
144 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt 
 putting asunder those who wish for a union. No, villain as he 
 is, I should then wish him married, to prevent the consequences 
 of his future debaucheries. But now, should I not be the most 
 cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument which must send my 
 child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself; and thus, 
 to escape one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand ? " 
 
 He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could not 
 avoid observing, that he feared my daughter's life was already 
 too much wasted to keep me long a prisoner. " However," 
 continued he, " though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I 
 hope you have no objections to laying your case before the uncle, 
 who has the first character in the kingdom for everything that 
 is just and good. I would advise you to send him a letter by 
 the post, intimating all his nephew's ill-usage ; and my life for 
 it, that in three days you shall have an answer." I thanked 
 him for the hint, and instantly set about complying; but I 
 wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid out 
 that morning in provisions : however, he supplied me. 
 
 For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to 
 know what reception my letter might meet with ; but in the 
 meantime was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any 
 conditions rather than remain here, and every hour received re- 
 peated accounts of the decline of my daughter's health. The 
 third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to 
 my letter : the complaints of a stranger against a favourite 
 nephew were no way likely to succeed; so that these hopes 
 soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, still 
 supported itself, though confinement and bad air began to make 
 a visible alteration in my health, and my arm that had suffered 
 in the fire grew worse. My children, however, sat by me, and 
 while I was stretched on my straw, read to me by turns, or 
 listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter's 
 health declined faster than mine : every message from her con- 
 
HAPPINESS AND MISERY 145 
 
 tributed to increase my apprehensions and pain. The fifth 
 morning after I had written the letter which was sent to Sir 
 William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she 
 was speechless. Now it was that confinement was truly pain- 
 ful to me ; my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the 
 pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her 
 last wishes, and teach her soul the way to Heaven ! Another 
 account came : she was expiring, and yet I was debarred the 
 small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner, some 
 time after, came with the last account. He bade me be patient : 
 she was dead ! The next morning he returned, and found me 
 with my two little ones, now my only companions, who were 
 using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated 
 to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I was now too old 
 to weep. "And is not my sister an angel, now, papa?" cried 
 the eldest ; " and why, then, are you sorry for her ? I wish I 
 were an angel out of this frightful place, if my papa were with 
 me." "Yes," added my youngest darling, "Heaven, where 
 my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are none but 
 good people there, and the people here are very bad." 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by observing, 
 that now my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of 
 the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own life, which 
 was every day declining for want of necessaries and wholesome 
 air. He added, that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice 
 any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who 
 depended on me for support ; and that I was now, both by rea- 
 son and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord. 
 
 "Heaven be praised," replied I, "there is no pride left me 
 now : I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or re- 
 sentment lurking there. On the contrary, as my oppressor has 
 been once my parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an 
 unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no re- 
 sentment now ; and though he has taken from me what I held 
 
146 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, 
 for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow-prisoner, 
 yet that shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now 
 willing to approve his marriage : and, if this submission can do 
 him any pleasure, let him know that if I have done him any in- 
 jury I am sorry for it." 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my submis- 
 sion nearly as I have expressed it, to which I signed my name. 
 My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who 
 was then at his seat in the countiy. He went, and, in about 
 six hours, returned with a verbal answer. He had some diffi- 
 culty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants 
 were insolent and suspicious : but he accidentally saw him as 
 he was going out upon business, preparing for his marriage, 
 which was to be in three days. He continued to inform us, that 
 he stept up in the humblest manner, and delivered the letter, 
 which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all submis- 
 sion was now too late and unnecessary ; that he heard of our 
 application to his uncle, which met with the contempt it de- 
 served ; and, as for the rest, that all future applications should 
 be .directed to his attorney, not to him. He observed, however, 
 that as he had a very good opinion of the discretion of the two 
 young ladies, they might have been the most agreeable inter- 
 cessors. 
 
 "Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "you now discover 
 the temper of the man that oppresses me. He can at once be 
 facetious and cruel : but, let him use me as he will, I shall soon 
 be free in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now draw- 
 ing towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach it : this 
 expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I leave an helpless 
 family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly for- 
 saken : some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them for 
 the sake of their poor father, and some may charitably relieve 
 them for the sake of their heavenly Father," 
 
HAPPINESS AND MISERY 147 
 
 Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that day be- 
 fore, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but 
 unable, to speak. "Why, my love," cried I, "why will you 
 thus increase my afflictions by your own ? What though no sub- 
 missions can turn our severe master, though he has doomed me 
 to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a 
 darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other chil- 
 dren when I shall be no more." "We have indeed lost," 
 returned she, " a darling child. My Sophia, my dearest is gone ! 
 snatched from us, carried off by ruffians ! " " How, madam," 
 cried my fellow-prisoner, " Miss Sophia carried off by villains ; 
 sure it cannot be 1 " 
 
 She could only answer by a fixed look, and a flood of tears. 
 But one of the prisoners' wives who was present, and came in 
 with her, gave us a more distinct account : she informed us, 
 that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk 
 together on the great road, a little way out of the village, a 
 post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped ; 
 upon which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping 
 out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, 
 bade the postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a 
 moment. 
 
 " Now," cried I, " the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is 
 it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. 
 What ! not one left ! not to leave me one ! The monster ! 
 the child that was next my heart ! she had the beauty of 
 an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support 
 that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one ! " 
 
 "Alas! my husband," said my wife, "you seem to want 
 comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great, but I 
 could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may 
 take away my children and all the world, if they leave me but 
 you." 
 
 My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate our grief; 
 
148 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have 
 reason to be thankful. "My child," cried I, "look round the 
 world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not 
 every ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects 
 only lie beyond the grave ? " " My dear father," returned he, 
 " I hope there is still something that will give you an interval 
 of satisfaction ; for I have a letter from my brother George. "- 
 " What of him, child ! " interrupted I ; " does he know our 
 misery ? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his 
 wretched family suffers ?" " Yes, sir," returned he, "he is 
 perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing 
 but good news ; he is the favourite of his colonel, who promises 
 to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant." 
 "And are you sure of all this?" cried my wife: "are you 
 sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy ? " " Nothing, indeed, 
 madam," returned my son ; " you shall see the letter, which will 
 give you the highest pleasure ; and if anything can procure you 
 comfort, I am sure that will." "But are you sure," still re- 
 peated she, "that the letter is from himself, and that he is 
 really so happy ? " - " Yes, madam," replied he, "it is certainly 
 his, and he will one day be the credit and support of our family." 
 "Then, I thank Providence," cried she, "that my last letter 
 to him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," continued she, turning 
 to me, " I will now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is 
 sore upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. 
 By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness 
 of anger, I desired him, upon his mother's blessing, and if he 
 had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, 
 and avenge our cause. But, thanks be to Him that directs all 
 things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest." "Woman!" 
 cried I, " thou hast done very ill, and at another time, my re- 
 proaches might have been more severe. Oh ! what a tremen- 
 dous gulf thou hast escaped, that would have buried both thee 
 and him in endless ruin ! Providence, indeed, has here been 
 
HAPPINESS AND MISERY. 149 
 
 kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to 
 be the father and protector of my children when I shall be away. 
 How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of every comfort, 
 when still I hear that he is happy, and insensible of our afflic- 
 tions ; still kept in reserve to support his widowed mother, and 
 to protect his brothers and sisters ! But what sisters has he 
 left ? He has no sisters now : they are all gone, robbed from 
 me, and I am undone." "Father," interrupted my son, "I 
 beg you will give me leave to read his letter I know it will 
 please you." Upon which, with my permission, he read as 
 follows : 
 
 HONOURED SIR, I have called off my imagination a few 
 moments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon 
 objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little fireside at 
 home. My fancy draws that harmless group, as listening to 
 every line of this with great composure. I view those faces 
 with delight, which never felt the deforming hand of ambition 
 or distress ! But, whatever your happiness may be at home, I 
 am sure it will be some addition to it to hear, that I am per- 
 fectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy here. 
 
 Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the king- 
 dom. The colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me 
 with him to all companies where he is acquainted, and, after my 
 first visit, I generally find myself received with increased respect 
 
 upon repeating it. I danced last night with Lady G , and, 
 
 could I forget you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. 
 But it is my fate still to remember others, while I am myself 
 forgotten by most of my absent friends ; and in this number, I 
 fear, sir, that I must consider you; for I have long expected 
 the pleasure of a letter from home, to no purpose. Olivia and 
 Sophia too promised to write, but seem to have forgotten me. 
 Tell them they are two arrant little baggages, and that I am, 
 at this moment, in a most violent passion with them ; yet still, 
 
150 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I know not how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart is 
 respondent only to softer emotions. Then, tell them, sir, that, 
 after all, I love them affectionately ; and be assured of my ever 
 remaining 
 
 Your dutiful Son. 
 
 "In all our miseries," cried I, "what thanks have we not to 
 return, that one at least of our family is exempted from what 
 we suffer ! Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, 
 to be the support of his widowed mother, and the father of these 
 two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him ! 
 May he keep their innocence from the temptations of want, and 
 be their conductor in the paths of honour ! " I had scarce said 
 these words, when a noise like that of a tumult seemed to pro- 
 ceed from the prison below : it died away soon after, and a 
 clanking of fetters was heard along the passage that led to my 
 apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man 
 all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest irons. I 
 looked with compassion on the wretch as he approached me, 
 but with horror, when I found it was my own son. " My George ! 
 my George ! and do I behold thee thus 1 Wounded fettered ! 
 Is this thy happiness 1 is this the manner you return to me ? 
 Oh that this sight could break my heart at once, and let me 
 die!" 
 
 " Where, sir, is your fortitude ? " returned my son, with an 
 intrepid voice. "I must suffer; my life is forfeited, and let 
 them take it." 
 
 I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence, 
 but I thought I should have died with the effort. " Oh, my 
 boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot 
 help it. In the moment that I thought thee blest, and prayed 
 for thy safety, to behold thee thus again ! Chained wounded ; 
 and yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, 
 a very old man, and have lived to see this day ! To see my 
 
HAPPINESS AND MISERY 151 
 
 children all untimely falling about me, while I continue a wretched 
 survivor in the midst of ruin ! May all the curses that ever 
 sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my children ! 
 May he live, like me, to see " 
 
 " Hold, sir ! " replied my son, " or I shall blush for thee. 
 How, sir ! forgetful of yaur age, your holy calling, thus to arro- 
 gate the justice of Heaven, and fling those curses upward that 
 must soon descend to crush thy own grey head with destruction ! 
 No, sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I 
 must shortly suffer ! to arm me with hope and resolution ! to 
 give me courage to drink of that bitterness which must shortly 
 be my portion." 
 
 " My child, you must not die : I am sure no offence of thine 
 can deserve so vile a punishment. My George could never be 
 guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of him." 
 
 "Mine, sir," returned my son, "is, I fear, an unpardonable 
 one. When I received my mother's letter from home, I im- 
 mediately came down, determined to punish the betrayer of our 
 honour, and sent him an order to meet me, which he answered, 
 not in person, but by despatching four of his domestics to seize 
 me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, and I fear desper- 
 ately; but the rest made me their prisoner. The coward is 
 determined to put the law in execution against me ; the proofs 
 are undeniable ; I have sent a challenge, and as I am the first 
 transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. But 
 you have often charmed me with your lessons of fortitude, let 
 me now, sir, find them in your example." 
 
 "And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above 
 this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From this 
 moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it down 
 to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my 
 son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in 
 the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now see, and 
 am convinced, you can expect no pardon here ; and I can only 
 
152 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 exhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we both 
 shall shortly answer. But let us not be niggardly in our ex- 
 hortation, but let all our fellow-prisoners have a share. Gooct 
 gaoler, let them be permitted to stand here while I attempt to 
 improve them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my 
 straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline against 
 the w T all. The prisoners assembled themselves according to my 
 directions, for they loved to hear my counsel : my son and his 
 mother supported me on either side ; I looked and saw that 
 none were wanting, and then addressed them with the following 
 exhortation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 The equal Dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard to the 
 Happy and the Miserable here below. That, from the Nature of 
 Pleasure and Pain, the Wretched must be paid the Balance of 
 their Sufferings in the Life hereafter 
 
 " MY friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when I reflect 
 on the distribution of good and evil here below, I find that much 
 has been given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though 
 we should examine the whole world, we shall not find one man 
 so happy as to have nothing left to wish for ; but we daily see 
 thousands who by suicide show us they have nothing left to 
 hope. In this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely 
 blest, but yet we may be completely miserable. 
 
 "Why man should thus feel pain; why our wretchedness 
 should be requisite in the formation of universal felicity ; why, 
 when all other systems are made perfect by the perfection of 
 their subordinate parts, the great system should require for its 
 perfection parts that are not only subordinate to others, but im- 
 perfect in themselves these are questions that never can be 
 explained, and might be useless if known. On this subject, 
 
PROVIDENCE VINDICATED 153 
 
 Providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied with 
 granting us motives to consolation. 
 
