Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN \* THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES /c 7 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. LONDON : PRINTRI) BY WOODFAIjL AND KINDKR, AN'GEI, COURT, SRINNKR STRKKT. THE VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH. WITH THIRTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS, BY WILLIAM MULREADY, R.A. LONDON : JOHN VAN VOORST, PATERNOSTER ROW, MDCCOLV. \^6S b Embellishments of English books have usually been characterised by those powers of art which ap- peal more particularly to the eye. The object aimed at in tliis attempt to illustrate the most popular of Goldsmith's Works is, that character and composition may, with the aid of drawing, appeal directly to the imderstanding. It is presumed that the most distin- guished talent of British Art applicable to this pvupose has been obtained. To Mr. Mulready sufficient acknowledgment cannot be made for his liberal zeal in the under- taking ; and in this he has been ably seconded by Mr. John Thompson, by whom his designs have been engraved. December, 1S42. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. I. THE WEDDING DRESS . . . . .1 II. THE VICAR'S DISPUTE WITH WILMOT . . 7 III. THE MIGRATION ACCIDENT . . . .14 IV. FLAMBOROUGH AND THE PIPER ... 25 V. CONCERT IN THE ARBOUR, AND APPROACH OF THORNHILL 31 VI. HAYMAKING.— BURCHELL AND SOPHIA . . 37 VII. DISPUTE BETWEEN MOSES AND THORNHILL . . 43 VIII. DINING IN THE HAY-FIELD •. . . .50 IX. TOO LATE FOR CHURCH .... 60 X. FUDGE . ' . . . . . .66 XI. MOSES GOING TO THE FAIR .... 73 XII. THE VICAR SHOWING HIS HORSE BLACKBERRY . ' . 81 XIII. BURCHELL'S POCKET-BOOK FOUND ... 90 XIV. NEARLY OF A SIZE . . . . .96 XV. THE ELOPEMENT ... . . 106 XVI. THE VICAR, THE STROLLER, AND THE BUTLER . . 115 XVII. GEORGE BRIBING THE SERVANT . . .124 XVIII. MR. CRISPE'S- OFFICE . . . . .137 XIX. GEORGE AND THE COTTAGERS . . .145 Vlli LIST or ILLUSTRATIONS. XX. OLIVIA,, THORNHILL, AND THE YOUNG BARONET . 158 XXI. THE FIRE ...... 181 XXII. OLIVIA'S MISERY . . . . . .194 XXIII. THE CATTLE DRIVEN FOR THE RENT . . 201 XXIV. ATTEMPT TO RESCUE . . . . .209 XXV. THE VICAR PAYING HIS FOOTING . . .317 XXVI. THE FIRST EXHORTATION . . . .225 XXVII. REFORMATION • • • . • 284 XXVIII. ABDUCTION OF SOPHIA . . . . .241 XXIX. SERMON IN THE CELL XXX. RETURN OF SOPHIA .... XXXI. CONVICTION OP THORNHILL . . .378 XXXII. COMPLIMENTS AT THE ALTAR . . . .301 257 265 ADVERTISEMENT. There are a hundred faults in this thing-, and a hundred things might be said to prove them beauties. But it is needless. A book may be amusing- with numerous eiTors, "or it may be very dull withovit a single absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in him- self the tlu'ee greatest characters upon earth : he is a priest, a 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 cha- racter please ? Such as are fond of high life, will turn wdth disdain from the simplicity of his comitry fire- side. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his harmless conversation ; and such as have been taught to deride religion, will laugh at one, whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity. Oliver Goldsmith. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE DESCRIPTION OF THE lAillLY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDEED LIKENESS TEEVAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS CHAPTER II. FAMILY inSFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY .... CHAPTER III. A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LR'ES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN PROCURING . 14 CHAPTER IV. A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBI^EST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPI- NESS, WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES BUT CONSTITUTION 25 CHAPTER V. A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. WHAT WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST FATAL . . 31 xii CONTENTS. CHAPTER VI. PAGE THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIEE-SIDE . . . .37 CHAPTER Vn. A TOWN WIT DESCEIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO . . . .43 CHAPTER VHI. AN AMOUR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH . . . . . .50 CHAPTER IX. TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING . . .60 CHAPTER X. THE FAMILY ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS. THE MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES . . . . . .66 CHAPTER XL THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS . . 73 CHAPTER Xn. FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD. MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALA- MITIES ........ 81 CONTENTS. xiii CHAPTER XIII. PAGE MR. BUECHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY ; FOE HE HAS THE CON- FIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE . . . .90 CHAPTER XIV. FRESH MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING CALA- MITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS . . , . .96 CHAPTER XVv ALL MR. BUECHELL'S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. THE FOLLY OF BEING OVEE-WISE ....... 106 CHAPTER XVI. THE FAMILY USE AET, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL GREATER . 115 CHAPTER XVII. SCARCELY ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION ...... 124 CHAPTER XVIII. THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO \T:RTUE , 137 CHAPTER XIX. THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBER- TIES . . . . . . . . 145 xiv CONTENTS. CHAPTER XX. PAGE THE HISTOKY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT ....... 158 CHAPTER XXI. THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION . . 181 CHAPTER XXII. OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM 194 CHAPTER XXIII. NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MISERABLE 201 CHAPTER XXIV. FRESH CALAMITIES .....•• 209 CHAPTER XXV. NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT ..... 217 CHAPTER XXVI. A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL. TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE THEY SHOULD REWARD AS A^^ELL AS PUNISH .... 225 CHAPTER XXVII. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED ..... 234 CONTENTS. XV CHAPTER XXVIII. PAGE HAPPINKSS AND MISEEY RATHER THE RESULT OF I'RUDENCE THAN OF VIRTUE IN THIS LIFE. TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING REGARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRI- FLING, AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION . . 241 CHAPTER XXIX. THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PRO\^DENCE DEMONSTRATED WITH REGARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW. THAT FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE LIFE HERE- AFTER ........ 257 CHAPTER XXX. HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET US BE INFLEXIBLE AND FORTUNE VTLJJ, AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOUR . . . 265 CHAPTER XXXI. FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEXPECTED INTEREST . 278 CHAPTER XXXII. THE CONCLUSION . . ... . . . 301 and chose my wife, as she did her weddinggown — Page 2, CHAPTER I. THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS AS OP PERSONS. I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up a hirge family, did more ser- vice than he wlio continued single and only talked of population. From this motive, I had scarcely taken orders a year, before I began to think seriously of 2 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. matrimony, and chose my wife, as she did her wedding- gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good- natured, notable woman ; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling ; bvit for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent con- triver in house-keeping ; though I covdd never find that we grew richer wdth all her contrivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fond- ness increased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine comitry, and a good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements ; in visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our adventures were by the fire-side, and all our migra- tions from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I profess with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the for- tieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 3 help from the Heralds' office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that as they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same table. So that if we had not very rich, we generally had very happy friends about us ; for this remark will hold good 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 butterfly, so I was by natm-e an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a 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 knowai to turn the traveller or the poor dependent out of doors. Thus we lived several years in a state of much hap- piness, not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of its 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my wife's custards plundered by the cats or the children. The 'Squire would sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady retvu-n my -wife's civilities at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days began to wonder how they vexed us. My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without softness, so they were at once well formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the support of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Comit Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second's progress through Germany, while other courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty- two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this man- ner, 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 micle, who left us ten thou- sand pomids. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel ; but my wife, who during her pregnancy had been reading romances, insisted upon her THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 5 being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another davighter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia : so that we had two romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was oiu' next, and after an interval of twelve years, we had two sons more. It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, "Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole comitry:" — "Ay, neighbom'," she would answer, " they are as Heaven made them, handsome enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome does." And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circum- stance with me, that I should scarcely have remembered to mention it, had it not been a general topic of conver- sation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty, with which painters generally draw Hebe ; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features were not so striking at first, but often did more certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features, at least it was so with my daugh- ters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sopliia 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 entertained me with her viva- city 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 natm'al vivacity. My eldest son George was bred at Oxford ; as I intended him for one of the learned pro- fessions. 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 yomig 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. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony. - Pa^e U. 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 imder 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 om- diocese ; for having a fortvme of 8 THE VTCAR OF WAKEFIELD. my owii, I was careless of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony; so that in a few years it was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, yomig men wanting wives, and ale-houses want- ing customers. Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its happiness ; but there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point of supporting : for I maintained with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the Chvu'ch 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 contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more important it ap- THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 9 peared. I even went a step beyond Wliiston in display- ing my principles : as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston ; so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wdfe, 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 fide- lity to her ; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of her end. It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the Chiu"ch, and in circumstances to give her a large for- tune : but fortmie 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 com- plexion so transparent, and such a haj)py sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very hand- some settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match ; so botli families lived together in all that 10 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. harmony wliich generally precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of court- ship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period ; and the various amuse- ments wliich the yomig couple every day shared in each other's company seemed to increase their passion. We were generally awakened in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hmiting. 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, wliich even philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead; for as she always in- sisted upon carving every. thing herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the liistory of every dish. When we had chned, to prevent the ladies lea\ing us, I generally ordered the table to be removed ; and sometimes, with the music-master's assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country-dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 11 time we played together : I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce-ace five times rmniing. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the yoimg couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters : in fact, my attention was fixed on another object, the completing a tract wliich I intended shortly to publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon tliis as a master- piece, both for argmnent 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 ap- probation ; 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, pro- duced a dispute attended with some acrimony, whicli 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 tlie meantime, while 12 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at least till my son's wedding- was over. "How!" cried I, "relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be a husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity. You might as well advise me to give up my fortune, as my arginnent." — "Your fortmie," 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 shil- ling 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 yoiu: warmth in the argu- ment ; for I suppose your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the yomig 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 '11 go this moment and in- form the company of my circumstances ; and as for the argument, I even here retract my former concessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow him now to be a husband in any sense of the exj^ression." It would be endless to describe the different sensa- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 13 tions of both families, when I divulged the news of our misfortune ; but what others felt was slight to what the lovers ajDpeared to endiu'e. 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. she muRt have certainly perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief.— Page 23. CHAPTER III. A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN PROCURING. The only hope of our family now was, that the re- port of our misfortmies might be malicious or prema- ture ; but a letter from my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortmie to myself alone would have been trifling ; the only imeasiness I felt was for my family, who were to THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 15 be humble without an education to render them cal- lous to contempt. Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their affliction ; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of sorrow. During this interval, my thoughts were employed on some future means of sup- porting them ; and at last a small cure of fifteen pomids 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 tliis resolution, my next care was to get together the wrecks of my fortmie ; and, all debts collected and paid, out of fom'teen thousand pomids we had but four hmidred 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 om's could have prevented oiu' late misfortmie ; but prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without repining, give up those splendoui's with which nmnbers are wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that 10 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. peace with which all may be happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help ; why, then, should we not learn to live without theirs ? No, my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility ; we have still enough left for happiness if we are vnse, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune." As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most distressful cir- cumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on wliich we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after takmg leave of his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. Tliis I gave him from my heart, and wliich, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow. " You are going, my boy," cried I, " to London on foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me the same horse that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, this staff; and take this book too, it will be your com- fort on the way : these two lines in it are worth a mil- lion ; ' I have been young, and now am old ; yet never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 17 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 honoiu', I was mi- der no apprehensions from throwng 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 scarcely fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with apprehension ; and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles, contributed to 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 knew, how- ever, the whole neighbourhood to which I was removing, particularly 'Squire Tiiornhill, who was to be my land- lord, and who lived witliin a few miles of the place. 