 " In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance 
 of philosophy; and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to 
 console him, has given him the aid of religion. The consola- 
 tions of philosophy are very amusing, but often fallacious; it 
 tells us that life is filled with comforts, if we wilPBu% "enjoy 
 them ; and, on the other hand, that though we unavoidably 
 have miseries here, life is short, and they will soon be over. 
 Thus do these consolations destroy each other ; for, if life is a 
 place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, and if it be long, 
 our griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak : but re- 
 ligion comforts in a higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, 
 fitting up his mind, and preparing it for another abode. When 
 the good man leaves the body, and is all a glorious mind, he will 
 find he has been making himself a heaven of happiness here ; 
 while the wretch that has been maimed and contaminated by 
 his vices, shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he 
 has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To religion, then, 
 we must hold, in every circumstance of life, for our truest com- 
 fort : for if already we are happy, it is # pleasure to think that 
 we can make that happiness unending; and if we are miserable, 
 it is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. Thus, 
 to the fortunate, religion holds out a continuance of bliss ; to the 
 wretched, a change from pain. 
 
 " But though religion is very kind to all men, it has promised 
 peculiar rewards to the unhappy : the sick, the naked, the house- 
 less, the heavy-laden, and the prisoner, have ever most frequent 
 promises in our sacred law. The Author of our religion every- 
 where professes himself the wretch's friend, and, unlike the false 
 ones of this world, bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. 
 The unthinking have censured this as partiality, as a preference 
 without merit to deserve it. But they never reflect, that it is 
 not in the power even of Heaven itself to make the offer of 
 
154 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 unceasing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the misera- 
 ble. To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, since at 
 most it but increases what they already possess. To the latter, vj 
 it is a double advantage; for it diminishes their pain here, and 
 rewards them with heavenly bliss hereafter. 
 
 "But Providence is in another respect kinder to the poor 
 than to the rich ; for as it thus makes the life after death more 
 desirable, so it smooths the passage there. The wretched have 
 had a long familiarity with every face of terror. The man of 
 sorrows lays himself quietly down, without possessions to regret, 
 and but few ties to stop his departure : he feels only nature's 
 pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater than he 
 has often fainted under before ; for, after a certain degree of 
 pain, every new breach that death opens in the constitution 
 nature kindly covers with insensibility. 
 
 " Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages 
 over the happy in this life, greater felicity in dying, and in 
 heaven all that superiority of pleasure which arises from con- 
 trasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my friends, is no 
 small advantage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the 
 poor man in the parable ; for though he was already in heaven, 
 and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned as 
 an addition to his happiness, that he had once been wretched, 
 and now was comforted ; that he had known what it was to be 
 miserable, and now felt what it was to be happy. 
 
 "Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy 
 could never do : it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the 
 happy and the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to 
 nearly the same standard. It gives to both rich and poor the 
 same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; 
 but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure here, 
 the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it was 
 once to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity here- 
 after ; and even though this should be called a small advantage, 
 
PROVIDENCE VINDICATED 155 
 
 yet, being an eternal one, it must make up by duration what 
 the temporal happiness of the great may have exceeded by in- 
 tenseness. 
 
 "These are, therefore, the consolations which the wretched 
 have peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the 
 rest of mankind : in other respects, they are below them. They 
 who would know the miseries of the poor, must see life and 
 endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, 
 is only repeating what none either believe or practise. The 
 men who have the necessaries of living, are not poor ; and they 
 who want them, must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we must 
 be miserable. No vain efforts of a refined imagination can 
 soothe the wants of nature, can give elastic sweetness to the 
 dank vapour of a dungeon, or ease to the throbbings of a 
 broken heart. Let the philosopher from his couch of softness . 
 tell us that we can resist all these : alas ! the effort by which 
 we resist them is still the greatest pain. Death is slight, and 
 any man may sustain it ; but torments are dreadful, and these "* 
 no man can endure. 
 
 " To us then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven 
 should be peculiarly dear; for if our reward be in this life 
 alone, we are then, indeed, of all men the most miserable. 
 When I look round these gloomy walls, made to terrify as 
 well as to confine us ; this light, that only serves to show the 
 horrors of the place ; those shackles, that tyranny has imposed, 
 or crime made necessary ; when I survey these emaciated looks, 
 and hear those groans oh, my friends, what a glorious ex- ^ 
 change would heaven be for these ! To fly through regions un- 
 confmed as air to bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss to 
 carol over endless hymns of praise to have no master to 
 threaten or insult us, but the form of Goodness himself for 
 ever in our eyes ! when I think of these things, death be- 
 comes the messenger of very glad tidings ; when I think of 
 these things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my sup- 
 
156 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 port ; when I think of these things, what is there in life worth 
 having 1 when I think of these things, what is there that should 
 not be spurned away? kings in their palaces should groan for 
 such advantages ; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn for 
 them. 
 
 " And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will certainly 
 be, if we but try for them ; and, what is a comfort, we are shut 
 out from many temptations that would retard our pursuit. Only 
 let us try for them, and they will certainly be ours ; and, what 
 is still a comfort, shortly too : for if we look back on a past 
 life, it appears but a very short span, and whatever we may 
 think of the rest of life, it will yet be found of less duration ; 
 as we grow older, the days seem to grow shorter, and our inti- 
 macy with Time ever lessens the perception of his stay. Then 
 let us take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our journey's 
 end ; we shall soon lay down the heavy burden laid by Heaven 
 upon us ; and though death, the only friend of the wretched, 
 for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the view, and 
 like his horizon still flies before him ; yet the time will cer- 
 tainly and shortly come, when we shall cease from our toil; 
 when the luxurious great ones of the world shall no more 
 tread us to the earth; when we shall think with pleasure of 
 our sufferings below ; when we shall be surrounded with all 
 our friends, or such as deserve our friendship ; when our bliss 
 shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, unending." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 Happier Prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible, and For- 
 tune will at last change in our Favour 
 
 WHEN I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, the 
 gaoler, who was one of the most humane of his profession, 
 hoped I would not be displeased, as what he did was but his 
 
HAPPIER PROSPECTS 157 
 
 duty, observing that he must be obliged to remove my son into 
 a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to revisit me 
 every morning. I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping 
 my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of the great 
 duty that was before him. 
 
 I again therefore laid me down, and one of my little ones sat 
 by my bedside reading, when Mr. Jenkinson entering, informed 
 me that there was news of my daughter ; for that she was seen 
 by a person about two hours before in a strange gentleman's 
 company, and that they had stopped at a neighbouring village 
 for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to town. He had 
 scarcely delivered this news when the gaoler came, with looks 
 of haste and pleasure, to inform me that my daughter was found. 
 Moses came running in a moment after, crying out that his sis- 
 ter Sophia was below, and coming up with our old friend 
 Mr. Burchell. 
 
 Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl entered, and, 
 with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me, in a trans- 
 port of affection. Her mother's tears and silence also showed 
 her pleasure. "Here, papa," cried the charming girl, "here is 
 the brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gentleman's 
 intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and safety 
 A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even greater 
 than hers, interrupted what she was going to add. 
 
 "Ah ! Mr. Burchell," cried I, "this is but a wretched habi- 
 tation you now find us in ; and we are now very different from 
 what you last saw us. You were ever our friend : we have 
 long discovered our errors with regard to you, and repent of our 
 ingratitude. After the vile usage you then received at my 
 hands, I am almost ashamed to behold your face; yet I hope 
 you'll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous 
 wretch, who, under the mask of friendship, has undone me." 
 
 "It is impossible," cried Mr. Burchell, "that I should forgive 
 you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your 
 
158 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 delusion then, and as it was out of my power to restrain, I could 
 only pity it." 
 
 "It was ever my conjecture," cried I, "that your mind was 
 noble ; but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how 
 thou hast been relieved, or who the ruffians were who carried 
 thee away V 
 
 "Indeed, sir," replied she, "as to the villain who carried me 
 off, I am yet ignorant. For, as my mamma and I were walk- 
 ing out, he came behind us, and almost before I could call for 
 help, forced me into the post-chaise, and in an instant the 
 horses drove away. I met several on the road, to whom I 
 cried out for assistance, but they disregarded my entreaties. 
 In the meantime, the ruffian himself used every art to hinder 
 me from crying out : he flattered and threatened by turns, and 
 swore that, if I continued but silent, he intended no harm. In 
 the meantime, I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, 
 and whom should I perceive at some distance but your old 
 friend Mr. Burchell, walking along with his usual swiftness, 
 with the great stick for which we used so much to ridicule 
 him. As soon as we came within hearing, I called out to him 
 by name, and entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations 
 several times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he bid the 
 postilion stop but the boy took no notice, but drove on with 
 still greater speed. I now thought he could never overtake us, 
 when, in less than a minute, I saw Mr. Burchell come running 
 up by the side of the horses, and, with one blow, knock the 
 postilion to the ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon 
 stopped of themselves, and the ruffian, stepping out, with oaths 
 and menaces, drew his sword, and ordered him, at his peril, to 
 retire ; but Mr. Burchell, running up, shivered his sword to 
 pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile ; 
 but he made his escape. I was at this time come out myself, 
 willing to assist my deliverer; but he soon returned to me in 
 triumph. The postilion, who was recovered, was going to 
 
HAPPIER PROSPECTS 159 
 
 make his escape too ; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his 
 peril to mount again and drive back to town. Finding it 
 impossible to resist, he reluctantly complied, though the wound 
 he had received seemed to me, at least, to be dangerous. He 
 continued to complain of the pain as we drove along, so that he 
 at last excited Mr. Burchell's compassion, who, at my request, 
 exchanged him for another, at an inn where we called on our 
 return." 
 
 "Welcome, then," cried I, "my child! and thou, her gal- 
 lant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Though our cheer is but 
 wretched, yet our hearts are ready to receive you. And now, 
 Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my girl, if you think her a 
 recompense, she is yours : if you can stoop to an alliance with 
 a family so poor as mine, take her ; obtain her consent, as I 
 know you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me 
 tell you, sir, that I give you no small treasure : she has been 
 celebrated for beauty, it is true, but that is not my meaning, 
 I give you up a treasure in her mind." 
 
 "But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. Burchell, "that you are 
 apprised of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to support 
 her as she deserves ? " 
 
 "If your present objection," replied I, "be meant as an 
 evasion of my offer, I desist : but I know no man so worthy to 
 deserve her as you ; and if I could give her thousands, and 
 thousands sought her from me, yet my honest brave Burchell 
 should be my dearest choice." 
 
 To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying re- 
 fusal : and, without the least reply to my offer, he demanded 
 if he could not be furnished with refreshments from the next 
 inn ; to which being answered in the affirmative, he ordered 
 them to send in the best dinner that could be provided upon 
 such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their best wine, 
 and some cordials for me ; adding, with a smile, that he would 
 stretch a little for once, and, though in a prison, asserted he 
 
160 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 was never better disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made 
 his appearance with preparations for dinner ; a table was lent 
 us by the gaoler, who seemed remarkably assiduous ; the wine 
 was disposed in order, and two very well dressed dishes were 
 brought in. 
 
 My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melan- 
 choly situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheer- 
 fulness by the relation. But it was in vain that I attempted 
 to appear cheerful : the circumstances of my unfortunate son 
 broke through all efforts to dissemble ; so that I was at last 
 obliged to damp our mirth by relating his misfortunes, and 
 wishing that he might be permitted to share with us in this 
 little interval of satisfaction. After my guests were recovered 
 from the consternation my account had produced, I requested 
 also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-prisoner, might be admitted, 
 and the gaoler granted my request with an air of unusual sub- 
 mission. The clanking of my son's irons was no sooner heard 
 along the passage, than his sister ran impatiently to meet him, 
 while Mr. Burchell, in the meantime, asked me if my son's 
 name was George ; to which, replying in the affirmative, he 
 still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the room, 
 I could perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of aston- 
 ishment and reverence. "Come on," cried I, "my son; though 
 we are fallen very low, yet Providence has been pleased to grant 
 us some small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored to 
 us, and there is her deliverer : to that brave man it is that I 
 am indebted for yet having a daughter : give him, my boy, the 
 hand of friendship ; he deserves our warmest gratitude." 
 
 My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and 
 still continued fixed at respectful distance. " My dear brother," 
 cried his sister, ' why don't you thank my good deliverer ? the 
 brave should ever love each other." 
 
 He still continued his silence and astonishment, till our guest 
 at last perceived himself to be known, and, assuming all his 
 
HAPPIER PROSPECTS 161 
 
 native dignity, desired my son to come forward. Never before 
 had I seen anything so truly majestic as the air he assumed on 
 this occasion. The greatest object in the universe, says a cer- 
 tain philosopher, is a good man struggling with adversity ; yet 
 there is still a greater, which is the good man that comes to 
 relieve it. After he had regarded my son for some time with a 
 superior air "I again find," said he, " unthinking boy, that 
 
 of the same crime " But here he was interrupted by one 
 
 the gaoler's servants, who came to inform us that a person of 
 distinction, who had driven into town with a chariot and sev- 
 eral attendants, sent his respects to the gentleman that was 
 with us, and begged to know when he should think proper to 
 be waited upon. u Bid the fellow wait," cried our guest, "till 
 I shall have leisure to receive him : " and then turning to my 
 son, " I again find, sir," proceeded he, " that you are guilty of 
 the same offence for which you once had my reproof, and for 
 which the law is now preparing its justest punishments. You 
 imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own life gives you 
 a right to take that of another : but where, sir, is the difference 
 between a duellist, who hazards a life of no value, and the mur- 
 derer who acts with greater security 1 Is it any diminution of 
 the gamester's fraud, when he alleges that he has staked a 
 counter?" 
 
 "Alas, sir," cried I, "whoever you are, pity the poor mis- 
 guided creature ; for what he has done was in obedience to a 
 deluded mother, who, in the bitterness of her resentment, re- 
 quired him, upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, 
 sir, is the letter, which will serve to convince you of her im- 
 prudence, and diminish his guilt." 
 
 He took the letter, and hastily read it over. " This," says 
 he, "though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his 
 fault as induces me to forgive him. And now, sir," continued 
 he, kindly taking my son by the hand, "I see you are surprised 
 at finding me here ; but I have often visited prisons upon occa- 
 
162 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 sions less interesting. I am now come to see justice done a 
 worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have 
 long been a disguised spectator of thy father's benevolence. I 
 have, at his little dwelling, enjoyed respect uncontaminated by 
 flattery ; and have received that happiness that courts could 
 not give, from the amusing simplicity around his fire-side. My 
 nephew has been apprised of my intentions of coming here, and, 
 I find, is arrived. It would be wronging him and you to con- 
 demn him without examination : if there be injury, there shall 
 be redress ; and this I may say, without boasting, that none 
 have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill." 
 
 We now found the personage whom we had so long enter- 
 tained as an harmless amusing companion was no other than 
 the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and sin- 
 gularities scarce any were strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell 
 was in reality a man of large fortune and great interest, to 
 whom senates listened with applause, and whom party heard 
 with conviction; who was the friend of his country, but loyal 
 to his king. My poor wife, recollecting her former familiarity, 
 seemed to shrink with apprehension ; but Sophia, who a few 
 moments before thought him her own, now perceiving the im- 
 mense distance to which he was removed by fortune, was unable 
 to conceal her tears. 
 
 "Ah ! sir," cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, "how is it 
 
 possible that I can ever have your forgiveness ? The slights 
 
 you received from me the last time I had the honour of seeing 
 
 you at our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw out 
 
 these, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven." 
 
 "My dear good lady," returned he with a smile, "if you 
 had your joke, I had my answer : I'll leave it to all the com- 
 pany if mine were not as good as yours. To say the truth, I 
 know nobody whom I am disposed to be angry with at present, 
 but the fellow who so frighted my little girl here. I had not 
 even time to examine the rascal's person so as to describe him 
 
HAPPIER PROSPECTS 163 
 
 in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, 
 whether you should know him again 1 " 
 
 "Indeed, sir," replied she, "I can't be positive; yet now I 
 recollect, he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows." "I 
 ask pardon, madam," interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, " but 
 be so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair ? " 
 "Yes, I think so," cried Sophia. "And did your honour," 
 continued he, turning to Sir William, " observe the length of 
 his legs'?"- "I can't be sure of their length," cried the Bar- 
 onet, " but I am convinced of their swiftness ; for he outran 
 me, which is what I thought few men in the kingdom could 
 have done." "Please your honour," cried Jenkinson, "I 
 know the man: it is certainly the same; the best runner in 
 England ; he has beaten Pinwire of Newcastle : Timothy Bax- 
 ter is his name ; I know him perfectly, and the very place of 
 his retreat this moment. If your honour will bid Mr. Gaoler let 
 two of his men go with me, I'll engage to produce him to you 
 in an hour at farthest." Upon this the gaoler was called, who 
 instantly appearing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. 
 "Yes, please your honour," replied the gaoler, "I know Sir 
 William Thornhill well, and everybody that knows anything of 
 him will desire to know more of him." - "Well, then," said 
 the Baronet, "my request is, that you will permit this man and 
 two of your servants to go upon a message by my authority ; 
 and as I am in the commission of the peace, I undertake to 
 secure you." "Your promise is sufficient," replied the other, 
 "and you may, at a minute's warning, send them over England 
 whenever your honour thinks fit." 
 
 In pursuance of the gaoler's compliance, Jenkinson was de- 
 spatched in search of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused 
 with the assiduity of our youngest boy Bill, who had just come 
 in and climbed up Sir William's neck, in order to kiss him. 
 His mother was immediately going to chastise his familiarity, 
 but the worthy man prevented her ; and taking the child, all 
 
164 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 ragged as he was, upon his knee, "What, Bill, you chubby 
 rogue," cried he, "do you remember your old friend Burchell? 
 and Dick, too, my honest veteran, are you here 1 you shall find 
 I have not forgotten you." So saying, he gave each a large 
 piece of gingerbread, which the poor fellows ate very heartily, 
 as they had got that morning a very scanty breakfast. 
 
 We now sat down to dinner, which was almost cold ; but pre- 
 viously, my arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a 
 prescription, for he had made the study of physic his amuse- 
 ment, and was more than moderately skilled in the profession : 
 this being sent to an apothecary who lived in the place, my 
 arm was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. We 
 were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler himself, who was 
 willing to do our guest all the honour in his power. But 
 before we had well dined, another message was brought from 
 his nephew, desiring permission to appear in order to vindicate 
 his innocence and honour; with which request the Baronet 
 complied, and desired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 Former Benevolence now repaid with unexpected Interest 
 
 MR. THORNHILL made his appearance with a smile, which 
 he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace his uncle, which 
 the other repulsed with an air of disdain. " No fawning, sir, 
 at present," cried the Baronet, with a look of severity; "the 
 only way to my heart is by the road of honour ; but here I 
 only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and 
 oppression. How is it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I 
 know you professed a friendship, is used thus hardly? His 
 daughter vilely seduced as a recompense for his hospitality, and 
 
BENEVOLENCE EEPAID 165 
 
 he himself thrown into prison, perhaps for resenting the insult 1 
 His son, too, whom you feared to face as a man " 
 
 "Is it possible, sir," interrupted his nephew, "that my uncle 
 should object that as a crime, which his repeated instructions 
 alone have pursuaded me to avoid 1 " 
 
 "Your rebuke," cried Sir William, "is just; you have acted, 
 in this instance, prudently and well, though not quite as your 
 father would have done : my brother, indeed, was the soul of 
 
 honour; but thou Yes, you have acted, in this instance, 
 
 perfectly right, and it has my warmest approbation." 
 
 "And I hope," said his nephew, "that the rest of my con- 
 duct will not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, 
 with, this gentleman's daughter at some places of public amuse- 
 ment : thus, what was levity, scandal called by a harsher 
 name, and it was reported I had debauched her. I waited on 
 her father in person, willing to clear the thing to his satisfac- 
 tion, and he received me only with insult and abuse. As for 
 the rest, with regard to his being here, my attorney and steward 
 can best inform you, as I commit the management of business 
 entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and is unwilling, 
 or even unable to pay them, it is their business to proceed in 
 this matter : and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the 
 most legal means of redress." 
 
 " If this," cried Sir William, " be as you have stated it, there 
 is nothing unpardonable in your offence ; and though your con- 
 duct might have been more generous in not suffering this gentle- 
 man to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at 
 least equitable." 
 
 "He cannot contradict a single particular," replied the 
 Squire; "I defy him to do so; and several of my servants 
 are ready to attest what I say. Thus, sir," continued he, find- 
 ing that I was silent, for in fact I could not contradict him 
 " thus, sir, my own innocence is vindicated : but though at 
 your entreaty I am ready to forgive this gentleman every other 
 
166 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem excite a 
 resentment that I cannot govern ; and this, too, at a time when 
 his son was actually preparing to take away my life, this, I 
 say, was such guilt, that I am determined to let the law take 
 its course. I have here the challenge that was sent me, and 
 two witnesses to prove it : one of my servants has been wounded 
 dangerously ; and even though my uncle himself should dis- 
 suade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public jus- 
 tice done, and he shall suffer for it." 
 
 " Thou monster ! " cried my wife, " hast thou not had ven- 
 geance enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty ? 
 I hope that good Sir William will protect us ; for my son is 
 as innocent as a child : I am sure he is, and never did harm to 
 man." 
 
 "Madam," replied the good man, "your wishes for his safety 
 are not greater than mine ; but I am sorry to find his guilt too 
 plain ; and if my nephew persists But the appearance of 
 
 Jenkinson and the gaoler's two servants now called off our 
 attention, who entered, hauling in a tall man, very genteelly 
 dressed, and answering the description already given of the 
 ruffian who had carried off my daughter. "Here," cried Jen- 
 kinson, pulling him in, " here we have him ; and if ever there 
 was a candidate for Tyburn, this is one." 
 
 The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jen- 
 kinson who had him in custody, he seemed to shrink back with 
 terror. His face became pale with conscious guilt, and he 
 would have withdrawn, but Jenkinson, who perceived his de- 
 sign, stopped him. "What, Squire," cried he, "are you 
 ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Bax- 
 ter ? But this is the way that all great men forget their friends, 
 though I am resolved we will not forget you. Our prisoner, 
 please your honour," continued he, turning to Sir William, 
 " has already confessed all. This is the gentleman reported 
 to be so dangerously wounded. He declares that it was Mr. 
 
BENEVOLENCE REPAID 167 
 
 Thornhill who first put him upon this affair ; that he gave him 
 the clothes he now wears, to appear like a gentleman, and fur- 
 nished him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between 
 them, that he snould carry off the young lady to a place of 
 safety, and that there he should threaten and terrify her ; but 
 Mr. Thornhill was to come in, in the meantime, as if by acci- 
 dent, to her rescue ; and that they should fight a while, and 
 then he was to run off, by which Mr. Thornhill would have 
 the better opportunity of gaining her affections himself, under 
 the character of her defender." 
 
 Sir William remembered the coat to have been worn by his 
 nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself confirmed by a 
 more circumstantial account; concluding, that Mr. Thornhill 
 had often declared to him that he was in love with both sisters 
 at the same time. 
 
 "Heavens ! " cried Sir William, "what a viper have I been 
 fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of public justice, too, as 
 he seemed to be ! But he shall have it : secure him, Mr. Gaoler. 
 Yet, hold ! I fear there is not legal evidence to detain him." 
 
 Upon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, entreated 
 that two such abandoned wretches might not be admitted as 
 evidences against him, but that his servants should be exam- 
 ined. "Your servants ! " replied Sir William. "Wretch ! call 
 them yours no longer : but come, let us hear what those fellows 
 have to say ; let his butler be called." 
 
 When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived by his 
 former master's looks that all his power was now over. " Tell 
 me," cried Sir William sternly, " have you ever seen your mas- 
 ter, and that fellow dressed up in his clothes, in company 
 together?" "Yes, please your honour," cried the butler, "a 
 thousand times : he was the man that always brought him his 
 ladies." " How ! " interrupted young Mr. Thornhill, " this to 
 rny face 1 " - " Yes," replied the butler, " or to any man's face. 
 To tell you a truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved you 
 
168 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 or liked you, and I don't care if I tell you now a piece of my 
 mind." - "Now, then," cried Jenkinson, "tell his honour 
 whether you know anything of me." "I can't say," replied 
 the butler, " that I know much good of you. The night that 
 gentleman's daughter was deluded to our house, you were one 
 of them." " So then," cried Sir William, " I find you have 
 brought a very fine witness to prove your innocence : thou stain 
 to humanity! to associate with such wretches ! But," continu- 
 ing his examination, "you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the 
 person who brought him this old gentleman's daughter. "- 
 "No, please your honour," replied the butler, "he did not bring 
 her, for the Squire himself undertook that business ; but he 
 brought the priest that pretended to marry them." "It is 
 but too true," cried Jenkinson; "I cannot deny it; that was 
 the employment assigned me, and I confess it to my confusion." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed the Baronet, " how every new 
 discovery of his villany alarms me ! All his guilt is now too 
 plain, and I find his prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cow- 
 ardice, and revenge. At my request, Mr. Gaoler, set this young 
 officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to me for the conse- 
 quences. I'll make it my business to set the affair in a proper 
 light to my friend the magistrate, who has committed him. 
 But where is the unfortunate young lady herself? Let her 
 appear to confront this wretch : I long to know by what arts 
 he has seduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is she ? " 
 
 "Ah! sir," said I, "that question stings me to the heart: 
 I was once indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries 
 Another interruption here prevented me ; for who should make 
 her appearance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next day 
 to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could equal 
 her surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew here before 
 her; for her arrival was quite accidental. It happened that 
 she and the old gentleman, her father, were passing through 
 the town, on the way to her aunt's, who had insisted that her 
 
BENEVOLENCE REPAID 169 
 
 nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be consummated at her 
 house ; but stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at 
 the other end of the town. It was there, from the window, 
 that the young lady happened to observe one of my little boys 
 playing in the street, and instantly sending a footman to bring 
 the child to her, she learned from him some account of our mis- 
 fortunes ; but was still kept ignorant of young Mr. ThornhilFs 
 being the cause. Though her father made several remonstrances 
 on the impropriety of going to prison to visit us, yet they were 
 ineffectual ; she desired the child to conduct her, which he did, 
 and it was thus she surprised us at a juncture so unexpected. 
 
 Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental 
 meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom excite 
 our surprise but upon some extraordinary occasion. To what 
 a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and con- 
 venience of our lives ! How many seeming accidents must unite 
 before we can be clothed or fed ! The peasant must be dis- 
 posed to labour, the shower must fall, the wind fill the mer- 
 chant's sail, or numbers must want the usual supply. 
 
 We all continued silent for some moments, while my charm- 
 ing pupil, which was the name I generally gave this young lady, 
 united in her looks compassion and astonishment, which gave 
 new finishing to her beauty. " Indeed, my dear Mr. Thorn- 
 hill," cried she to the Squire, who she supposed was come here 
 to succour, and not to oppress us, "I take it a little unkindly 
 that you should come here without me, or never inform me of 
 the situation of a family so dear to us both : you know I should 
 take as much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my rev- 
 erend old master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. 
 But I find that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing 
 good in secret." 
 
 " He find pleasure in doing good ! " cried Sir William, inter- 
 rupting her. "No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. 
 You see in him, madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced 
 
170 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 humanity. A wretch, who, after having deluded this poor man's 
 daughter, after plotting against the innocence of her sister, has 
 thrown the father into prison, and the eldest son into fetters 
 because he had the courage to face her betrayer. And give me 
 leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an escape from 
 the embraces of such a monster." 
 
 " goodness ! " cried the lovely girl, " how have I been de- 
 ceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain that this gen- 
 tleman's eldest son, Captain Primrose, was gone off to America 
 with his new-married lady." 
 
 u My sweetest Miss," cried my wife, "he has told you 
 nothing but falsehoods. My son George never left the king- 
 dom, nor ever was married. Though you have forsaken him, 
 he has always loved you too well to think of anybody else ; 
 and I have heard him say, he would die a bachelor for your 
 sake." She then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of 
 her son's passion : she set his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a 
 proper light ; from thence she made a rapid digression to the 
 Squire's debaucheries, his pretended marriages, and ended with 
 a most insulting picture of his cowardice. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " cried Miss Wilmot, " how very near have 
 I been to the brink of ruin ! But how great is my pleasure 
 to have escaped it ! Ten thousand falsehoods has this gentle- 
 man told me ! He had at last art enough to persuade me, 
 that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no longer 
 binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was 
 taught to detest one equally brave and generous ! " 
 
 By this time my son was freed from the encumbrances of 
 justice, as the person supposed to be wounded was detected 
 to be an impostor. Mr. Jenkinson, also, who had acted as 
 his valet-de-chambre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished 
 him with whatever was necessary to make a genteel appear- 
 ance. He now therefore entered, handsomely dressed in his 
 regimentals; and, without vanity (for I am above it), he ap- 
 
BENEVOLENCE REPAID 171 
 
 peared as handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As 
 he entered, he made Miss Wilinot a modest and distant bow, 
 for he was not as yet acquainted with the change which the 
 eloquence of his mother had wrought in his favour. But no 
 decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing mistress 
 to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to dis- 
 cover the real sensations of her heart, for having forgotten her 
 former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded by 
 an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, 
 and could scarce believe it real. "Sure, madam," cried he, 
 " this is but delusion ! I can never have merited this ! To 
 be blessed thus is to be too happy." "No, sir," replied she; 
 "I have been deceived, basely deceived, else nothing could 
 have ever made me unjust to my promise. You know my 
 friendship you have long known it but forget what I have 
 done, and as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you 
 shall now have them repeated ; and be assured, that, if your 
 Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be another's." 
 "And no other's you shall be," cried Sir William, "if I have 
 any influence with your father." 
 
 This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately 
 flew to the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him 
 of every circumstance that had happened. But in the mean- 
 time, the Squire, perceiving that he was on every side undone, 
 now finding that no hopes were left from flattery or dissimu- 
 lation, concluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face 
 his pursuers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared the 
 open, hardy villain. "I find, then," cried he, "that I am to 
 expect no justice here ; but I am resolved it shall be done me. 
 You shall know, sir," turning to Sir William, "I am no longer 
 a poor dependent upon your favours. I scorn them. Nothing 
 can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her 
 father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles, and a bond for 
 her fortune, are signed, and safe in my possession. It was her 
 
172 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish for this match ; 
 and, possessed of the one, let who will take the other." 
 
 This was an alarming blow. Sir William was sensible of 
 the justice of his claims, for he had been instrumental in draw- 
 ing up the marriage articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, 
 perceiving that her fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to 
 my son, she asked if the loss of fortune could lessen her value 
 to him ? " Though fortune,' 7 said she, "is out of my power, at 
 least I have my hand to give." 
 
 "And that, madam," cried her real lover, "was indeed all 
 that you ever had to give; at least all that I ever thought 
 worth the acceptance. And I now protest, my Arabella, by all 
 that's happy, your want of fortune this moment increases my 
 pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity." 
 
 Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at 
 the danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily consented 
 to a dissolution of the match. But finding that her fortune, 
 which was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be 
 given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now 
 saw that his money must all go to enrich one who had no 
 fortune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal, but to 
 want an equivalent to his daughter's fortune was wormwood. 
 He sat, therefore, for some minutes employed in the most 
 mortifying speculations, till Sir William attempted to lessen 
 his anxiety, "I must confess, sir," cried he, "that your pres- 
 ent disappointment does not entirely displease me. Your im- 
 moderate passion for wealth is now justly punished. But 
 though the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a compe- 
 tence sufficient to give content. Here you see an honest young 
 soldier, who is willing to take her without fortune : they have 
 long loved each other ; and for the friendship I bear his father, 
 my interest shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave, then, 
 that ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit that 
 happiness which courts your acceptance." 
 
BENEVOLENCE REPAID 173 
 
 "Sir William," replied the old gentleman, "be assured I 
 never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still 
 continues to love this young gentleman, let her have him, with 
 all my heart. There is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, 
 and your promise will make it something more. Only let my 
 old friend here" (meaning me) "give me a promise of settling 
 six thousand pounds upon my girl if ever he should come to 
 his fortune, I am ready, this night, to be the first to join them 
 together." 
 
 As it now remained with me to make the young couple 
 happy, I readily gave a promise of making the settlement he 
 required ; which, to one who had such little expectations as 
 I, was no great favour. We had now, therefore, the satisfac- 
 tion of seeing them fly into each other's arms in a transport. 
 "After all my misfortunes," cried my son George, "to be thus 
 rewarded ! Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed 
 to hope for. To be possessed of all that's good, and- after such 
 an interval of pain ! My warmest wishes could nev^r rise so 
 high ! " 
 
 "Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride, "now let the 
 wretch take my fortune; since you are happy without it, so 
 am I. Oh, what an exchange have I made, from the basest 
 of men to the dearest, best ! Let him enjoy our fortune, I can 
 now be happy even in indigence." " And I promise you," cried 
 the Squire, with a malicious grin, " that I shall be very happy 
 with what you despise." "Hold, hold, sir," cried Jenkinson, 
 "there are two words to that bargain. As for that lady's 
 fortune, sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it. Pray, 
 your honour," continued he to Sir William, "can the Squire 
 have this lady's fortune if he be married to another ? " - " How 
 can you make such a simple demand ? " replied the Baronet : 
 "undoubtedly he cannot." "I am sorry for that," cried Jen- 
 kinson ; " for as this gentleman and I have been old fellow- 
 sporters, I have a friendship for him. But I must declare, 
 
174 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 well as I love him, that this contract is not worth a tobacco- 
 stopper, for he is married already." "You lie, like a rascal ! " 
 returned the Squire, who seemed roused by this insult; "I 
 never was legally married to any woman." 
 
 "Indeed, begging your honour's pardon," replied the other, 
 "you were: and I hope you will show a proper return of 
 friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a 
 wife ; and if the company restrain their curiosity a few minutes, 
 they shall see her." So saying, he went off, with his usual 
 celerity, and left us all unable to form any probable conjecture 
 as to his design. "Ay, let him go," cried the Squire ; " what- 
 ever else I may have done, I defy him there. I am too old 
 now to be frightened with squibs." 
 
 " I am surprised," said the Baronet, " what the fellow can 
 intend by this. Some low piece of humour, I suppose." "Per- 
 haps, sir," replied I, "he may have a more serious meaning. 
 For when -we reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has 
 laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one more artful than the 
 rest has been found able to deceive him. When we consider 
 what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel, with 
 anguish, the infamy and the contamination which he has brought 
 into their families, it would not surprise me if some one of them 
 
 Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter ? Do I hold 
 
 her ? It is, it is my life, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, 
 my Olivia, yet still I hold thee and still thou shalt live to 
 bless me." The warmest transports of the fondest lover were 
 not greater than mine, when I saw him introduce my child, and 
 held my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her 
 raptures. 
 
 "And art thou returned to me, my darling," cried I, "to be 
 my comfort in age ? " " That she is," cried Jenkinson ; " and 
 make much of her, for she is your own honourable child, and as 
 honest a woman as any in the whole room, let the other be who 
 she will. And as for you, Squire, as sure as_ you stand there, 
 
BENEVOLENCE REPAID 175 
 
 this young lady is your lawful wedded wife : and to convince 
 you that I speak nothing but the*truth, here is the license by 
 which you were married together." So saying, he put the license 
 into the Baronet's hands, who read it, and found it perfect in 
 every respect. " And now, gentlemen," continued he, "I find 
 you are' surprised at all this; but a few words will explain the 
 difficulty. That there Squire of renown, for whom I have a 
 great friendship (but that's between ourselves), has often em- 
 ployed me in doing odd little things for him. Among the rest, 
 he commissioned me to procure him a false license and a false 
 priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was very 
 much his friend, what did I do, but went and got a true license 
 and a true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth 
 could make them. Perhaps you'll think it was generosity that 
 made me do all this : but no ; to my shame I confess it, my 
 only design was to keep the license, and let the Squire know 
 that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and 
 so make him come down whenever I wanted money." A burst 
 of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment ; our joy 
 reached even to the common room, where the prisoners them- 
 selves sympathised, 
 
 And shook their chains 
 
 In transport and rude harmony. 
 
 Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's 
 cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to 
 reputation, to friends, and fortune at once, was a rapture suffi- 
 cient to stop the progress of decay, and restore former health 
 and vivacity. But, perhaps, among all, there was not one who 
 felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved 
 child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were 
 not delusion. "How could you," cried I, turning to Mr. Jen- 
 kinson, "how could you add to my miseries by the story of 
 
176 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 her death 1 But it matters not ; my pleasure at finding her 
 again is more than a recompense for the pain." 
 
 "As to your question," replied Jenkinson, "that is easily 
 answered. I thought the only probable means of freeing you 
 from prison was by submitting to the Squire, and consenting 
 to his marriage with the other young lady. But these you had 
 vowed never to grant while your daughter was living : there 
 was therefore no other method to bring things to bear, but by 
 persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife 
 to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of 
 undeceiving you till now." 
 
 In the whole assembly now there appeared only two faces 
 that did not glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill's assurance 
 had entirely forsaken him : he now saw the gulf of infamy and 
 want before him, and trembled to take the plunge. He there- 
 fore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing 
 misery implored compassion. Sir William was going to spurn 
 him away, but at my request he raised him, and, after pausing 
 a few moments, "Thy vices, crimes, and ingratitude," cried he, 
 " deserve no tenderness ; yet thou shalt not be entirely for- 
 saken, a bare competence shall be supplied to support the 
 wants of life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, 
 shall be put in possession of a third part of that fortune which 
 was once thine, and from her tenderness alone thou art to ex- 
 pect any extraordinary supplies for the future." He was going 
 to express his gratitude for such kindness in a set speech ; but 
 the Baronet prevented him, by bidding him not aggravate his 
 meanness, which was already but too apparent. He ordered 
 him at the same time to be gone, and from all his former domes- 
 tics to choose one, such as he should think proper^ which was 
 all that should be granted to attend him. 
 