18 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. This gentleman he described as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures, being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarcely a farmer's daughter within ten miles romid, but what had found him success- ful and faithless. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph ; nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue. While oui" thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to inform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reck- oning. " Want money ! " replied the host, " that must be impossible ; for it was no later than yesterday he paid tlu*ee guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog-steal- ing." 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 anotlier, when 1 begged the landlord woiild 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, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 19 dressed in clothes that once were hiced. 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. Uj)on the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. " I take it with all my heart, sir," replied he, " and am glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had about me, has shown me that there are still some men like you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as possible." In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove. " This," cried he, "happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been de- tained here two days by the floods, which I liope by to-morrow will be found passable." I testified the plea- sure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. Tlie stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now high time to 20 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day. The next morning we all set forward together : my family on horseback, wliile Mr. Burchell, our new- companion, walked along the footpath by the road-side, observing with a smile, that as we were ill-momited, 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 miderstand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road. "That," cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at some dis- tance, "belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, thovigh entirely dependent on the will of his micle, Sir William Thornhill, a gen- tleman who, content with a little himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and cliiefly resides in town." — "What!" cried I, "is my yomig landlord, then, the nephew of a man whose virtues, generosity, and sin- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 21 gularities are so universally known ? I have heard Sir William Thomliill represented as one of the most gene- rous, yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate benevolence." — " Something, perhaps, too much so," replied Mr. Bm'chell, "at least he earned benevolence to an excess when yomig ; 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 scholar ; was soon distinguished m the army, and had some reputation among men of learning. Adula- tion ever follows the ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was smTounded with crowds, who showed him only one side of their charac- ter ; so that he began to lose a regard for private inte- rest m luiiversal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; for fortmie 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, tliis gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul labom'ed luider a sickly sen- sibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to re- lieve, it will be easily conjectm-ed, he fomid numbers 22 THE VICAR OF "WAKEFIELD. 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 sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this he drew romid him crowds of dependents whom he was sure to disap- point, yet wished to relieve. These himg upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he became contempti- ble to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he coidd find no pleasure in the applause of liis heart, which he had never learnt to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends began to dwuidle into simple approbation. Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when rejected produced their reproaches. He now therefore found, that such friends as benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable : he now found that a man's own heart must TflE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. 23 be ever given to gain that of another. I now fonnd, 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 pui'pose, in his own whimsical maimer, he travelled tln-ough Em-ope on foot, and now, though he has scarcely at- tained 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 a humorist, and finds most pleasm-e in eccentric virtues." My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell's accomit, that I scarcely looked forward as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of my family ; when tm-ning, I perceived my yomigest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She had simk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too vdolent to permit my attempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some diffi- culty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the cm-rent a little farther u)), the rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportmiity of 24 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. joining our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined than described ; she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive assist- ance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasm'e of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined to- gether, as Mr. Burchell was going to a different part of the country, he took leave ; and we piu'sued our jour- ney, my wife observing, as we went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and for- tune 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 displeased with those harmless delu- sions that tend to make us more happy. These harmless people had several ways of being good corapany; while one played. the other would sing some soothing ballad. — Page O-S. 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 neighbour- hood, consisting 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 them- selves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of superfluities. Remote from the polite, they still retained 26 THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. the primeval simplicity of maimers ; and frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of laboui* ; but ob- served festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Clu'istmas carol, sent true-love knots on Valentine morning, eat pancakes on Slu:ove-tide, showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas-eve. Being apprized of our approach, the whole neighboiu'hood came out to meet their minister, drest in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor : a feast was also provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down ; and what the conversation wanted in wit was made up in laughter. Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river before : on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a hundred pound for my predecessor's good will. Notliing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures ; the elms and hedge- rows appearing wdth 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 mider- took to adorn them with pictures of their own design- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 27 ing. Though the same room served us for parlom* auci kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters within om' own, and the thii'd, with two beds, for the rest of the childi-en. The little republic to which I gave laws, was regu- lated in the following mamier : by smurise we all assem- bled in oiu* common apartment ; the fire being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good-breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pm'sue 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 horn- for this meal, and an hour for dmner ; which time was taken up in innocent mii'th between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me. 28 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. As we rose with the smi, so we never pursued oui- labours 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 recep- tion. 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, — Jolnmy Armstrong's last goodnight, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the man- ner we began the morning, my yomigest boys being ap- pointed to read the lessons of the day, and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a half- penny 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 lectiKes against pride had con- quered the vanity of my daughters, yet I fomid them still 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 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 29 The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served to mortify me : I had desired my girls the preceding night to be di'essed early the next day ; for I always loved to be at chui'ch a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my direc- tions ; but when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters drest out, in all their former splendour: their hair 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, par- ticularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only re- source was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. — The girls were amazed at the com- mand; 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 chm'ch in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us." — " Indeed," replied my wife, " I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him." — " You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, " and I shall love you the better 80 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. for it ; but all tliis is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings, and patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of our neighboiu's. No, my children," continued I, more gravely, " those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut ; for finery is very mibecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether such ilomicing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world may 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 find- ing 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 tliis cur- tailing. ■ At last, a youn^ genUeman of a more genteel appearance than the rest came foi-rcarrl . and for a while regarding us. instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us with a careless superior air. Page 33 CHAPTER V. A NEW AND GKEAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. WHAT WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST FATAL. At a small distance from the house, my predecessor had made a seat, overshaded by a hedge of hawthorn and honey-suckle. Here, when the weather was fine and our labour soon finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm of the 32 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 to us, and they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sang to the guitar ; and while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished wdth blue-bells and centam-y, talk of our children with raptiu'e, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony. In this mamier we began to find that every situation in life might bring its own peculiar pleasiu'es : every morning waked us to a repetition of toil ; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. It was about the beginning of autuimi, on a holiday, for I kept such' as intervals of relaxation from labom*, that I had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our yomig musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bomid 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 per- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. S'3 ceived the dogs and liorsemen come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it had taken. I was instantly for retmning in with my fa- mily ; but either cmiosity or surprise, or some more liidden motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The hmitsman, 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 a more genteel appearance than the rest came forward, and for awhile regarding us, instead ot pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us with a care- less superior air. He seemed to want no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain of a kind reception ; but they had early learned the lesson of looking presumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know his name was Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate that lay for some ex- tent around us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part of the family ; and such was the power of fortmie and iine clothes that he found no second repulse. As liis address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar ; and perceiving nuisical instruments lying near, lie begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such disproportioned 34 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters, in order to prevent their compliance ; but my hint was counteracted by one from their mother : so that with a cheerful air they gave us a favoui'ite song of Dryden's. Mr. Thorn- hill seemed highly delighted with their performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very indifferently ; however, my eldest daugh- ter repaid his former applause with interest, and as- sured him that his tones were louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a courtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his vmderstanding : 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 fa- mily 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 endea- vours could scarcely keep their dirty fingers from hand- ling 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 till THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 35 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 at last brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them ; and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinkles should marry great fortunes and her children get none. As this last argument was directed to me, I protested I could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr. Simkins 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 oiu new visitor ? Don't you think he seemed to be good-natured?" — "Immensely so, indeed, mamma," replied she, " I think he has a great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at a loss ; and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say." — "Yes," cried Olivia, "he is well enough for a man; but for my part, I don't much like him, he is so ex- tremely impudent and familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking." These two last speeches I interpreted by 36 THE VICAR OF AVAKEFTELD. contraries. I found by tliis that Sophia internally de- spised, as much as Olivia secretly admired him. " What- ever may be your opinions of him, my children," cried I, "to confess the 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 be- tween 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 fortmie-hunting women should not be contemptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! I should shudder but to think of that ! It is true I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my chil- dren ; but I think there are some from his character." I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the 'Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This w^ell-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favour, than anything I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to avoid it. That virtvie which re- quires to be ever guarded, is scarcely worth the sentinel. I could not avoid, however, observii:i$ the assiduity nf Mr, BurclieUin .issistinft my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. Pa§.= W CHAPTER VI. THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIEE-SIDE. • As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order to accommodate matters, it was miiversally agreed, that we slvoukl have a part of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. " I am sorry," cried I, *' that we have no neighbour or stranger to take a part in this good 38 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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." — " Con- fute me in argument, child ! " cried I. " You mistake there, my dear. I believe there are but few that can do that : I never dispute your abilities at making a goose- pie, and I beg you '11 leave argument to me." As I spoke, poor Mr. Bm'chell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair. I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons : because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. He was knowai in our neighbom'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 in- tervals talk with great good sense ; but in general he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads and telling them stories ; and seldom went out without something in his pockets for them ; a piece of gingerbread or a halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few days into om* neighbom'- hood once a year, and lived upon the neighbours' hospi- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 30 tality. He sat down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went romid ; he sung us old songs, and gave the chiklren the story of The Buck of Beverland, with the History of Patient Grissel, the Adventm*es of Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond's Bower. Om* cock which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for repose ; hut an unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the stranger ; all oiu' 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. Biu'chell 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- creatm-e. The greatest stranger in tliis world, was He that came to save it. He never had a house, as if will- ing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear," cried I to my wife, " give those boys a lump of sugar each ; and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first." In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and om- guest 40 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. offering his assistance, he was accepted among the num- ber. 