 As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up 
 to his new niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His ex- 
 ample was followed by Miss Wilmot and her father. My wife, 
 
BENEVOLENCE REPAID 177 
 
 too, kissed her daughter with much affection ; as, to use her 
 own expression, she was now made an honest woman of. Sophia 
 and Moses followed in turn ; and even our benefactor Jenkinson 
 desired to be admitted to that honour. Our satisfaction seemed 
 scarcely capable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest pleas- 
 ure was in doing good, now looked round with a countenance 
 open as the sun, and saw nothing but joy in the looks of all 
 except that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we 
 could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. "I 
 think now," cried he, with a smile, "that all the company ex- 
 cept one or two seem perfectly happy. There only remains an 
 act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, sir," continued 
 he, turning to me, "of the obligations we both owe Mr. Jen- 
 kinson ; and it is but just we should both reward him for it. 
 Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he 
 shall have from me five hundred pounds as her fortune ; and 
 upon this I am sure they can live very comfortably together. 
 Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making ? 
 Will you have him ? " My poor girl seemed almost sinking into 
 her mother's arms at the hideous proposal. " Have him, sir ! " 
 cried she faintly: "no, sir, never!" "What!" cried he 
 again, "not have Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome 
 young fellow with five hundred pounds, and good expectations ? " 
 "I beg, sir," returned she, scarce able to speak, "that you'll 
 desist, and not make me so very wretched." "Was ever such 
 obstinacy known?" cried he again; "to refuse a man whom 
 the family have such infinite obligations to, who has preserved 
 your sister, and who has five hundred pounds ! What ! not 
 have him ! " " No, sir, never ! " replied she angrily ; " I'd 
 sooner die first." "If that be the case, then," cried he, "if 
 you will not have him I think I must have you myself." 
 And, so saying, he caught her to his breast with ardour. "My 
 loveliest, my most sensible of girls," cried he, "how oould you 
 ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir 
 
178 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a mistress that 
 loved him for himself alone ? I have for some years sought for 
 a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, could think that I 
 had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even amongst 
 the pert and the ugly, how great at last must be my rapture 
 to have made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly 
 beauty." Then turning to Jenkinson : " As I cannot, sir, part 
 with this young lady myself, for she has taken a fancy to the 
 cut of my face, all the recompense I can make is to give you 
 her fortune ; and you may call upon my steward to-morrow for 
 five hundred pounds." Thus we had all our compliments to 
 repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of cere- 
 mony that her sister had done before. In the meantime Sir 
 William's gentleman appeared to tell us that the equipages 
 were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything was pre- 
 pared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left 
 those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous Baronet or- 
 dered forty pounds to be distributed among the prisoners, and 
 Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. We 
 were received below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw 
 and shook by the hand two or three of my honest parishioners, 
 who were among the number. They attended us to our inn, 
 where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and coarser 
 provisions were distributed in great quantities among the 
 populace. 
 
 After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alterna- 
 tion of pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the 
 day, I asked permission to withdraw ; and, leaving the company 
 in the midst of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, 
 I poured out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well 
 as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning. 
 
THE CONCLUSION 179 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 The Conclusion 
 
 THE next morning as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest 
 son sitting by my bedside, who came to increase my joy with 
 another turn of fortune in my favour. First having released 
 me from the settlement that I had made the day before in his 
 favour, he let me know that my merchant, who had failed in 
 town, was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects 
 to a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. 
 My boy's generosity pleased me almost as much as this un- 
 looked-for good fortune; but I had some doubts whether I 
 ought, in justice, to accept his offer. While I was pondering 
 upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom I communi- 
 cated my doubts. His opinion was that, as my son was already 
 possessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might 
 accept his offer without any hesitation. His business, however, 
 was to inform me, that as he had the night before sent for the 
 licenses, and expected them every hour, he hoped that I would 
 not refuse my assistance in making all the company happy that 
 morning. A footman entered while we were speaking, to tell 
 us that the messenger was returned ; and as I was by this time 
 ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as 
 merry as affluence and innocence could make them. However, 
 as they were now preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their 
 laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of the grave, 
 becoming, and sublime deportment they should assume upon 
 this mystical occasion, and read them two homilies, and a thesis 
 of my own composing, in order to prepare them. Yet they 
 still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as 
 we were going along to church, to which I led the way, all 
 gravity had quite forsaken them, and I was often tempted to 
 turn back in indignation. In church a new dilemma arose, 
 
180 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 which promised no easy solution. This was, which couple 
 should be married first: my son's bride warmly insisted that 
 Lady Thornhill (that was to be) should take the lead; but 
 this the other refused with equal ardour, protesting she would 
 not be guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argument 
 was supported for some time between both, with equal 
 obstinacy and good breeding. But, as I stood all this time 
 with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest ; 
 and, shutting it, "I perceive," cried I, " that none of you have 
 a mind to be married, and I think we had as good go back 
 again ; for I suppose there will be no business done here to-day." 
 This at once reduced them to reason. The Baronet and his lady 
 were first married, and then my son and his lovely partner. 
 
 I had previously, that morning, given orders that a coach 
 should be sent for my honest neighbour Flamborough and his 
 family ; by which means, upon our return to the inn, we had 
 the pleasure of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted 
 before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and 
 my son Moses led up the other (and I have since found, that 
 he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and 
 bounty he shall have, whenever he thinks proper to demand 
 them). We were no sooner returned to the inn, but numbers 
 of my parishioners, hearing of my success, came to congratulate 
 me ; but, among the rest, were those who rose to rescue me, 
 and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told 
 the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and 
 reproved them with great severity; but finding them quite 
 disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half a guinea 
 apiece to drink his health, and raise their dejected spirits. 
 
 Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertain- 
 ment, which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it 
 may not be improper to observe with respect to that gentleman, 
 that he now resides, in quality of companion, at a relation's 
 house, being very well liked, and seldom sitting at the side- 
 
THE CONCLUSION 181 
 
 table, except when there is no room at the other; for they 
 make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up 
 in keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, 
 and in learning to blow the French horn. My eldest daughter, 
 however, still remembers him with regret ; and she has even 
 told me, though I make a great secret of it, that when he re- 
 forms, she may be brought to relent. But to return, for I 
 am not apt to digress thus : when we were to sit down to din- 
 ner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The question 
 was, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, should 
 not sit above the two young brides ; but the debate was cut 
 short by my son George, who proposed that the company should 
 sit indiscriminately, every gentleman by his "lady. This was 
 received with great approbation by all, excepting my wife, who, * 
 I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to j 
 have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table, and 
 carving all the meat for all the company. But, notwithstand- 
 ing this, it is impossible to describe our good humour. I can't 
 say whether we had more wit among us now than usual ; but 
 I am certain we had more laughing, which answered the end 
 as well. One jest I particularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot 
 drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way, my 
 son replied, " Madam, I thank you." Upon which the old 
 gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, observed 
 that he was thinking of his mistress. At which jest I thought 
 the two Miss Flamboroughs would have died with laughing. 
 As soon as dinner was over, according to my old custom, I 
 requested that the table might be taken away to have the 
 pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more by a 
 cheerful fire-side. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the 
 rest of the company by their partners. I had nothing now on 
 this side of the grave to wish for : all my cares were over ; my 
 pleasure was unspeakable. It now only remained, that my 
 gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former submission 
 in adversity. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 
 
 J. P. ANDERSON of the British Museum gives the titles of a 
 hundred or more editions of The Vicar of Wakefield, published 
 between 1766 and 1886 ; and since that date many more have 
 appeared. The book reached five editions before Goldsmith's 
 death, but after the second few changes were made. The most 
 attractive modern edition without notes is certainly the volume 
 edited by Austin Dobson, and illustrated by Hugh Thomson, whose 
 pictures in themselves are a liberal commentary. A facsimile 
 reprint of the first edition is also the work of Austin Dobson. 
 
 The Globe Edition of Goldsmith's Miscellaneous Works, in one 
 volume, is especially convenient for reference. Other standard 
 editions of the Works, each in several volumes, are Prior's (1837), 
 Cunningham's (1854), and Gibbs's (1884). 
 
 The most interesting short sketch of Goldsmith's character is in 
 Thackeray's English Humourists; the most compact and thorough 
 sketch of his life and work is Masson's Memoir, prefixed to the 
 Globe Works. 
 
 Of short biographies Washington Irving's (1844), William 
 Black's (English Men of Letters Series, 1878), and Austin Dob- 
 son's (Great Writers Series, 1886) are the best. The first two are 
 especially readable, the third is more discriminating and scholarly. 
 All of these shorter works draw much from John Forster's extended 
 biography (The Life and Times of Goldsmith, 1848). 
 
 For those who desire to read further in the mass of literature 
 which deals with Goldsmith, a key is furnished in the full Bibli- 
 ography appended to Dobson' s Life. 
 
 183 
 
NOTES 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Page 1. taken orders. The Established Church of England 
 plays so large a part in English fiction that some knowledge of its 
 commoner technicalities is to be taken for granted. Very few of 
 them, therefore, are given special comment in these notes. The 
 reader who does not clearly understand such terms as * ' take 
 orders," "living," "diocese," "cure," etc., should of course turn 
 to the dictionaries. 
 
 Page 1. notable. In Dr. Johnson's Dictionary, which gives 
 the usage of Goldsmith's time, this word is defined as meaning 
 "careful, bustling." When used in this sense the word is pro- 
 nounced notable. 
 
 Page 1. moral. The word is evidently used as a synonym of 
 " rural " ; it is not a surprise, therefore, to find the meaning given 
 in Johnson as "popular, customary." 
 
 Page 2. affinity. Blood-relationship; a meaning no longer 
 employed in our modern use of the word. 
 
 Page 2. heralds 7 office. The English Heralds' College is an 
 official body, whose duty it is to preserve genealogical records, and 
 to grant coats of arms. 
 
 Page 4. that luxuriancy of beauty . . . Hebe. Compare Mil- 
 ton, ' Allegro, 28-30: 
 
 " Wreathed smiles, 
 Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
 And love to live in dimpled sleek." 
 184 
 
NOTES 185 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Page 5. The profits of my living. That is, the income de- 
 rived from property belonging to the Church, and technically 
 known as temporalities. The thirty-five pounds a year was not, 
 then, a salary, but an average income. The parson in The 
 Deserted Village, and Goldsmith's own father for a time, were 
 11 passing rich at forty pounds a year." 
 
 Page 5. Whiston. William Whiston (1667-1752), an English 
 theologian, noted in his own day for his learning and for his 
 hobbies. This question of "monogamy" figured for a time in 
 English theological controversy somewhat as the question of mar- 
 riage with the "deceased wife's sister" has figured in English 
 political controversy in more recent times. 
 
 Page 5. monogamist. Contrasting, of course, not with " biga- 
 mist," but with " deuterogamist. " 
 
 Page 5. the happy few. Compare The Bee (No. IV): "I 
 have as much pride as they who have ten times as many readers. 
 ... I conclude that what my reputation wants in extent is made 
 up by its solidity. Minus juvat gloria lata quam magna. I have 
 great satisfaction in considering the delicacy and discernment of 
 those readers I have, and in ascribing my want of popularity to 
 the ignorance and inattention of those I have not. ' ' 
 
 Page 7. country-dances. A corruption of the French contre- 
 danse j a dance (like the still popular "Virginia Reel") in which 
 the partners stood in lines opposite (contre) each other. 
 
 Page 7. except backgammon. Although on general princi- 
 ples the Vicar condemns gaming (a century ago "gambling" was 
 an uncommon word) he has his private reservation. 
 
 Page 7. quatre . . . deuce-ace. He needed a four-spot, but 
 the dice gave him only a three. 
 
186 NOTES 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Page 9. managing a little farm. At the time of Goldsmith's 
 birth, his father was laboriously adding in this way to the very 
 small proceeds of his living. 
 
 Page 9. You cannot be ignorant, etc. This is the first of the 
 many short homilies of which the Vicar delivers himself in the 
 course of the tale ; sometimes for the benefit of his family, some- 
 times frankly for the edification of the reader. In these didactic 
 passages his style becomes formal and declamatory. See Intro- 
 duction, p. xxxii. 
 
 Page 10. Hooker. Richard Hooker (1554-1600) ; the greatest 
 English theologian of his century. "The Bishop said to him, 
 ' Richard, I sent for you back to lend you a horse, which hath 
 carried me many a mile, and I thank God with much ease ' ; and 
 presently delivered into his hand a walking .staff " (Isaac Walton's 
 Life of Hooker}. 
 
 Page 10. Bishop Jewel. John Jewell, Bishop of Salisbury 
 (1522-1571), a leader in the English Reformation. 
 
 Page 10. I have been young, etc. See the thirty-seventh 
 Psalm. 
 
 Page 11. gave me some pain. The Vicar's condemnation of 
 the dissolute Squire is rather perfunctory. See Introduction, 
 p. xxx. 
 
 Page 11. laced. Trimmed with gold or silver lace. 
 
 Page 14. But in proportion, etc. The character which is 
 ascribed here to the youth of Sir William Thornhill, and which 
 had before this been exhibited in young Honey wood {The Good- 
 Natured Man), is plainly that of Goldsmith himself. Excellent as 
 is the moral which he draws from the picture of indiscriminate 
 good-nature, it had no effect on his own practice. We may be 
 sure that it was a lavish charity, as well as personal extravagance, 
 which brought about his premature death. 
 