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. Bm'chell 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 ambi- tion, to be under any imeasiness from a man of broken fortime. When we were finished for the day, Mr. Bm-chell was invited as on the night before ; but he re- fused, as he was to lie that night at a neighbom-'s, to whose child he was carrying a whistle. Wlien gone, our conversation at supper tm'ned 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 extravagance ! He by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor forlorn creature, where are now the revellers, the fiatterers, that he could once inspire and command ! Gone, per- haps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised liim, and now they applaud the pander : their former raptm'es at his wit are now converted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 41 and perhaps deserves poverty ; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be useful." Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. " Whatsoever his former con- duct may have been, papa, his circumstances should ex- empt 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 scom'ge of its resentment." — "You are right, Sophy," cried my son Moses, *'and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the ftible 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 if in their place. However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apartment suf- ficiently lightsome : and, to confess a truth, tliis man's mind seems fitted to his station ; for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when he con- versed with you." This was said without the least de- sign; however, it excited a blush, which she strove to G 42 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. cover by an affected laugh ; assimng him, that she scarcely 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 sus- picions. As we expected our landlord the next day, my 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 mend- ing the complexion they spoiled it. I therefore ap- proached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident, overtm^ned the whole composition, and it was too late to begin another. — This effectually raised the lau^h against poor Moses - CHAPTER VII. Page 46, A TOWN WIT DESCKIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEAKN TO BE COMICAL FOE A NIGHT OE TWO. When the morning arrived on which we were to en- tertain our young lancUord, it may he easily suj3posed what provisions were exhausted to make an appearance. It may also he conjectured tliat my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his cliaplain and feeder. The servants, who were nmnerous, he 44 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. politely ordered to the next aleliovise : but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had liinted to us the day before, that he was making proposals of mar- riage 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 embarrass- ment; for one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr. Thornliill 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 at St. Dunstan's." At tliis 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 Chm'ch was the only mistress of his affections. " Come, tell VIS honestly, Frank," said the 'Squire, with his usual archness, " suppose the Chiu'ch, your present mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other ; which would you THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 45 be for?" — " For both, to be siu'e," 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, 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 wnking on the rest of the company, to prepare us for the sport, " if you are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it analogically, or dialogically ? " — " I am for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. " Good again," cried the 'Squire; "and firstly, of the first. I hope you '11 not deny that whatever is, is. If you don't grant me that I can go no fm-ther." — " Why," returned Moses, " I think I may grant that, and make the best of it," — "I hope, too," retm-ned 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 three angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones." — " Nothing can be plainer," returned t'other, and looked 40 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. round with his usual importance. " Very well," cried the 'Squire, speaking very quickly; " the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe that the concatena- tion of self-existence, proceeding in a reciprocal dupli- cate ratio, natm'ally produces a problematical dialogism, which in some measm'e proves that the essence of spi- rituality may be referred to the second predicable." — " Hold, hold," cried the other, " I deny that. Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doc- trines?" — "What!" replied the 'Squire, as if in a pas- sion, " not submit ! Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right when he says, that relatives are related?"—" Undoubtedly," reiDlied the other. "If so, then," cried the 'Squire, " answer me directly to what I propose : Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus ? and give me your reasons: give me your reasons, I say, directly." — "I protest," cried Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the force of yom- reasoning; but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an an- swer." — " O, Sir," cried the 'Squire, " I am yoiu- most humble servant; I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, Sir, there I pro- test you are too hard for me." This effectually raised THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 47 the laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal ligui'e 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 humom', though but a mere act of the memory. She thought him, therefore, a very fine gentleman ; and such as consider what powerful ingredients a good figm-e, fine clothes, and fortune are in that character, will easily for- give her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstanding his real igno- rance, 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 affec- tions of a girl w'ho by education was taught to value an appearance in herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in another. Upon his departm'e, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of oiu" young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to 01i\aa, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our \asitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister upon tliis occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the day, aud exulted in her daughter's vic- tory as if it were her own. " And now, my dear," cried 48 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. she to me, *' I '11 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 line fortmie 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 liim for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a thou- sand vicious thoughts which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion may be involmi- tary with this gentleman ; so that allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is piu*ely passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for his errors, than the governor of a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy." " True, my son," cried I ; " but if the governor invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they see ; but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 49 though oiu' erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for ovu- folly." My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argument: she observed, that several very prudent men of oiu* acquaintance were freetliinkers, and made very good husbands ; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to make converts of their spouses : " And who knows, my dear," continued she, " what Olivia may be able to do ? The girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled in controversy." " Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?" cried I. " It does not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands : you certainly 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 Sqviare ; the contro- versy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, and I am now employed in reading the controversy in Religious Courtship." "Very well," cried I, "that's a good girl; I find you are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your mother to make the gooseberry -pic." H So loud a report, and so near, startled ray daughters : and I could perceive that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell s arms for protection — Page 08. CHAPTER VIII. AN AMOUR, WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be dis- pleased with the frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse him my company and fireside. It is true his labour more than requited his entertainment ; for he wrought among us with vigour, and either in the meadow THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 51 or at the hay-rick put himself foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dis- like 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, romid a temperate repast, oiu: cloth spread upon the hay, wliile 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 oiu: hands, and every somid seemed but the echo of tranquillity. " I never sit thus," said 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 a hun- dred times with new rapture." — " In my opinion," cried my son, " the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the Acis and Galatea of 0\ad. The 52 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Roman poet understands tlie use of contrast better, and upon that figure artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends." — " It is remarkable," cried Mr. Bm'ch- ell, " that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respec- tive comitries, 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 combina- tion of luxm'iant images, without plot or connexion ; a string of epithets that improve the sound, without carry- ing on the sense. But perhaps, madam, wliile I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to have an opportunity of intro- ducing to the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned." A BALLAD. " Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. " For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem length'ning as I go." THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 53 " 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 Wbate'cr 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 Heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell ; The modest stranger lowly bends. And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obiscure, The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighb'ring poor. And strangers led astray. 54 THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. No stores beneath its humble thatch Eequir'd a master's care ; The wicket, op'ning with a latch, Eeceiv'd the harmless pair. And now, when busy crowds retire To take their ev'ning rest ; The Hermit trimm'd his little fire. And cheer'd his pensive guest : And spread his vegetable store, And gaily press'd and smil'd ; And skill'd in legendary lore. The ling'ring hours beguiled. Around, in sympathetic mirth. Its tricks the kitten tries. The cricket chirrups in the hearth. The crackling faggot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spy'd, With answ'ring care opprcss'd : " And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, " The sorrows of thy breast ? " From better habitations spurn'd. Reluctant dost thou rove 1 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love ? " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling, and decay ; And those Avho prize the paltry things. More trifling still than they. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 55 " And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep ; A shade that folloAvs wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep 1 " And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest : On earth unseen, or onl}- found To warm the turtle's nest. '•' For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush. And spurn the sex," he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. 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 confest A maid in all her charms ! " And Ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn ! " she cried ; " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrado Where heaven and you reside : " But let a maid thy pity share. Whom love has taught to stray : Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. " My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine. He had but only me. 50 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. " To win me from his tender arms, Unmimber'd suitors came ; WIio praised me for imputed cliarms, And felt or feign'd a flame. " Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proft'ers strove ; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. " In humble, simplest habit clad. No wealth nor power had he ; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. " And when, beside me in the dale. He caroU'd lays of love, His breath lent fragrance to the gale, And music to the grove. " The blossom opening to the day. The dews of Heav'n 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 triumph'd in his pain. " Till quite dejected with my scorn. He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret where he died. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 57 " But mine tlic sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I '11 seek the solitude he sought. And stretch me where he lay. " And there forlorn despairing hid, I '11 lay me down and die; 'T was so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I." " Forbid it, Heav'n ! " the Hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast; The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide, — 'T was Edwin's self that press'd. " Turn, Angelina, ever dear. My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee. " Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign ; And shall wc never, never part, My life, — my all that 's mine ! " No, never, from this hour to part, We '11 live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too." While this hallad was reading, Soj^hia seemed to mix an ail' of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the 'Squire's chaplain, 68 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters ; and I could perceive that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of oiu 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 in- duced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, dis- covered her pride in a wliisper, 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 refresh- ments, and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grass-plot before our door. "Nor can I deny," continued he, "but I have an in- terest 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 ; THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 59 "but here," continued she, "is a gentleman," h)oking- at Mr. Burchell, " who has been my companion in the task for the clay, 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 conceive how so sensible a girl as my yomigest, 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 abili- ties, adapted for mutual inspection. And when I got about halfway home, perceived the procession marching slo-wly forward towards the church:— Pagfe 72 CHAPTER IX. TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. Mr. Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and Sophia consented to dance with the chaplain, when my little ones came running out to tell us that the 'Squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon our return, we fomid our landlord, with a couple of under-gentlemen THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 01 and two young ladies riclily dressed, whom he intro- duced as women of very great distinction and fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough for the whole company ; but Mr. Thornhill immediately proposed that every gentleman should sit in a lady's lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was, therefore, sent to borrow a couple of chairs ; and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set at comitry- dances, the two gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and partners were soon pro- vided. The gentlemen returned with my neighbom- Flamborough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red top- knots. But an milucky circumstance was not adverted to ; though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and miderstood the jig and the round-about to perfection, yet they were totally unacquainted with country dances. This at first discom- posed us : however, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily on. Qui' 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 62 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. grace and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid dis- covering the pride of her heart, by assuring me that though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked; but all would not do : the gazers indeed owned that it was fine ; but neighbour Flamborough observed, that Miss Livy's feet seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her senti- ments upon tliis occasion in a very coarse mamier, when she observed, that, by the " living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat." Upon our retiu'n to the house, we fomid a very elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thornliill had ordered to be brought with him. The conversation at this time was more reserved than before. The two ladies threw my girls quite into the shade ; for they would talk of nothing but high life, and high-lived company ; with other fashionable topics, such as pic- tures, taste, Shakspeare, and the musical glasses. 'T is true, they once or twice mortified us sensibly by slip- ping out an oath ; but that appeared to me as the surest symptom of their distinction (though I am since in- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 03 formed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable). Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their su- perior accomplishments with envy ; and what appeared amiss was ascribed to tip -top quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other accomj^lishments. One of them observed, that were Miss 01i\da to see a little more of the world, it would greatly improve her ; to which the other added, that a single winter in town would make her little Sopliia quite another thing. My wife warmly assented to both ; add- ing that there was nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a single winter's polishing. To this I could not help replying, that their breeding was already superior to their fortune ; and that greater refine- ment would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleasures they had no right to possess. — " And what pleasures," cried Mr. Thornhill, " do they not deserve to possess, who have so much in their power to bestow? As for my part," continued he, " my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and pleasure, are my maxims ; but, ciu'se 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 re- turn would be to add myself to the benefit." I was not 64 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. such a stranger to the workl 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 con- sequences. Honour, Sir, is our only possession at pre- sent, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful." — I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. " As to your present hint," continued he, " I protest nothing was farther from my heart than such a thought. No, by all that's tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried by a coup de main." The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue : in this my wife, the chaplain, and I soon joined; and the 'Squire himself was at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the pleasures of temperance, and of the sun- THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 05 shine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the usual time to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I joyfully em- braced the proposal, and in this manner the night was passed in a most comfortable way, till at last the com- pany began to think of returning. The ladies seemed very miwilling to part with my daughters, for whom they had conceived a particular affection ; and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their company home. The 'Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife added her entreaties : the girls, too, looked upon me as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made two or three excuses, which my daughters as readily removed ; so that at last I was obliged to give a peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing but sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing. 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 nveiy sentence would ciy out " Fudge ! " — Page 77. CHAPTER X. THE FAMILY ENDEAV0UR3 TO COPE WITH THEIE BETTEKS. THE MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUM- STANCES. 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 asleep, but not removed. Our windows again, as THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 07 formerly, were filled \\ith 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 with- in. My wdfe observed, that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, that working after dinner would redden their noses, and she convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when they did nothing. In- stead, therefore, of finishing George's shirts, we now had them new -modelling their old gauzes, or flourish- ing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flamhoroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaint- ance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life and high-lived company, with pictures, taste, Shakspeare, 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 sa}^ the truth, I was tired of being always wise, and could not help gratifying their request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave each of them a shilling ; though, for the honour of the family, it must be observed, that they never went with- out money themselves, as my wife always generously let them have a guinea each to keep in their pockets; but 08 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 for- tune-teller given thee a pennyworth ? " — " I protest, papa," says the girl, " I believe she deals with somebody that is not right ; for she positively declared that I am to be married to a 'Squire in less than a twelvemonth ! " — " Well, now, Sophy, my child," said I, " and what sort of a husband are you to have?" — "Sir," replied she, " I am to have a Lord soon after my sister has married the 'Squire." — " How," cried I, " is that all you are to have for your two shillings ! Only a Lord and a 'Squire for two shillings ! You fools, I could have promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half the money ! " This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious effects : we now began to think ourselves designed by the stars 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEPIELD. 09 for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. We looked upon our fortmies 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 in- terval, my wife had the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us every morning with great solenuiity and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approaching wedding : at another time she imagined her daughter's pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign of their be- ing shortly stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They felt strange kisses on their lips ; they saw rings in the candle ; purses bovniced from the fire, and true-love knots lurked in the bottom ol' every tea-cup. Towards the end of the week we received a card from the town ladies ; in which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all oiu* family at church the Sunday fol- lowing. All Saturday morning I could perceive, in con- sequence of this, my wife and daughters in close con- ference together, and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was pre- 70 THE VICAK OV WAXEFIELD. paring for appearing with splendour the next day. In the evening they began their operations in a very regu- lar manner, and my wife midertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began thus : " I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company at our church to-morrow." — "Perhaps we may, my dear," retiurned I; "though you need be tmder no mieasiness 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, cheerful 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," retvu-ned 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 shovdd go there genteelly. You know the church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 71 to see my daugliters trudging up to their pew all blowzed and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if they had been winners at a smock race. Now, my dear, my proposal is this : there are oui' two plough horses, the colt that has been in our family these nine years, and his companion Blackberry, that has scarcely 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 convey- ance, as Blackberry 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 ob- jections, however, were overruled ; so that I was obliged to comply. The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in collecting such materials as miglit be ne- cessary 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 liour in the reading-desk for their arrival ; but not find- ing them come as 1 expected, I wajs obliged to begin, 72 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. and went through the service, not without some mieasi- ness 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 foot-way was but two, and when I got about half-way home, perceived the procession marching slowly forward towards the church ; my son, my vdfe, and the two little ones exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters upon the other. I demanded the cause of their delay ; but I soon found by their looks they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward for about two hmidred 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 en- treaties could prevail with him to proceed. They were just recovering from tliis dismal situation when -I fomid them; but perceiving every thing safe, I own their pre- sent mortification did not much displease me, as it would give me many opportmiities of futui'e triumph, and teach my daughters more humility. We all followed him several paces from the door, bawlins after him " Good juck ! 4nod lack 1 " till Tve C'-'uld see him no longer — Pa^e 84. CHAPTER XI. THE FAMir.T STTLL RKSOLVE TO HOLD TIP THEIR HEADS. MiCHAELMAS-EVE happening on the next clay, we were invited to l)nrn nuts and play tricks at neighbour Flam- borough's. Our late mortifications had humbled us a little, or it is probable we might have rejected such an L 74 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. invitation with contempt : however, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbour's goose and dump- lings were fine ; and the lambs'-wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a comioisseur, was excellent. It is true his mamier of telling stories was not quite so well : they were very long and very dull, and all about himself, and we had laughed at them ten times before ; however, we were kind enough to laugh at them once more. Mr. Biu'chell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing some innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and girls to blind-man's-buff. My wife, too, was persuaded to join in the diversion, and it gave me pleasiu'e to think she was not yet too old. In the mean- time, my neighboiu* and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when we were young. Plot cockles succeeded next, questions and commands followed that, and, last of all, they sat down to lumt the slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with this primaeval pastime, it may be necessary to observe, that the company at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all except one, who stands in the mid- dle, whose business it is to catch a shoe which the com- pany shove about under their hams from one to another, something like a weaver's shuttle. As it is impossible, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 75 ill this case, for the lady who is up to face all the com- pany at once, the great beauty of the play lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of making a defence. It was in this manner that my eldest daughter was hemmed in and thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair play, fair play, with a voice that might deafen a ballad-singer, when, confusion on confusion, who should enter the room but our two great acquaintances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs ! Description would but beggar, therefore it is vmneces- sary to describe this new mortification. Death ! To be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a vul- gar play of Mr. Flamborough's proposing. We seemed stuck to the ground for some time, as if actually petri- fied 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 midertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the whole in a summary way, only saying, " We were thrown from oiu' horses." At which account the ladies were greatly concerned ; but being told the family received no hurt, they were ex- 76 THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. tremely 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 evemng were warm, but now they were ardent. They protested a de- sire of having a more lasting acquamtance : Lady Blar- ney 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 sup- ported 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 mattter," cried Miss Skeggs, " is this, that it may be true, or it may not be true : but this I can assure your Ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze ; his Lordsliip trurned all manner of colours, my lady fell into a swoon, 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 THE VICAR 0¥ WAKEFIELD. 77 I believe her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. This you may depend upon as fact, that the next morning my lord Duke cried out thi'ee times to his valet-de-chambre, ' Jernigan, Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters ! ' " But previously I should have mentioned the very im- polite behaviour of Mr. Burchell, who, during this dis- course, sat mth his face turned to the fire, and at the conclusion of every sentence woidd cry out "Fudge /'' — an expression wliich displeased us all, and in some measure damped the rising spirit of the conversation. "Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress, " there is nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion." Fudge/ " I am sm'prised at that," cried Miss Skeggs ; " for he seldom leaves anything out, as he wi'ites 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 sm'e, and I think myself something of a judge ; at least, I know what pleases myself. Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Doctor Burdock's little pieces ; for except what he does, and oiu* dear Comitess at Hanover-square, there 's nothing comes out but the 78 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. most lowest stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life among them." Fudge! "Your Ladyship should except," says t'other, "youi- own things in the Lady's Magazine. I hope you '11 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 tliirty pounds a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can read, wTite, 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 j)lain-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, be- cause I suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue is worth any price ; but where is that to be fomid?" Fudge! My wife had been for a long time all attention to this discourse ; but was particularly struck with the THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 79 latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty-five gui- neas a year made fifty-six pounds five shillings English money, all w^liicli 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 wovdd 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 fortmie. My wife, therefore, was resolved that we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of assm-ance, and undertook to harangue for the family. " I hope," cried she, " your Ladyships will pardon my present presuiuption. It is true, we have no right to pretend to such favoiu's ; 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 comitry can't show better. They can read, write, and cast accompts ; they understand their needle, broad-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 small clothes, work upon catgut ; my eldest can cut paper, and my yovmgcst has a very pretty man- ner of telling fortunes upon the cards." Fudge! 80 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo- quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few mi- nutes in silence, with an air of doubt and importance. At last. Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs con- descended to observe, that the young ladies, from the opinion she could form of them from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very j&t for such employments. " But a thing of this kind. Madam," cried she, address- ing 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 sus- pect 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, observ- ing, 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 her cousin Thornhill's recommendation would be suffi- cient, and upon this we rested our petition. By lliis time I be^an to have a most hearty contempt for the poor animal myaeK, aud was almoBt ashamed at the approach of every customer;^ Page 93. CHAPTER XII. FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD. MOR- TIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES. When we were returned home, the night was dedi- cated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the two girls was likely to have the best place, and most opportunities M 82 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. of seeing good company. The only obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the 'Squire's recommenda- tion ; 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!" re- turned she ; " I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come to make acquaintances of taste in town ! This I am assured of, that London is the only place in the world for all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, stranger things happen every day: and as ladies of quality are so taken with my daughters, what will not men of qviality be! Entre nous, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly; so very obliging. However, 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 chd for my chil- dren 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 im- press my wife with an opinion of my sagacity ; for if THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 83 the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; but if anything imfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. All this conversation, how- ever, was only preparatory to another scheme, and in- deed 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 single or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or vipon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly ; but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonists gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part with him. As the fair happened on the following day, I had in- tentions 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, " oiu' son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and sell to very good advantage ; you know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he gets a bargain." As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I was willing enough to entrust him with this connnission ; 84 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 momited upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring home gro- ceries in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call thmider-and-lightning, which, though groMoi too short, was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black 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 scarcely gone, when Mr. Thornliill'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 seems resolved not to come alone. Another footman from the same family followed, with a card for my two 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. '' -A-y," cried my wife, " I now see it is no easy matter to get into the THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 85 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 pleasiu'e. In short, such was her satisfaction at this message, that she actually put her hand in her pocket, and gave the messenger seven-pence halfpemiy. This was to be our visiting day. The next that came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife undertook to keep for them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought my daugh- ters also a couple of boxes, in wliicli they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin pm-se, as bemg the most lucky ; but this by the bye. We had still a regard for Mr. Bui'chell, though his late rude behavioiu* was in some measure displeasing ; nor could we now avoid commmiicatmg our happiness to him, and asking his advice : although we seldom followed ad^^ce, we were all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note from the two ladies, he shook his head, and observed, that an affair of this sort demanded the ut- most circumspection. — This air of diffidence highly dis- pleased my wife. " I never doubted, Sir," cried she. 86 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. " your readiness to be against my daughters and me. You have more circumspection than is wanted. How- ever, I fancy when we come to ask advice, we shall apply to those who seem to have made use of it them- selves." — " 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, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the subject, by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost night-fall. — " Never mind our son," cried my wife ; " depend upon it he knows what he is about. I '11 warrant we '11 never see him sell his hen on a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I '11 tell you a good story about that, that will make you split yoru' 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 sweat- ing under the deal box which he had strapped round his shoulders like a pedlar. — " Welcome, welcome, Moses : well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair?" — "I have brought you myself," cried Moses, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 87 with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser. " Ay, Moses," cried my wife, " that we know, but where is the horse?" — " I have sold him," cried Moses, " for three pounds five shillings and two -pence." — " Well done, my good boy," retimied she, " I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pomids five shillings and two-pence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it, then." — " I have brought back no money," cried Moses again, " I have laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out a bundle from his breast: "here they are; a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and shagreen cases." — " A gross of green spectacles ! " 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 brought 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 i)erceive they are only copper varnished over." — " What ! " cried 88 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. my wife, '* not silver, the rims not silver ! " — " No," cried I, *' no more silver than your saucepan." — " And so," retui'ned she, " we have parted with the colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles with copper rims and shagreen cases ! A murrain take such trumpery ! The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should have known his company better." — " There, my dear," cried I, *' you are wrong, he should not have known them at all." — " Marry, hang the idiot!" returned she, " to bring me such stuif; if I had them, I would throw them in the fire!" — " There again, you are wrong, my dear," cried I; "for though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing." By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he had indeed been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figm'e, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under pre- tence 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 89 of the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they did me, and so at last we were persuaded to buy the two gross between us." N There seemed, indeed, something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its censures might as weU be referred to those to whom it was written, as to us ; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no farther, — Page 103. CHAPTER XIII. MR. BURCHELL IS FOTTND TO BE AN ENEMY; FOR HE HAS THE CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. Our family had now made several attempts to be fine ; but some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the advantage of every disappointment, to improve their good sense in proportion as they were frustrated in ambition. " You THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 91 see, my children," cried I, "how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in coping with om- betters. Such as are poor and will associate w^tli none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and de- spised 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 that you were reading to-day, for the good of the company." "Once upon a time," cried the child, "a Giant and a Dwarf were friends, and kept together. They made a bargain that they would never forsake each other, but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought was with two Saracens; and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry blow. It did the Saracen very little injm-y, who lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf's arm. He was now in a woful plight ; but the Giant coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two Sara- cens dead on the plain; and the Dwarf cut off the dead man's head out of spite. They then travelled on to another adventm-e. Tliis was against tlu-ee bloody- minded Sat}Ts, who were carrymg away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf was not quite so fierce now as 92 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 mar- ried 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 adven- turers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf was now without an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant was without a single womid. Upon which he cried out to his little companion, 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, no, I declare ofl^; I '11 fight no more : for I find in every battle that you get all the honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me." I was going to moralize this fable when our atten- tion was called off' to a warm dispute between my wife THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 98 and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' intended expe- dition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would result from it. Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with 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 clamom-. The conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all : she knew, she said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what they advised; but, for her part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the futm-e. " Madam," cried Bui-chell, with looks of great compo- sure, which tended to inflame her the more, "as for secret reasons, you are right : I have secret reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you are not able to answer those of which I make no secret: but I find my visits here are become troublesome ; I '11 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 at- tempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his going. U4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove hard 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 what- ever happens, she shall choose better company than such low-lived fellows as he." — "Low-lived, my dear, do you call him?" cried I; "it is very possible we may mistake this man's character ; for he seems upon some occasions the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sopliia, 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 coidd find merit in a man that seemed poor." — " Such, my dear," THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 95 cried I, "is the common cant of all the mifortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge pro- perly of such men, and that it would be even madness to expect happiness from one who has been so very bad an economist of liis ovm. Your mother and I have now better prospects for you. The next wdnter, which you will probably spend in to\\ni, will give you oppor- tmiities of making a more prudent choice." "What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion I can't pretend to determine ; but I was not displeased at the bottom that we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality w^ent to my conscience a little ; but I quickly silenced that mo- nitor by two or three specious reasons, wliich served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The pain which conscience gives the man who has already done WTong, 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. -Then the poor vroraan would sometimes tell the 'Squire, that she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid hoUi stand up to see which was tallest - CHAPTER XIV. Pa^ellR. FKESH MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. The journey of my daughters to town was now re- solved upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly promised to inspect their conduct himself, and inform us by letter of their behaviovu*. But it was thought indispensably THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 97 necessary that their appearance should equal the great- ness of their expectations, which could not be done without expense. We debated, therefore, in full coun- cil what were the easiest methods of raising money ; or, more properly speaking, what we could most con- veniently sell. The deliberation was soon finished ; it was found that our remaining horse was utterly useless for the plough, without his companion, and equally un- fit for the road, as wanting an eye ; it was therefore determined that we should dispose of him for the pur- poses above-mentioned, at the neighbouring fair, and, to prevent imposition, that I should go with him myself. Though this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself with reputation. The opinion a man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the company he keeps ; and as mine was mostly in the family way, I had con- ceived no vmfiivom'able sentiments of my worldly wis- dom. 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, \^•hen 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 a good while examined the horse round, o 98 THE VTCAR OF "WAKEFIELD. finding him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say to him : a second came up ; but observing he had a spavin, declared he would not take him for the driving home: a third perceived he had a windgall, and would bid no money: a fourth knew by his eye that he had the botts : a fifth wondered what a plague I could do at the fair with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a dog-kemiel. By this time I began to have a most hearty contempt for the poor ani- mal 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 that they were right ; and St. Gregory, upon good works, professes him- self to be of the same opinion. I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother- clergyman, an old acquaintance, w'ho had also business at the fair, came up, and shaking me by the hand, pro- posed 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 prepos- sessed me more favoui'ably. His locks of silver grey THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 99 venerably shaded his temjiles, and his green old age seemed to be the result of health and benevolence. However, liis presence did not interrupt oiir conversa- tion ; my friend and I discoursed on the various turns of fortmie we had met ; the Whistonian controversy ; my last pamphlet; the Archdeacon's reply, and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our attention was in a short time taken off by the appearance of a youth, who, entering the room, respectfully said something softly to the old stranger. " Make no apologies, my child," said the old man : "to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow-creatm-es : take this, I wish it were more ; but five pounds will relieve yoiu distress, and you are welcome." The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his gratitude was scarcely equal to mine. I could have hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until my companion, after some time, recollecting that he had business to transact in the fair, promised to be soon back ; adding, that he always desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose's company as possible. The old gentle- man, hearing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention for some time, and when my friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I wius any way 100 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. related to the great Primrose, that courageous monoga- mist, who had been the bulwark of the Church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that mo- ment. " Sir," cried I, " the applause of so good a man, as I am sui-e you are, adds to that happiness in my breast which your benevolence has already excited. You behold before you. Sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monoga- mist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate Divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to say, successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age." — " Sir," cried the stranger, struck with awe, " I fear I have been too familiar ; but you '11 forgive my curiosity. Sir : I beg pardon." — " Sir," cried I, grasping his hand, " you are so far from displeasing me by your familiarity, that I must beg you'll accept my friendship, as you already have my esteem." — " Then with gratitude I accept the offer," cried he, squeezing me by the hand, " thou glo- rious pillar of mishaken orthodoxy ; and do I behold — " I here interrupted what he was going to say ; for though, as an author, I coidd 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 sub- jects : at first I thought he seemed rather devout than THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 101 learned, and began to tliink he despised all human doc- trines as dross. Yet this no way lessened him in my esteem ; for I had for some time begun privately to har- bour 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 fol- lowed human speculations too much. " Ay, Sir," re- plied he, — as if he had reserved all liis learning to that moment, — " Ay, Sir, the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has puzzled phi- losophers of all ages. What a medley of oj^inions have they not broached upon the creation of the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it in vflin. The latter has these words, " Kva^x.'^v a^a, nai cnsXeuraiov to vrav, which imply that all things have neither beginning nor end. Ma- netho also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon- Asser, — Asser being a Syriac word, usually applied as a simame to the kings of that coimtry, as Teglat Phael- Asser, Nabon-Asser, — he, I say, formed a conjecture equally absui'd ; for, as we usually say, In. to ^iQxiov «y6'£fi/jiTnf, wliicli implies that books \A\\ never teach the world; so he attempted to investigate — But, Sii', I ask pardon, I am straying from the question." That he actually was ; nor could I for my life see how the 102 THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. creation of the world had anything to do with the busi- ness 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 touch-stone ; but he was too mild and too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I made any observation that looked like a challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake his head, and say nothing ; by which I understood he could say much, if he thought proper. The subject therefore insensibly changed from the busi- ness 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 his demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. " Here, Abraham," cried he, " go and get gold for this ; you '11 do it at neighbour Jackson's or anywhere." Wliile the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a pathetic ha- rangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I imder- took to improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of gold; so that by the time Abraham returned we had THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 103 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 coukl 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 Solomon Flaniborough in my part of the country : upon replying that he was my next-door neighbour ; *' If that be the case, then," returned he, " I believe we shall deal. You shall have a 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 remember I always beat him at three jmnps ; 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,) liis 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 purchaser, and liaving back my horse. ]?ut this was lOi THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. now too late : I therefore made directly homewards, re- solving to get the draft changed into money at my friend's as fast as possible. I found my honest neigh- bour smoking his pipe at his own door, and inform- ing him that I had a small bill upon him ; he read it twice over. "You can read the name, I suppose," cried I, " Ephraim Jenkinson." — " Yes," returned he, " the name is written plain enough, and I know the gentleman, too, — the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a venerable -looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes ? And did he not talk a long string of learning, about Greek and cosmogony, and the world?" To this I replied with a groan. " Ay," continued he, " he has but that one piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it away when- ever he finds a scholar in company ; but I know the rogue, and will catch him yet." Although I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of return- ing to school, there to behold the master's visage, than I was of going home. I was determined, however, to anticipate their fvu'y by first falling into a passion my- self. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 105 But, alas ! upon entering, I fomid the family no way disposed for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. Thornliill having been there that day to inform them that their journey to town was entirely over. The two ladies having heard reports of us from some malicious person about us, were that day set out for London. He could neither discover the tendency nor the author of these ; but whatever they might be, or whoever might have broached them, he continued to assure our family of his friendship and protection. I fomid, therefore, that they bore my disappointment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the great- ness of their own. But what perplexed us most was to think who could be so base as to asperse the charac- ter of a family so harmless as ours, too humble to ex- cite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust. •■ Yes, sbe is ^one off with two gentlemen m a post-chaise, and one of chem kissed her, and said he would die for her ; "— Pa^e 133. CHAPTER XV. ALL MR. BURCHELL'S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. THE FOLLY OF BEING OVER-WISE. That evening and a part of the follomng 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 107 opinion best kno\\ii 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. Bui"ch- ell, mth whom it had been seen, and, upon examina- tion, contained some hints upon different subjects ; but what particularly engaged oiu* attention was a sealed note, superscribed " The copy of a letter to be sent to the two ladies at Thornhill-castle." It instantly occur- red 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 siu'e that of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the family, and, at their joint solicitation, I read as follows : . , *' Ladies, *' The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person from whom this comes : one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have some inten- tion of bringing two young ladies to town, whom 1 have some knowledge of, under the character of com- panions. As I would neither have simplicity imposed 108 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as my opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended wdth dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous or the lewd with severity; nor should I now have taken tliis 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 in- famy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have hitherto resided." Om- doubts were now at an end. There seemed, in- deed, something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its censures might as well be referred to those to whom it was written, as to us ; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My wife had 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 met with. Nor could I account for it in any other manner than by imputing it to his desire of de- taining my youngest daughter in the country, to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. In THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 109 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 ap- proaching vengeance. Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was re- solved to do it in a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual smiles, to chat in the beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little ; and then in the midst of the flattering calm to burst upon him like an earthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself, as she really had some talents for such an undertaking. We saw him approach ; he entered, di-ew a chair, and sat down. " A fine day, Mr. Burchell." — " A very fine day. Doctor ; though I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my corns." — " The shooting of your horns!" cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond of a joke. — " Dear Madam," replied he, " I pardon you with all my heart ; for I protest I should not have thought it a joke had no THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. you not told me." — " Perhaps not, Sir," cried my wife, winking at us, " and yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes go to an ounce." — " I fancy. Madam," returned Burchell, " you have been reading a jest-book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit ; and yet, Madam, I had rather see half an ounce of understanding." — " I believe you might," cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against her; " and yet I have seen some men pretend to understanding that have very little." — " And no doubt," replied her antagonist, " you have known ladies set up for wit that had none." I quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain but little at this business ; so 1 resolved to treat him in a style of more severity myself. " Both wit and understanding," cried I, " are trifles without integrity; it is that which gives value to every character. The ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than the philosopher with many ; for what is genius or courage without a heart ? ' An honest man is the noblest work of God.' " " I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope," returned Mr. Burchell, "as very unworthy of a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books is raised not by their free- dom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties ; THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Ill • SO should that of men be prized not for their exemp- tion from fault, but the size of those virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through life, without censure or applause ? We might as well prefer the tame correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous but sublime animations of the Roman pencil." " Sir," replied I, " your present observation is just, when there are shining virtues and minute defects ; but when it appears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a charac- ter deserves contempt." " Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such mon- sters as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues ; yet in my progress through life I never yet found one instance of their existence : on the contrary, I have ever perceived that where the mind was capa- cious, the affections were good. And, indeed. Provi- dence seems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to other animals : the little vermin race are ever treacherous, 112 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. cruel and cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power, are generous, brave, and gentle." " These observations sound well," returned I, " and yet it would be easy this moment to point out a man," — and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon him, — " whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir," continued I, raising my voice, "and I am glad to have this opportunity of detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know this. Sir, this pocket-book?" — "Yes, Sir," returned he, with a face of impenetrable assurance, " that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you have found it." — "And do you know," cried I, "this letter? Nay, never falter, man; but look me fvill 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 to presume to break open this letter? Don't you know, now, I could hang you all for this ? All that I have to do is to swear at the next justice's, that you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you all up at this door." This piece of un- expected insolence raised me to such a pitch that I THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 113 could scarcely govern my passion. " Ungrateful wretch, begone ! and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness : begone, and never let me see thee again ! go from my doors, and the only punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tor- mentor ! " So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a smile, and, shutting the clasps with the vitmost composure, left us quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particu- larly em-aged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his villainies. " My dear," cried I, willing to calm those passions that had been raised too high among us, " we are not to be surprised that bad men want shame ; they only blush at being- detected in doing good, but glory in their vices." " Guilt and Shame," says the allegory, " were at first companions, and in the beginning of their jom-ney in- separably kept together. But their union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both ; Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After long- disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to part for ever, (xuilt boldly walked forward alone to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an ex- ecutioner ; but Shame being naturally timorous, returned 114 THE VICAR OF "WAKEFIELD. back to keep company with Virtue, wliicli, in the be- ginning of their journey, they had left behind. Thus, my children, after meii have travelled through a few stages in vice. Shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few virtues they have still remaining." I was struck dumb with the appreliensioi:is of my own absurdity, when whom should T next see enter the room but my dear Mis.? Arabella "Wilmnt. — Pa§e 154. CHAPTER XVI. THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL GEEATER. 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 amuse- ments of the to\\ii as he designed, he took every op- 116 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. portunity of supplying them with those little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usually came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describing the town, with every part of which he was particularly acquainted. He could re- peat all the observations that were retailed in the atmo- sphere of the play-houses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rote long before they made their way into the jest-books. The intervals between conversa- tion 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 owaied that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him ; or to speak more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea eat short and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering ; it was her fingers which gave the pickles their peculiar green ; and in the composition of a pvidding, 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 117 stand up to see which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet wliich everybody saw tlu-ough, were very pleasing to our bene- factor, who gave every day some new proofs of his pas- sion, which though they had not arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thovight 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 occru"rence, 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 davighters happening to return a visit to neighbour Flamborough's, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn by a limner, who travelled the comitry and took likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and om-s had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, oiu- 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 tlie limner, (for what could I do ?) our next deliberation was to show the superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighboiur's family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven oranges, — a thing quite 118 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world. We desired to have something in a brighter style, and, after many debates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of being drawn together in one large historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more genteel ; for all families of any taste were now draw^l in the same manner. As we did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were contented each with being drawn as independent historical figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too fru- gal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side, wliile I, in my gown and band, was to present her with my books on the Wliistonian 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 THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 119 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 expedition, in less than fom- days the whole was com- pleted. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did not spare his coloui's ; for which my wife gave liim great encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the house to fix it ! How we all came to disregard so material a point is inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The pic- ture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned in a most mortifying manner against the kitchen wall, where the canvass was stretched and paint- ed, 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 eftectu- ally raised more malicious suggestions in many. The 'Squire's portrait being found miited with oui's, was an 120 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 scan- dal ever improves by opposition. We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had too much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was tliis : as our princi- pal object was to discover the honoiu' of Mr. Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound him, by pretend- ing to ask his advice in the choice of a husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not fomid sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him v^ith a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such was the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously op- pose, 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 theii- mamma an opportunity of putting THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 121 her scheme in execution ; but they only retired to the next room, whence they coukl over-hear the whole con- versation. My wife artfully introduced it, by observ- ing, that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To tliis the 'Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who had warm fortunes were always siu'e of getting good husbands : "But Heaven help," continued she, ** the girls that have none ! What signifies beauty, Mr. Thomhill ? 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," retimied 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 fortmies : our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would pro- vide." " Ah, Sir," retvirned my wife, "you are pleased to be facetious ; l)ut 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 recommend me a proper hus- band f(n' her ? She is now nineteen years old, well ■R 122 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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," re tinned he, "it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be her husband : she 's too great a treasiu'e for one man's possession : she 's a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think, she 's an angel ! " — " Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl ; but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager : you know whom I mean, farmer Wil- liams ; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her good bread ; and who has several times made her pro- posals (which was actually the case) : but. Sir," con- cluded she, " I shovdd be glad to have yom* approbation of om* choice." — " How ! Madam," replied he, " my ap- probation ! My approbation of such a choice ! Never. What! sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and good- ness to a creature insensible of the blessing ! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice ! THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 123 And I have my reasons ! " — " Indeed, Sir," cried Debo- rah, "if you have your reasons, that's another affair; but I should be glad to know those reasons." — " Ex- cuse me, Madam," returned he, " they lie too deep for discovery (laying liis hand upon his bosom) ; they re- main bmied, riveted, here." After he was gone, upon general consultation, we could not tell what to make of these fine sentiments, Olivia considered them as instances of the most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so sanguine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had more of love than matri- mony 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 liis addresses. However, after bribicg the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious apartment, my letter bein^ previously sent up for his LordsMp's inspection.— Page 168. CHAPTER XVII. SCAKCELT ANT VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION. As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assi- duity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It required but very little encoiu-agement to revive his former passion ; so that in an evening or two he and Mr. Thornhill met THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. J 26 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, pretend- ing to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and wdth 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 retired to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was in such a situa- tion 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. Thorn- hill's passion was all a dream : he permits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his power to secure you to liimself by a candid de- claration." — "Yes, papa," returned she, "but he has his rccisons for this delay : T know he has. The sin- cerity of his looks and words convinces me of his real 126 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the gene- rosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him has been more just than yom's." — "Olivia, my darling," returned I, "every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him to a declara- tion, 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 yoru' fancied admirer to an explanation shall be granted ; but at the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. "Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I have hitherto supported in life demands this from me, and my tenderness as a parent shall never influence my integrity as a man. Name, then, your day ; let it be as distant as you think pro- per, 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 propo- sal, which she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed her THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 127 most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in case of the other's insensibility ; and at the next oppor- tunity, in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. Thornhill's anxiety ; but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportmiity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed away ; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assiduous ; but not more open. On the third he discontinued liis visits entirely ; and instead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to be secm'ed in a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostentation. It was within about fovu- days of her intended nup- tials, 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 upper- 128 THE VICAR OP WAKEPIELD. most. "Well, Moses," cried I, "we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family ; what is your opinion of matters and things in general?" — "My opinion, father, is that all things go on very well ; and I was just now thinking, that when sister Livy is mar- ried to farmer Williams, we shall then have the loan of his cyder -press and brewing-tubs for nothing." — " That we shall, Moses," cried I, " and he will sing us ' Death and the Lady ' to raise our spirits, into the bar- gain." — " 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 is little Dick? let liim 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 overcome me ; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in wnth the boy a little." THE YTCATl OP WAKEFTELD. 