NOTES 187 
 
 The parallel between the situations here and in The Good- 
 Natured Man is somewhat close. In each case an incognito 
 Sir William is the uncle, but in the comedy it is the nephew 
 who is the good-natured spendthrift. Certain passages in the 
 narrative of Mr. Burchell are evident echoes of Honeywood's 
 speeches in the fifth act of the comedy. As a further illustration 
 of Goldsmith's economy of incident, it will be seen that he makes 
 double use in this tale of his own youthful journey through Europe 
 on foot ; Mr. Burchell and George Primrose recording the same 
 experience. (See Chapter XX, below.) 
 
 Page 14. humourist. In its older sense of "whimsical fellow " ; 
 so in As You Like It "humorous" is the epithet which properly 
 describes the capricious Duke Frederick, though we find in him 
 no suggestion of humor in the modern sense. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Page 15. Shrovetide. "The day before Ash Wednesday. So 
 called from the shriving or confession appointed for that day, in 
 preparation for the penitential season of Lent. Pancakes were 
 eaten, as flesh was forbidden on Shrove Tuesday, and the bell 
 which rang for service was called the pancake bell " (Riggs). 
 
 Page 15. Michaelmas. St. Michael's Day, September 29th. 
 In connection with this passage, an interesting item is quoted- by 
 Jordan from Dyer's British Popular Customs : " A curious custom 
 once existed at Kingston, viz. that of the congregation cracking 
 nuts during the performance of divine service on the Sunday next 
 before the eve of St. Michael's Day : hence the phrase ' Crack-Nut 
 Sunday.' " 
 
 Page 15. pipe and tabor. Fife and drum. 
 
 Page 16. coppers. Large copper vessels for cooking or washing. 
 
 Page 16. in bright rows on the shelves. This detail, no doubt 
 a reminiscence of his early home, is twice used by Goldsmith 
 
188 NOTES 
 
 elsewhere ; in the fragmentary Description of an Author's Bed- 
 chamber : 
 
 " And five cracked teacups graced the chimney board " ; 
 and in The Deserted Village : 
 
 " While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glittered in a row." 
 
 Page 17. Johnny Armstrong . . . Barbara Allen. These 
 ballads were evidently favorites of Goldsmith's boyhood ; he 
 several times mentions them together. They may be found in 
 any collection of ballads ; for example, in Allingham's Ballad 
 Book (Golden Treasury Series). 
 
 Page 17. bugles. Black bead-work. 
 
 Page 17. catgut. A rough canvas which served as background 
 for embroidery. 
 
 Page 17. paduasoy. A rich silk material (Fr. soie) made first 
 in Padua. 
 
 Page 17. faces patched. Adorned with black patches to set 
 off the complexion ; a fashion common among the beaux, as well 
 as the belles, of the last century. 
 
 Page 18. shredding. Fringe. 
 
 Page 18. the nakedness of the indigent, etc. Goldsmith later 
 put this speech into the mouth of old Hardcastle (She Stoops to 
 Conquer, I, i). 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Page 18. a hedge of hawthorn. Compare The Deserted Vil- 
 lage, 13, 14 : 
 
 "The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made." 
 
 Page 19. an occasional banquet. "Tea, in Goldsmith's day," 
 says Hudson, " was an expensive luxury, costing from twelve shil- 
 lings to thirty shillings a pound ($3 to $7.50). After their 
 reverses of fortune, the family could afford it only occasionally." 
 
NOTES 189 
 
 Page 19. centaury. Gentian ; said to have been valued by the 
 centaurs for its medicinal powers. 
 
 Page 19. vacant. Here, simply " unemployed." Compare 
 "vacation." 
 
 Page 20. salute. Young Thornhill's attempt to kiss the girls 
 was a familiarity rather than an insult. In the eighteenth century 
 kissing was still an ordinary courtesy among acquaintances. It 
 is only in our own time that Anglo-Saxon undemonstrativeness 
 has banished the kiss, like "thee and thou," from society. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI 
 
 Page 22. the poor man's friendship. The Vicar's references 
 to Mr. Burchell all betray a conscious magnanimity. It is evident 
 that, with all his moralizing, when the question of his daughters' 
 welfare comes up, he is as worldly as his wife. 
 
 Page 23. character. Reputation ; an allowed usage in Gold- 
 smith's time. 
 
 Page 23. The Buck of Beverland, Patient Grissel, Catskin, 
 Fair Rosamond's Bower. All these stories except the first, which 
 has not been found, are given in ballad form in Child's English 
 and Scottish Ballads. For the most famous version of the story 
 of " Patient Grissel," see Chaucer's Clerk's Tale. " Catskin" is 
 another name for " Cinderella." 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Page 26. chaplain. Every noble family had its clergyman in 
 attendance as a regular officer of the household, who often vied 
 in dissoluteness with the master of the house. The sporting chap- 
 lain is prominent in the history of eighteenth-century manners. 
 Of this type Thackeray's "Mr. Sampson" (The Virginians) is 
 an excellent example. 
 
 Page 26. feeder. A confidential parasite or hanger-on. Such 
 is the position which George Primrose later holds for a time in 
 the Squire's household. (See Chapter XX.) 
 
190 NOTES 
 
 Page 26. St. Dunstan's. St. Dunstan's in the West, an old 
 church in London (long since torn down) which was noted for its 
 clock, flanked by two wooden figures which struck the quarter- 
 hours. 
 
 Page 27. smoked him. The eighteenth century equivalent of 
 the modern slang "sized him up." "To smoke, to smell out, to 
 find out" (Johnson). 
 
 Page 29. a freethinker. Evidently the Vicar shares the opinion 
 of freethinking expressed by Dr. Johnson in his definition : " Free- 
 thinker : a libertine ; a contemner of religion." 
 
 Page 30. Thwackum and Square. Olivia has read her Fielding, 
 as a matter of course. The "disputes" are quasi-philosophical 
 arguments between two of the characters in Tom Jones. 
 
 Page 30. Religious Courtship. By Defoe ; a demonstration of 
 the consequences of marriage between persons of different religious 
 beliefs. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 Page 31. I never sit thus. That is, upon the hay ; the lovers 
 were seated upon a haycock when the bolt fell. Gay first told the 
 story in a letter ; it was afterward moralized upon by Pope in two 
 high-flown epitaphs which he attributed to Gay. Thackeray quotes 
 the letter in his lecture on Prior, Gay, and Pope (English Hu- 
 mourists) . 
 
 Page 31. Acis and Galatea. Ovid, Metamorphoses, XIII. 750- 
 897. 
 
 Page 31. loading . . . with epithet. Goldsmith said of Gray's 
 Elegy : "This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epithet." 
 
 Page 31. a Ballad. "Out of many metrical discussions with 
 Percy had grown a ballad in old style, to which Goldsmith gave 
 the title of 4 Edwin and Angelina,' although it was afterwards 
 known as 'The Hermit.' The Countess of Northumberland ad- 
 mired it so much that a few copies, now of the rarest, were struck 
 off for her benefit, and it was afterward included in ' The Vicar of 
 Wakefield. ' Goldsmith took immense pains with this poem. The 
 
NOTES 191 
 
 privately printed edition differs considerably from that in the 
 ' Vicar ' ; the text in the ' Vicar ' varies in the successive editions ; 
 and there are other variations in the volume of selections in which 
 he afterwards included it. 'As to my u Hermit," that poem,' he 
 told Cradock, cannot be amended.' And Hawkins only echoed 
 contemporary opinion when he called it i one of the first poems of 
 the lyric kind that our language has to boast of" (Dobson). 
 The ballad is hardly "in old style." In metre it is far too 
 regular, and in sentiment far too modern. Only in the theme and 
 in the general conception of its treatment is it genuinely u old 
 style." Its primness, its regularity, and a hundred turns of 
 phrase mark it as a characteristic bit of eighteenth-century work : 
 
 " To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 
 With hospitable ray " ; 
 " His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
 
 With answering care oppress 'd " ; 
 
 This is the phraseology of Pope and his school, of which neatness 
 and formality are main traits ; nothing could be farther from the 
 strong simplicity of the real ballad of the people. The poem has 
 a certain affected prettiness ; but it is hard to see how it could be 
 taken so seriously, even at that time, when English poetry was at 
 so low an ebb. 
 
 Page 32. Man wants but little, etc. Quoted from Young, 
 Night Thoughts, IV, 9. 
 
 Page 36. Mr. Burchell . . . resigned her. It is necessary 
 that Mr. Burchell should be removed from the stage before the 
 Squire comes on. Frequent visitors as they both are at the Prim- 
 roses', these two are not to meet till the denouement; otherwise 
 there could be no story. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Page 37. under gentlemen. Probably the chaplain and 
 "feeder," the Squire's usual companions. 
 
 Page 38. pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musical glasses. 
 
192 NOTES 
 
 "Art" and "Culture" are exactly the modern equivalents of 
 "pictures" and "taste" as fashionable catchwords. The .eigh- 
 teenth century revival of interest in Shakespeare was only a fad 
 in the eyes of the ultra-fashionable, worthy to rank in interest 
 with the musical toy which was in vogue at the time when this 
 story was written. 
 
 Page 38. swearing perfectly unfashionable. It was not so 
 during the first half of the century. Thackeray says : " We can't 
 tell you would not bear to be told the whole truth regarding 
 those men and manners. You could no more suffer in a British 
 drawing-room, under the reign of Queen Victoria, a fine gentleman 
 or fine lady of Queen Anne's time, or hear what they heard and 
 said, than you would receive an ancient Briton" {English Hu- 
 mourists. Steele). In this connection Miss Jordan quotes a 
 remark made of the Duchess of Marlborough in 1738: "I could 
 not make her out, sir, who she was, for she would not tell me her 
 name ; but she swore so dreadfully that she must be a lady of 
 quality." 
 
 Page 39. coup de main. A single clever stroke. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 Page 41. flourishing. Embroidering in fanciful patterns. 
 
 Page 41. Nabob. This word, which originally meant a native 
 Indian prince, had already come to mean an English adventurer 
 who had gained great wealth in India. Only a year or two before 
 the writing of The Vicar of Wakefield, Robert Clive, the greatest of 
 English nabobs, had made his triumphal return from India, the 
 master of an enormous fortune ; had been made an Irish peer, and 
 admitted (in 1761) to the House of Commons. 
 
 Page 43. smock race. A favorite contest among country girls, 
 of which the prize was a holland smock or under-garment, adorned 
 with ribbons. A smock race is one of the advertised attractions in 
 Hogarth's picture, Southward Fair. 
 
NOTES 193 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Page 45. lamb's- wool. Ale sweetened, spiced, and mixed with 
 the pulp of roasted apples. 
 
 Page 45. hot cockles. "A play in which one kneels, and, 
 covering his eyes, lays his head in another's lap, and guesses who 
 strikes him" (Strutt, Sports and Pastimes). 
 
 Page 46. the whole name. Goldsmith had already given this 
 melodious combination of names to the daughter of Beau Tibbs 
 (Citizen of the World, LV). 
 
 Page 46. rout. Fashionable assembly. 
 
 Page 46. sound. Swoon. Coleridge uses the intermediate 
 form "swound" in The Ancient Mariner (I, 62). 
 
 Page 47. Dr. Burdock. Laurel being the prize of the real 
 poet, the quality of the doctor's verses is slily hinted at in his 
 name. 
 
 Page 47. seldom leaves anything out. Anything scandalous 
 or indecent. That his verses were written "only for his own 
 amusement " has always been the excuse of the scurrilous versifier. 
 
 Page 47. Lady's Magazine. This is a joke by the author at 
 his own expense. For some time probably when this passage 
 was written Goldsmith was editor of The Lady's Magazine. 
 
 Page 48. assurance. The word means to Goldsmith hardly 
 more than our "confidence." Indeed, the words seem almost to 
 have changed places in his usage. Note the use of " confidence " 
 in the heading to Chapter XIII. 
 
 Page 48. plain-work. Plain sewing. 
 Page 48. smallclothes. Knee-breeches. 
 
 Page 48. cut paper. Cut profiles out of paper, to be mounted 
 in the form of silhouettes ; a fashionable amusement of the time. 
 See Pope's witty verses On the Countess of Burlington Cutting 
 Paper. 
 
194 NOTES 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Page 50. Entre nous. Between ourselves. Mrs. Primrose 
 has already profited by her London acquaintances. Her use of 
 " protest" and "vastly," as well as her jaunty French phrase, 
 shows that she has fairly caught the elegant affectation of their 
 style. 
 
 Page 50. fitting out Moses. His hair, which he usually allows 
 to hang unkempt about his shoulders, is trimmed and caught into 
 a queue ; his shoe-buckles and knee-buckles are polished ; and his 
 broad-brimmed hat is converted by a pin or two into something 
 like the fashionable three-cornered hat of the period. 
 
 Page 50. thunder-and-lightning. "Pepper-and-salt." 
 
 Page 50. gosling green. Yellowish green, like the down of a 
 gosling. 
 
 Page 50. wafers. For sealing letters. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 Page 54. Confidence. Assurance. See note on p. 48, above. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 Page 58. chapman. Here, a customer. U A cheapener; one 
 that offers as a purchaser " (Johnson). 
 
 Page 58. St. Gregory. There are nine St. Gregories. This 
 was probably Pope Gregory I. 
 