129 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 wondrous 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, Both mungrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. ■^ej' 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 neighb'ring streets, The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits. To bite so good a man. The wound it secm'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye ; And while they swore the dog was mad. They swore the man would die. 130 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. But soon a wonder came to light, That show'd the rogues they lied : The man recover'd 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 om* country that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look straight before them, nor the Hugginsons blow out a candle ; that there were none of the Gro- grams 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 bet- ter 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." THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 131 " That may be the mode," cried Moses, " in sub- limer compositions ; 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 dia- logue together; he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents liim 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 fui-nishes us with a wife ; and surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what we want, and supplied with it when wanting." " Yes, Sir," returned Moses, " and I know but of two such markets for wives in Em'ope — Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish mar- ket 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 1. " It is a proverb abroad, that if a bridge 132 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. were built across the sea, all the ladies of the Conti- nent 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 com- petence. I think myself happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old ; but the evenmg of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live they will be our support and our pleasure here, and when we die they will transmit om' honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song : let us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia? that little cherub's voice is always sweetest in the concert." Just as I spoke Dick came rmuiing in, " O 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 183 went into the chaise, and said, ' O, 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 O may Heaven's everlasting fmy light upon liim 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 possessed of ! But all our earthly happiness is now over ! Go, my children, go and be miserable and infamous ; for my heart is broken within me ! " — " Father," cried my son, " is this your fortitude ? " — " Fortitude, child ! Yes, he shall see I have fortitude ! Bring me my pis- tols. I '11 pursue the traitor. While he is on earth, I '11 pui'sue 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 hus- band," cried she, " the Bible is the only weapon that is fit for youi' 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 mibecoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and you increase her 134 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character, thus to ciu'se yoiu' greatest enemy : you should not have cursed him, villain as he is." — " I did not cm-se him, child, did I?" — "Indeed, Sir, 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 ene- mies. 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 confu- sion seize Heaven forgive me, what am I about to say ! You may remember, my love, how good she was, and how charming ; till this vile moment all her care was to make us happy. Had she but died ! But she is gone, the honour of our family contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. — But, my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he forced her away ? If he forced her, she may yet be innocent." — "Ah no. Sir," cried the child; "he only kissed her and called her his angel ; and she wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very fast." — " She 's an migrateful creature," cried my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, " to use us thus : THE VICAR OF WAKEPIELD. 135 she never had tlie least constraint put upon her affec- tions. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her pa- rents 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 mis- fortunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, how- ever, to find out her betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she vised 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 de- testation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but ever shall this house and this heart be open to a poor re- turning repentant sinner. The sooner she retui'ns from her transgression, the more welcome shall she be to me. For the first time the very best may err; art may per- suade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity ; but every other the off- 136 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. spring 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." ^ -^=i-- Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in circumstances like mtyself, expectin* the aiTival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome of English impatience. — Pajf 171. 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 hut too well known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thorn - hill-castle, resolving to upbraid him, and, if possible, T 138 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. to bring back my claugliter ; 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 descrip- tion, I could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they di'ove very fast. This information, however, did by no means satisfy me ; I therefore went to the young 'Squire's, and though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately : he soon appeared with the most open, familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was quite a stranger to it. I now, therefore, condemned my former suspicions, and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who I recollected had of late several private conferences with her ; but the appear- ance of another witness left me no room to doubt his villainy, who averred, that he and my daughter had actually gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of company. Bemg di-iven to that state of mind in which we are more ready to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated with myself, whether these accounts might not have been given by persons purposely placed in my way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked along with THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 130 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 fol- lowed 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 daugliter's performance. Early the next day I walked forward to the races, and about foiu" in the afternoon I came upon the course. The company made a very brilliant appear- ance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of pleasure ; how different from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I thought I perceived Mr. Biu'ch- ell at some distance from me ; but, as if he dreaded an interview, u,pon 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 pvu'suit farther, and resolved to return home to an imiocent family, who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, tlu'ew me into a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the coui'se. This was another miexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distcUit from home : however, I retired to 140 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. a little ale-house by the road-side, and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here for nearly tlu'ee 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 ciirsory refreshment. This person was no other than the phi- lanthropic bookseller in St. Paul's Church-yard, who has written so many little books for children : he called himself their friend ; but he was the friend of all man- kind. He was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he was ever on business of the ut- most importance, and was at that time actually com- piling materials for the history of one IVIi-. Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this good-natured man's red pimpled face ; for he had published for me against the D enter ogamists of the age, and from him I bor- rowed 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 141 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 wliich look bright from below, every step we rise shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden disappoint- ment ; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure, though the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds as we descend something to flatter and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy situation. I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a distance like a waggon, wliich I was resolved to overtake ; but when I came up vdtli it fomid it to be a strolling com- pany's cart, that was carrying their scenes and other theatrical fm-niture 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 witli the poor })layer ; and as I once had some theatrical powers niyseli", I dis- 142 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. serted on such topics with my usual freedom : but as I was pretty much miacquainted with the present state of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the Dry dens and Otways of the day? — "I fancy. Sir," cried the player, "few of our modern dramatists would think themselves much ho- noured by being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden's and Rowe's manner, Sir, are quite out of fashion : oiu' taste has gone back a whole century ; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all the j)lays of Shakspeare are the only things that go down." — " How ! " cried I, "is it possible that the present age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete limnour, those over-charged characters which abound in the works you mention?" — " Sir," returned my companion, " the public think nothing about dialect, or hrmiour, or character, for that is none of their business ; they only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a jjantomime rmder the sanction of Jonson's or Shakspeare's name." — " So then, I suppose," cried I, " that our modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shakspeare than of Nature?" — "To say the truth," retm-ned my companion, " I don't know that they imi- tate anything at all ; nor indeed does the public require it of them : it is not the composition of the piece, but THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 143 the number of starts and attitudes that may be intro- duced into it, that elicits applause. I have known a piece with not one jest in the whole shrugged into po- pularity, and another saved by the poet's throA\ing in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the works of Congreve and Farquliar 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 com- pany till I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first ale-house that offered ; and being shown into the common room, was accosted by a very well-dressed gentleman, who de- manded whether I was the real chaplain of the com- pany, or whether it was only to be my masquerade character in the play. Upon my 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 pmicli, over which he discussed modern politics with great earnest- ness and interest. I set him down in my own mind J44 THE VICAU or AVAKEFIELD. V for nothing less than a parliament-man at least: but was almost confirmed in my conjectures, when upon asking what there was in the house for supper, he in- sisted that the player and I should sup with him at his house; with which request, after some entreaties, we were prevailed upon to comply. -C?; " I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was once my arnnHPrnent into a present means of subsistence " — Page 174. CHAPTER XIX. THE DESCEIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOVERN- MENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES. TuK house where we were to be entertained lying at a small distance Ironi 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 mag- u I4G THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. nificent mansions I had seen in that part of the coun- try. 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 dishabille were introduced, and the conversation began with some sprightliness. Politics, however, were the subject on which our entertainer chiefly expatiated; for he asserted that liberty was at once his boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me if I had seen the last Monitor, to which replying in the negative, " What, nor The Auditor, I suppose ? " cried he. " Neither, Sir," re- turned I. — " That's strange, very strange," replied my entertainer. "Now, I read all the politics that come out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seven- teen Magazines, and the two Reviews ; and though they hate each other, I love them all. Liberty, Sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians." — " Then it is to be hoped," cried I, "you reverence the king." — " Yes," returned my entertainer, " when he does what we would have him ; but if he goes on as he has done THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 147 of late, I '11 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 sufficieiit number of advisers : he should advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should have things done in another 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." " 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 pri- vileges of Britons ? Can any, Sir, be so abject ? " " No, Sir," replied I, " I am for liberty, that attri- bute of Gods ! Glorious liberty ! that theme of modern declamation. I would have all men kings. 1 would be 148 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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, be- cause he is a cunninger animal than they, so siu'ely will the animal that is cmminger or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, then, it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to com- mand and others to obey, the question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same house with us, or in the same -village, or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now, Sir, for my own part, as I natm-ally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me the better pleased am I. The generality of mankind are also of my way of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, whose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyi'anny at the greatest distance from the greatest number of people. Now the great who were tyrants themselves before the election of one tyrant, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 149 are naturally averse to a power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the subor- dinate orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible ; because whatever they take from that is natm'ally restored to themselves ; and all they have to do in the State is to midermine the single tyrant, by which they resume their primaeval authority. Now the State may be so circmn- stanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our State be such, as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opu- lent 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 in- dustry : for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by the rich, and they have also at the same time all the emoluments arising from internal industry ; so that the rich, with us, have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth, in all commercial States, is found to accumulate, and all such have liithcrto in time become aristocratical. " Again, the very laws also of this country may con- 150 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. tribute to the accumulation of wealth ; as when by their means the natm-al ties that Ijincl the rich and poor to- gether 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 ac- cumidate. Now the possessor of accumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and pleasiu'es of life, has no other method to employ the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power. That is, dif- ferently speaking, in making dependents, by purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the people ; iuid the polity abounding in accumulated wealth, may be compared to a Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who are willing to move in a great man's vortex are only such as must be slaves — the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are adaj)ted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except the name. " But there must still be a large number of the people THE VICAU OF WAKEFIELD. 151 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 pos- sessed of too large fortmies to submit to the neighbour- ing man in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be fomid all the arts, wisdom, and vir- tues 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 suflicient for qualifying a person at present to give his voice in State afliiirs, be ten times less than was judged suiRcient upon forming the con- stitution, 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 ricli, and calls ofl' the great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town 152 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. of which the opulent are forming the siege, and to which the governor from without is hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over them, it is hut natural to offer the townsmen the most specious terms; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges; but if they once defeat the go- vernor 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 Hol- land, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the laws. I am, then, for, and would die for, monarchy, 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 infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. The soimds of liberty, pa- triotism, 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 knowai many of those pretended champions for liberty in my time, yet I do not remember one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant." My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue be- yond the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could THE VICAR OF "WAKEFIELD. 153 be restrained no longer. " What ! " cried he, " then I have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in par- son's clothes ; but by all the coal-mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wilkinson." I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth with which I had spoken. " Pardon ! " returned he in a fmy ; " I think such principles demand ten thou- sand pardons. What, give up liberty, property, and, as ' The Gazetteer ' says, lie dovm 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 re- monstrances ; 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 but- ler, who, in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for awhile the gentleman himself; and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most comitry gentlemen do. But nothing covdd now exceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady enter ; nor was their surprise at finding such company tUid good cheer less than ours. " Gentlemen," cried the real master of the house to me and my companion, " my wife and 1 are your most hmnble servants ; but I 154 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. protest this is so unexpected a favour that we ahuost sink under the obligation." However unexpected our company might be to them, theirs, I am sm-e, was still more so to us, and I was struck dumb with the appre- hensions of my own absiu'dity, when whom should 1 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 im- expected a visit ? I am sure my micle and amit will be in raptures when they find they have the good Doc- tor 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 mifortmiate butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my intercession forgiven. Mr. Ai-nold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon having the pleasiu'e of my stay for some days, and as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some measm-e had been formed imder my own instructions, joined in their entreaties, I complied. That THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. J 55 night I was shown to a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early, Miss Wihnot 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 uncon- ceruj when last I had heard from my son George. " Alas ! Madam," cried I, "he has now been nearly three years absent, without ever wTiting 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 dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy upon us." The good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw her pos- sessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some consola- tion to me to find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected several offers that had been made her since our leaving her part of the country. She led me round all the extensive improve- ments of the place, pointing to the several walks and arbours, and at the same time catching from every ob- ject a hint for some new question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell 156 THE VICAU OF WAKEFIELD. summoned us 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 praise of the new performer, and averred, that he never saw any who bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a day ; " but this gentleman," con- tinued 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 en- treaty 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 great- est respect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre, where we sat for some time with no small impatience to see Horatio make his appearance. The new per- former advanced at last ; and let parents think of my sensations by their own, when I found it was my un- fortunate son. He was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and immoveable. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 157 The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but instead of going on, he biu:st into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don't know what were my feelings on this occasion ; for they succeeded with too much rapidity for description ; but I was soon awakened from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct her back to her uncle's. When got home, Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary behav- iour, being informed that the new performer was my son, sent his coach and an invitation for him ; and as lie 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 liim the kindest recep- tion, and I received him with my usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated : she said twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of irresistible beauty, and often would ask questions witli- out giving any manner of attention to the answers. " Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last the monster had the assurance to offer me to a youn^ baronet of his acquaintance." — Page 193. CHAPTER XX. THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT. After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered to send a couple of her footmen for my son's baggage ; which he at first seemed to decline ; but upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that a stick and a wallet were all the moveable things upon this earth that he could boast of. " Why, ay, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 159 my son," cried I, "you left me but poor, and poor I find you are come back ; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a great deal of the world." — " Yes, Sir," replied my son, " but travelling after fortune is not the way to secure her ; and indeed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit." — " I fancy, Sir," cried Mrs. Arnold, " that the account of your adventures would be amus- ing : 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 pleasm-e you have in hearing, will not be half so great as my vanity in re- peating them; and yet in the whole narrative I can scarcely promise you one adventiu'e, as my accomit 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 fomid 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, towiuxls London in a fine morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow ; but cheerful as the birds that cai-olled by the road, and com- forted myself with reflecting that London was the mart 160 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting dis- tinction and reward. " Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was to deliver your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was liimself in little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, Sir, was to be an 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 necklace, but I had rather be an mider- tm-nkey 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 witliin, and never per- mitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school ? Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred apprentice to the business ? — No. — Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' hair? — No. — Then you won't do for a school. Have you had the small pox? — No. — Then you won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed? — No. — Then you will never do for a school. Have you got a good stomach? — Yes.— Then you will by no means do for a school. No, Sir, if you are for THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 161 a genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's wheel ; but avoid a school by any means. Yet come, continued he, I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me ? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade : at present I '11 show you forty very dull fellows about town that live by it in opulence. All honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and ^vrite 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 genti- lity affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to acce2)t his proposal ; and having the highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub-street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which 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 entailed I supposed to ])e the true nurse of genius. Big with these reflections, I sat down, and finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I re- solved to write a book that should be whollv new. I 1G2 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some inge- nuity. They were false, indeed, hut they were new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by others, that nothing was left for me to import, but some splendid things that, at a distance, looked every bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied importance 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 unfortmiately, as I had neither, I suffered the crudest 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, THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 163 and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was going to give to the world of Propertius, with notes. This demand ne- cessarily produced a reply that I had no money ; and that concession 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 luiacquainted with the town ; I '11 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 a country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication-fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more for engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus,' continued he, ' I live by vanity, and laugh at it. But, between ourselves, I am now too well known ; I should be glad to borrow your face a bit : a nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy ; my face is familiar to his porter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.' " 164 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. " Bless US, George," cried I, " and is this the em- ployment of poets now ? Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary ? Can they so far disgrace their calling as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?" " Oh, no, Sir," retiu'ned 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 indigni- ties, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a middle com'se, and write for bread. But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was to ensiu'e success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for applause ; but usually consmned that time in efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, when it should have been more advantageously employed in the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of periodical publications, mmoticed and unknown. The public were more importantly employed, than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 165 periods. Sheet after sheet was tlirowii off to oblivion. My essays were bmied among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cui'es for the bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philan- thropos, all wrote better, because they wrote faster, than I. " Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction we fomid in every celebrated writer's attempts, was inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could please me. My mifortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction ; for excellence in another was my aver- sion, 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 yomig gentleman of distinction, who had been my inti- mate acquaintance at the University, approached me. We saluted each other with some hesitation ; he almost ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my sus- picions soon vanished ; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very good-natured fellow." " What did you say, George ?" interrupted I, " Thorn- 166 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. hill, was not that liis name? It can certainly be no other than my landlord." — " Bless me," cried Mrs. Arnold, "is Mr. Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours ? He has long been a friend in our family, and we expect a visit from liim shortly." "My friend's first care," continued my son, "was to alter my appearance by a fine suit of his own clothes, and then I was admitted to his table, upon the footing of half-friend, half-underling. My business was to attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left hand in his cha- riot when not filled by another, and to assist at tatter- ing a kip, as the phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other little employ- ments in the family. I was to do many small things without bidding ; to carry the corkscrew ; to stand god- father 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 tliis honourable post, however, I was not with- out a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by natm-e, opposed me in my patron's affec- tions. 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 167 his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was dis- missed from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of them who were - as dull as himself, that per- mitted his assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he practised it with the easiest address imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff from me ; and as every day my patron's desire of flattery increased, so every hour be- ing better acquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus I was once more fairly go- ing 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 indis- pensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I un- dertook the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was only a woman of the to^\^l, 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 to^\^l in a few days, he knew no other method of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction, who enjoyed a post under the government. 168 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. When he was gone, my first care was to carry his re- commendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose charac- ter for every virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by his servants with the most hospitable smiles ; for the looks of the domestics ever transmit their mas- ter's benevolence. Being shown into a grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I delivered my message and lettei;, which he read, and after pausing some minutes, — 'Pray, Sir,' cried he, 'inform me what you have done for my kinsman, to deserve this warm recommendation ? But I suppose. Sir, I guess your me- rits, you have fought for him ; and so you would expect a reward from me for being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal may be some punishment for your guilt ; but still more, that it may be some inducement to your repentance.' — The severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of the nobility ai'e 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 ser- vants with half my worldly fortmie, I was at last shown into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his lordship's inspection. During this anx- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 109 ious interval I had full time to look round me. Every- tliing was grand and of happy contrivance: the paint- ings, 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 tlie State, and whose house displays half the wealth of a kingdom : sure his genius must be unfathomable ! Dur- ing these awful reflections I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself ! No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard soon after. This must be he ! No, it was only the great man's valet-de-chambre. At last his lordship actually made his appearance. ' Are you,' cried he, ' the bearer of this here letter ? ' I answered with a bow. ' I learn by this,' continued he, ' as how that ' — ■ But just at that instant a servant delivered him a card, and without taking farther notice, he went out of the room, and left me to digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no more of him, till told by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach at the door. Down I imme- diately 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 wifli large strides, wlien I hal- 170 THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. looed out to know if I was to have any reply. He was by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half of which only I heard, the other half was lost in the rat- tling 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 romid me, I found myself alone at his lordship's gate. *'My patience," continued my son, "was now quite exhausted: stmig with the thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself away, and only wanted the gulf to receive me. I regarded myself as one of those vile things that Nature had designed should be thrown by into her lumber-room, there to perish in ob"scurity. I had still, however, half a guinea left, and of that I thought Fortune herself should not de- prive 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 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 thirty pomids a year ; for which promise all they give in retm-n is their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport them to Ame- rica as slaves. I was happy at finding a place where I THE VICAR- OF WAKEFIELD. 17i could lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell, for it had the appearance of one, with the devo- tion of a monastic. Here I found a nimiber 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, \vreaked her injuries on their own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at last came down, and all our mur- murs 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 everything 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 gtive me pleasure ; there was something so mag- nificent in the somid. I fairly, therefore, divided my half guinea, one half of which went to be added to his tliirty thousand pound, and with the other half I re- solved to go to the next tavern to be there more happy than he. 172 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. " As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door bj the captain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some little acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that I was upon the very point of ruin in listening to the office-keeper's promises ; for that he only designed to sell me to the plantations. — 'But,' continued he, ' I fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for Amster- dam : 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 '11 warrant you '11 get pupils and money enough. I suppose you understand English,' added he, 'by this time, or the deuce is in it.' — I con- fidently assm'ed 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, oiu' voyage short, and after having paid my passage with half my moveables, I fomid myself, as fallen from the skies, a stranger in one of the principal streets of Am- THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 173 sterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let any time pass imemployed in teaching. I addressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those I met, whose ap- pearance seemed most promising ; but it was impossible to make om'selves mutually miderstood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, that in order to teach the Dutchmen English, it was necessary that they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to me amazing ; but certain it is I overlooked it. " This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back to England again ; but falling into company with an Irish student who was returning from Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