 Page 60. Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus 
 Lucanus. These were respectively a Phoenician, an Egyptian, a 
 Chaldean, and a Greek ; the first three ancient historians, the 
 fourth a philosopher. Only a few fragments have come down to 
 us from these writers. The first quotation is supposably genuine ; 
 the second is ungrammatical, and of doubtful meaning. Goldsmith 
 
NOTES 195 
 
 perhaps avoids the Greek lettering because, in his day, while 
 every one knew a little Latin, very few persons had'any acquaint- 
 ance with Greek. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Page 65. a jest-book. Jest-books were very popular in the 
 last century. The most famous of them, Joe Miller's, was pub- 
 lished about twenty years before The Vicar of Wakejield. 
 
 Page 66. maxim of Pope. Essay on Man, IV. 248. 
 
 Page 66. the champion. Not, the athlete, but the military 
 hero. 
 
 Page 67. I could hang you all. Mr. Burchell's words were 
 not so idle as they may seem to the modern reader. In Gold- 
 smith's England a trifling theft was a capital offense. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Page 70. historical family piece. The description of this 
 "piece," with its absurd conjunction of historical and mythical 
 figures and a monogamist Vicar thrown in is, of course, inten- 
 tionally satirical of one of the fashions of Goldsmith's day. See 
 Introduction, p. xxxi. 
 
 Page 70. stomacher. "An ornamental covering worn by 
 women on the breast" (Johnson). 
 
 Page 70. Joseph. A long garment with a cape, for out-of-door 
 wear. Like Venus's diamonds, it was probably to be supplied in 
 the process of painting by the liberal fancy of the artist. 
 
 Page 71. reel. Spool. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Page 76. Death and the Lady. A rough-hewn ballad, to be 
 found in Bell's Ballads of the Peasantry. 
 
 Page 76. An Elegy. These verses, like Goldsmith's other 
 
196 NOTES 
 
 mock-elegy On Mrs. Mary Blaize, are undoubtedly of French 
 suggestion. Voltaire's epitaph On Freron reads : 
 " L'autre jour, au fond d'un vallon, 
 
 Un serpent mordit Jean Freron. 
 
 Devinez ce qu'il arriva ? 
 
 Ce fut le serpent qui creva." 
 
 Goldsmith elsewhere ridicules the popular fear of mad dogs ( Citi- 
 zen of the World, LXIX). 
 
 Page 78. Ranelagh. A popular resort in London during the 
 latter half of the eighteenth century. * ' A vast amphitheatre, finely 
 gilt, painted, and illuminated, into which everybody that loves eat- 
 ing, drinking, staring, or crowding, is admitted at twelve-pence" 
 (Walpole). 
 
 Page 78. fairing. A ribbon or other trinket bought at a fair. 
 
 Page 78. nymphs and swains. There are no boys and girls, 
 young men and maidens, in the conventional vocabulary of eigh- 
 teenth-century verse. 
 
 Page 78. Fontarabia. A Spanish town where, according to 
 tradition, it was the custom, once a year, for the Spanish country 
 maidens to offer themselves for inspection by possible husbands. 
 
 Page 79. But where is Olivia? With the disappearance of 
 Olivia the tone of the story changes. Its simple descriptive charm 
 becomes secondary in the intention of the author to the exi- 
 gencies of plot. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Page 82. the Wells. Some one of the several watering-places 
 to which the fashionable world resorted, nominally to drink the 
 waters, but really for pleasure. The most famous of these resorts, 
 Bath, is prominent in eighteenth-century literature. 
 
 Page 83. philanthropic bookseller. John Newbury, a friend 
 and patron of Goldsmith's, and publisher of The Traveller. His 
 son, Francis Newbury, published The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 Page 83. Mr. Thomas Trip. Among numerous other books 
 for children, Newbury published The Travels of Tommy Trip. 
 
NOTES 197 
 
 Page 83. Deuterogamists. See note on p. 5 above. 
 
 Page 88. 'Still. Continually ; the older meaning of the word. 
 
 Page 84. Drydens and Otways . . . Shakespeare. Gold- 
 smith evidently preferred the dramatists of the Restoration to the 
 Elizabethans. We cannot wonder that to him, trained in the tra- 
 ditions of the school of Pope, the luxuriant irregularity of Shake- 
 speare and his contemporaries should have compared unfavorably 
 with the measured cadences of Dryden. 
 
 Page 85. Congreve and Farquhar. William Congreve (1669- 
 1729) was the most brilliant of Dryden's immediate successors. 
 George Farquhar (1678-1707) was a special favorite with Goldsmith. 
 She Stoops to Conquer owes something of its spirit and treatment 
 to Farquhar 1 s best-known comedy, The Beaux' Stratagem. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Page 86. Monitor . . . Auditor. London newspapers of strong 
 political bias, which, at the time when The Vicar of Wakefield was 
 written, were busy, the first in opposing, the second in upholding, 
 the Tory administration of Lord Bute. 
 
 Page 86. Ledger. Goldsmith's Citizen of the World papers 
 first appeared in The Public Ledger, a journal of Newbury's. 
 
 Page 86. the king. Undoubtedly George III, who had already 
 (1760) begun his policy of dictation. At no time since the Revo- 
 lution had the liberties of England been in such peril as during 
 the years in which The Vicar of Wakefield was taking shape. Yet 
 such men as Goldsmith and Johnson still clung to the Tory faith. 
 
 Page 86. another-guess. Properly an adverb, " otherwise." 
 The original form of the word is " othergates." 
 
 Page 87. "No, Sir," etc. The political tirade of the Vicar is 
 just the medley of simplicity, Tory prejudice, and common-sense 
 which we should expect from him. 
 
 Page 87. Levellers. ' A party in the Long Parliament, about 
 
198 NOTES 
 
 1647, which advocated the destruction of all distinctions of rank 
 and title" (Hudson). 
 
 Page 87. some are born to command, etc. Compare The 
 Traveller, 371-374: 
 
 11 For just experience tells, in every soil, 
 That those who think must govern those that toil 
 And all that freedom's highest aims can reach 
 Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each." 
 
 Page 89. Cartesian system. The theory of Descartes (French 
 philosopher, 1596-1650) was that each planet and fixed star creates 
 by its rotary motion a vortex or whirlpool in fluid space. 
 
 Page 90. the laws govern the poor, etc. Compare The Travel- 
 ler, 386 : 
 
 " Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law." 
 
 Page 90. a Jesuit. The garb of the English clergy was a favor- 
 ite disguise of the Jesuit leaders Campian and Parsons, who in 1580 
 did so much to advance Eoman Catholic interests in England. As 
 the Vicar is clever at argument, an advocate of absolute authority, 
 and dressed as an English parson, his host finds it easy to suspect 
 him. Perhaps the best embodiment in fiction of the eighteenth- 
 century Jesuit in England is Thackeray's "Father Holt" {Henry 
 Esmond). 
 
 Page 90. saddled with wooden shoes. After the fashion of the 
 priest-ridden French peasantry. 
 
 Page 91. I complied. See Introduction, p. xxx. 
 
 Page 92. Fair Penitent. A tragedy by Rowe (1673-1718). 
 Though little more than an adaptation of Massinger's Fatal 
 Dowry, this play was a prime favorite with the eighteenth century 
 public. The leading r61es, Horatio and Lothario, were for a time 
 taken together by Sheridan and Garrick. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Page 94. No person ever had a better knack, etc. In one of 
 Goldsmith's early letters he says this of himself. There is evi- 
 
NOTES 199 
 
 dently much of his own experience in these adventures of George 
 Primrose. He had been u an usher in an academy " ; had experi- 
 enced Grub Street ; had resigned from the post of companion to a 
 nobleman on account of his unwillingness to be a paid flatterer. 
 He had travelled through Europe, on foot, with the aid of his flute, 
 and had turned a penny by acting as guardian to a penurious youth. 
 He had returned to England as poor as when he set out, and had 
 for a time lived the life of a strolling actor. 
 
 Page 95. anodyne necklace. A necklace worn as a charm 
 against pain. Here, slang for a hangman's halter. 
 
 Page 96. Grub Street. The traditional haunt of the London 
 hack-writer. The antiqua mater is, of course, the muse of the 
 literary drudge. 
 
 Page 96. I thought it my glory, etc. "Alas," says Irving, 
 after quoting this passage, " Dryden struggled with indigence all his 
 days ; and Otway, it is said, fell a victim to famine in his thirty- 
 fifth year, being strangled by a roll of bread, which he devoured 
 with the voracity of a dying man." 
 
 Page 97. Propertius. A Roman elegiac poet, friend of Virgil 
 and Ovid. 
 
 Page 97. a dedication fee. It was still the fashion for the poet 
 to dedicate his work to some wealthy nobleman, who was expected to 
 u come down " handsomely. An excellent illustration of the fawn- 
 ing flattery which characterized these dedications is afforded by 
 Dry den's versified dedication of Palamon and Arcite. Johnson 
 and Goldsmith were among the first to cast off this tradition of 
 obsequiousness. Goldsmith dedicated The Traveller to his brother 
 Henry, a poor Irish parson ; The Deserted Village and She Stoops 
 to Conquer to his friends Sir Joshua Reynolds and Dr. Johnson. 
 
 Page 98. Eastern tales, romantic or allegorical, were popular 
 in the eighteenth century, though they have little interest for us. 
 Goldsmith himself wrote several ; for example, Asem, an Eastern 
 Tale ; or a Vindication of the Wisdom of Providence in the Moral 
 Government of the World. 
 
200 NOTES 
 
 Page 98. Philautos, etc. The fashion of signing articles by 
 fanciful pen-names, now relegated to the amateur correspondent of 
 the daily press, was then the rule, unless, as was even more com- 
 mon, the article went altogether unsigned. 
 
 Page 99. tattering a kip. Eaiding a disorderly house. 
 
 Page 99. pimping and pedigree. Ministering to the sensual 
 pleasures of men of rank. 
 
 Page 99. to fight a duel. Duelling was a capital offence, but 
 still common in England and America, even in the early part of 
 the present century. 
 
 Page 101. Mr. Crispe. The kidnapping scheme which is here 
 outlined is only one of many which were employed in the eighteenth 
 century. Able-bodied men found a ready market in the colonies ; 
 and a fortune waited for any knave who might be clever enough 
 to decoy them. 
 
 Page 102. synod. Probably Mr. Crispe meant (if he meant 
 anything) the colonial assembly. 
 
 Page 104. a tolerable voice. Goldsmith himself had played the 
 flute under similar circumstances. Notice that George Primrose, 
 after the first mention of his voice, speaks not of singing, but of 
 playing : doubtless on Goldsmith's flute. 
 
 Page 105. cognoscente. An incorrect form of the Old Italian 
 cognoscente. Connoisseur ; an authority in matters of art. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 Page 110. Lord Falkland. Killed at Newbury, in 1643, fighting 
 in the cause of Charles I. 
 
 Page 111. cross of her money. One of Touchstone's jests (As 
 You Like It, II. iv) turns upon the fact that English gold and 
 silver coins were formerly stamped on one side with a cross. 
 
 Page 111. with a susserara. In a hurry. "Susserara" is a 
 corruption of " certeriori," a legal term meaning a writ to expedite 
 justice. " I fell in love at once with a sisserara " (Sterne). 
 
NOTES 201 
 
 Page 114. privately performed by a Popish priest. It was a 
 capital crime in England for a Roman Catholic to perform the 
 marriage ceremony between two Protestants, or even between a 
 Protestant and a Roman Catholic. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Page 118. the notes for my daughter's fortune. Bank notes. 
 Many good people in the last century preferred to hoard their 
 money in stocking or teapot rather than trust it out of sight. The 
 Vicar, it must be remembered, has lost his fortune by trusting it 
 in other hands. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Page 121. I'll give you a story. This tale, as well as the Ballad 
 and Elegy, and some of the Vicar's discourses, are probably intro- 
 duced for "padding." See Introduction, p. xxiv. Like the roman- 
 tic episodes in Don Quixote, the story of Matilda has little or 
 nothing to do with the main narrative. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 Page 124. When lovely woman, etc. u The charm of the 
 words, and the graceful way in which they are introduced, seem 
 to have blinded criticism to the impropriety, and even inhumanity, 
 of requiring poor Olivia to sing a song so completely applicable to 
 her own case " (Dobson). 
 
 Page 126. your late bond. See Chapter XXI. 
 
 Page 126. driving. "Driving for rent " ordinarily meant driv- 
 ing the cattle of the delinquent tenant to pound, and holding it as 
 security, or, as happens in the case of the Vicar, even selling it. 
 
 Page 127. those instruments. Consult the dictionary under 
 "caltrap." 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 Page 130. felons and debtors. J. R. Green says of the English 
 jail of this period : " Jailers, who bought their places, were paid by 
 
202 NOTES 
 
 fees, and suffered to extort what they could. Even when acquitted, 
 men were dragged back to their cells for want of funds to discharge 
 the sums they owed to their keepers. Debtors and felons were 
 huddled together in the prisons, which Howard found crowded by 
 the cruel legislation of the day. No separation was preserved be- 
 tween the different sexes, no discipline enforced. Every jail was a 
 chaos of cruelty and the foulest immorality, from which the prisoner 
 could only escape by sheer starvation, or by the jail-fever that 
 festered without ceasing in those haunts of wretchedness. ' ' The 
 matter was made worse by the fact that the debtor had often to 
 bring his family with him, having no means of providing for them. 
 The work of reforming these abuses did not begin till 1774. Im- 
 prisonment for debt was possible in England till 1869. (See 
 Thackeray's Pendennis and Dickens's Little Dorrit.) In Amer- 
 ica the law differs in different states. It is perhaps not generally 
 known that in Massachusetts hundreds of persons are still imprisoned 
 for debt every year. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Page 134. save from famine. Perhaps the most absurd of all 
 the conditions of imprisonment for debt was that the debtor was 
 obliged to furnish his own food and clothing. 
 
 Page 135. For be assured, my friends, etc. See Introduction, 
 p. xxxii. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Page 140. rather to reformation than severity. "At this time 
 over one hundred and fifty offences were punishable in England by 
 death" (Riggs). 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 Page 147. What ! not one left ! Like Macduff's exclamation 
 (Macbeth, IV. iii) : 
 
 "All? 
 
 What ! all my pretty chickens and their dam 
 At one fell swoop? " 
 
NOTES 
 
 Page 149. Honoured Sir. The style of George's letter is that ^ 
 our own great-grandfathers. "Dear Father" at the head of an 
 eighteenth-century letter would have been an unpardonable 
 familiarity. 
 
 Page 151. first transgressor upon the statute. The first edition 
 reads, " I have sent a challenge, and that is death by a late Act of 
 Parliament." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 Page 156. like his horizon, etc. Compare The Traveller, 27-28 : 
 
 " That, like the circle bounding earth and skies, 
 Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 Page 161. counter. A "chip," or disk of metal or ivory used 
 for reckoning gains and losses in games of chance. So Jaques (As 
 You Like It, II. vii) contemptuously offers to wager a counter that 
 the Duke's accusation is false. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 Page 165. object. Cite, or instance. 
 
 Page 166. Tyburn. A familiar place to readers of eighteenth- 
 century literature ; scene of innumerable hangings, those popular 
 spectacles which our forefathers found so enlivening. 
 
 Page 175. And shook their chains, etc. Quoted from Congreve's 
 Mourning Bride, I. ii. 
 
202 
 
INDEX TO NOTES 
 
 Acis and Galatea, 190. 
 Affinity, 184. 
 Anodyne necklace, 199. 
 Another-guess, 197. 
 Assurance, 193. 
 Auditor, 197. 
 
 Ballad, A, 190. 
 
 Barbara Allen, 188. 
 
 Berosus, 194. 
 
 Buck of Beverland, The, 189. 
 
 Bugles, 188. 
 
 Burdock, Dr., 193. 
 
 Cartesian system, The, 198. 
 Catgut, 188. 
 Catskin, 189. 
 Centaury, 189. 
 Champion, The, 195. 
 Chaplain, 189. 
 Chapman, 194. 
 Character, 189. 
 Cognoscento, 200. 
 Confidence, 194. 
 Congreve, 197. 
 Coppers, 187. 
 Counter, 203. 
 Country-dances, 185. 
 Coup de main, 192. 
 Crispe, Mr., 200. 
 Cross of her money, 200. 
 Cut paper, 193. 
 
 Death and the Lady, 195. 
 Dedication fee, 199. 
 Deuce-ace, 185. 
 Deuterogamists, 197. 
 Driving for rent, 201. 
 Drydens and Otways, 197. 
 Dunstan's, St., 190. 
 
 Eastern tales, 199. 
 Elegy, An, 195. 
 Epithet, 190. 
 
 Faces patched, 188. 
 
 Fairing, 196. 
 
 Fair Penitent, 198. 
 
 Fair Rosamond's Bower, 189. 
 
 Falkland, Lord, 200. 
 
 Farquhar, 197. 
 
 Feeder, 189. 
 
 Felons and debtors 5 201. 
 
 Flourishing, 192. 
 
 Fontarabia, 196. - 
 
 Freethinker, 190. 
 
 Gay, 30. 
 
 Gosling green, 194. 
 Gregory, St., 194. 
 Grub Street, 199. 
 
 Hebe, 184. 
 Heralds' office, 184. 
 Hooker, 186. 
 205 
 
206 
 
 INDEX TO NOTES 
 
 Hot cockles, 193. 
 Humourist, 187. 
 
 Jest-book, 195. 
 Jesuit, 198. 
 Jewel, Bishop, 186. 
 Johnny Armstrong, 188. 
 Joseph, 195. 
 
 Kidnapping, 200. 
 Kip, tattering a, 200. 
 
 Laced, 186. 
 Lady's Magazine, 193. 
 Lamb's-wool, 193. 
 Ledger, 197. 
 Levellers, 197. 
 Living, profits of, 185. 
 
 Manetho, 194. 
 Michaelmas, 187. 
 Monitor, 197. 
 Monogamist, 185. 
 Moral, 184. 
 
 Nabob, 192. 
 
 Notable, 184. 
 
 Nymphs and swains, 196. 
 
 Object, 203. 
 
 Ocellus Lucanus, 194. 
 
 Orders, 184. 
 
 Otways, Drydens and, 197. 
 
 Paduasoy, 188. 
 Patient Grissel, 189. 
 Philautos, 200. 
 Pipe and tabor, 187. 
 Plain-work, 193. 
 
 Popish priest, 201. 
 Propertius, 199. 
 
 Quatre, 185. 
 
 Ranelagh, 196. 
 
 Reel, 195. 
 
 Religious Courtship, 190. 
 
 Rout, 193. 
 
 Sanchoniathon, 194. 
 Shakespeare, 197. 
 Shredding, 188. 
 Shrovetide, 187. 
 Smallclothes, 193. 
 Smock race, 192. 
 Smoked, 190. 
 Sound, 193. 
 
 Square, Thwackum and, 190. 
 Stomacher, 195. 
 Susserara, 200. 
 Swearing, 192. 
 Synod, 200. 
 
 Tea, 188. 
 
 Temporalities. 185. 
 Thunder-and-lightning, 194. 
 Thwackum and Square, 190. 
 Trip, Mr. Thomas, 197. 
 Tyburn, 203. 
 
 Under gentlemen, 191. 
 Vacant, 189. 
 
 Wafers, 194. 
 Wells, The, 196. 
 Whiston, 185. 
 
BOOKS PRESCRIBED FOR COLLEGE 
 ENTRANCE EXAMINATIONS. 
 
 For Reading. 
 
 1899. 
 
 For Study. 
 
 Cooper Last of the Mohicans. 
 Dryden Palamon and Arcite. 
 Addison Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 Goldsmith Vicar of Wakefield. 
 Coleridge Ancient Manner. 
 De Quincey Revolt of the Tartars. 
 Pope Iliad, Books I., VI., XXII., 
 XXIV. 
 
 Shakespeare Macbeth. 
 
 Milton Paradise Lost, Books 
 and II. 
 
 Burke Speech on Conciliation. 
 Carlyle Essay on Burns. 
 
 For Reading. 
 
 Tennyson The Princess. 
 
 Scott Ivanhoe. 
 
 De Quincey Revolt of the Tartars. 
 
 Pope Iliad, Books I., VI., XXII., 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Cooper Last of the Mohicans. 
 Dryden Palamon and Arcite. 
 Addison Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 Goldsmith Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 19OO. 
 
 For Study. 
 
 Macaulay Essays on Milton and 
 Addison. 
 
 Burke Speech on Conciliation. 
 Shakespeare Macbeth. 
 Milton Paradise Lost, Books I. 
 and II. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
 
BOOKS PRESCRIBED FOR COLLEGE 
 ENTRANCE EXAMINATIONS. 
 
 For Reading. 
 
 1901. 
 
 Eliot Silas Marner. 
 
 Shakespeare Macbeth. 
 
 Pope Iliad, Books I., VI., XXII., 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Addison Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 Goldsmith Vicar of Wakefield. 
 Coleridge Ancient Mariner. 
 Tennyson The Princess. 
 Scott Ivanhoe. 
 Cooper Last of the Mohicans. 
 
 For Study. 
 
 Shakespeare Macbeth. 
 
 Milton L'Allegro, II Penseroso, 
 
 Comus, and Lycidas. 
 Burke Speech on Conciliation. 
 Macaulay Essays on Milton and 
 
 Addison. 
 
 For Reading. 
 
 1902. 
 
 Pope Iliad, Books I., VI., XXII., 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Addison Sir Roger de Coverley. 
 Coleridge Ancient Mariner. 
 Eliot Silas Marner. 
 Shakespeare Merchant of Venice. 
 Tennyson The Princess. 
 Scott Ivanhoe. 
 Cooper Last of the Mohicans. 
 Goldsmith -Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 For Study. 
 
 Shakespeare Macbeth. 
 Burke Speech on Conciliation. 
 Milton L'Allegro, II Penseroso, 
 
 Comus, and Lycidas. 
 Macaulay Essays on Milton and 
 
 Addison. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
 
Exercises in Rhetoric and English 
 Composition* 
 
 By GEORGE R. CARPENTER, 
 
 Professor of Rhetoric and English Composition, Columbia College. 
 
 HIGH SCHOOL COURSE. SEVENTH EDITION. 
 i6mo. Cloth. Price 75 cents, net. 
 
 ADVANCED COURSE. FOURTH EDITION. 
 I2mo. Cloth. Price $1.00, net. 
 
 " This work gives the student the very gist and germ of the art of composi- 
 tion." Public Opinion. 
 
 " G. R. Carpenter, Professor of Rhetoric and English Composition in Colum- 
 bia College, has prepared a work under the title of ' Exercises in Rhetoric and 
 English Composition,' in which not so much the science of Rhetoric is mapped 
 out and defined as the practical workings of the art are furnished to the student 
 with just enough of the principles to guide him aright. The author gives an 
 abundance of exercises for the student to study and analyze, and this is the very 
 best kind of help. The scheme of the subject-matter is somewhat unique and 
 novel, but it is comprehensive and lucid. . . . A very serviceable and suggestive 
 book to read and consult." Education. 
 
 11 The text represents the substance of teaching which a freshman may fairly 
 be expected to compass, and it is set forth with a clearness and directness and 
 brevity so admirable as to make the volume seem almost the realization of that 
 impossible short method of learning to write which has often been sought for, 
 but never with a nearer approach to being found. . . . We do not hesitate to 
 give unreserved commendation to this little book." The Nation. 
 
 " Seldom has so much good common sense been put within so brief a space." 
 The Boston Herald. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
 
Studies in Structure and Style* 
 
 BASED ON SEVEN MODERN ENGLISH ESSAYS. 
 
 By W. T. BREWSTER, A.M., 
 
 Tutor in Rhetoric and English in Columbia University. 
 
 With an Introduction by G. R. CARPENTER, A.B., Professor of Rhetoric and 
 English Composition in Columbia University. 
 
 Cloth. iamo. $1.10. 
 
 The Seven Essays referred to are : J. A. Froude's " The Defeat of the Span- 
 ish Armada," R. L. Stevenson's " Personal Experience and Review," John 
 Morley's " Macaulay," Matthew Arnold's " On the Study of Celtic Literature," 
 James Bryce's " The Strength of American Democracy," John Ruskin's "The 
 Crown of Wild Olive," and J. H. Newman's " What is a University? " 
 
 It is of too recent publication to have been in class-room use, but will be 
 introduced at the beginning of another school year in a number of schools. 
 
 " It is well conceived, and the selections are excellent for their purpose." 
 Prof. Felix E. Schilling, University of Pennsylvania. 
 
 " The selections seem to be chosen with good judgment, and the notes to 
 be careful and instructive." Prof. Fred P. Emery, Dartmouth College, 
 Hanover , N.H. 
 
 " I am even more pleased with the book than I had expected to be. ... I 
 shall certainly try to introduce the book into one of my classes next fall." 
 Miss Anna H. Smith, High School, Binghamton, N.Y. 
 
 " ' Studies in Structure and Style ' is, I think, the best book of the kind that 
 has yet appeared, and I shall be glad to recommend it to my classes." Prof . 
 Edwin M. Hopkins, University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kan. 
 
 " I have delayed to acknowledge Brewster's ' Studies in Structure and Style,' 
 which you kindly sent me, until I could examine it with some care. That exami- 
 nation is very satisfactory. The selections are well chosen, and the comments 
 both on their structure and their style are distinctly valuable. The work can 
 hardly fail to be of large service." MiSS E. G. WillCOX, Wellesley College, Mzss. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. 
 
14 DAY USE 
 
 RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED 
 LOAN DEPT. 
 
 This book is due on the last date stamped below, or 
 
 on the date to which renewed. 
 Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 
 
 3lJan'59RH 
 
 19Nov59FC 
 
 
 
 jftABJL 
 
 ii 
 o 
 
 B 
 
YA 0205 
 
 U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES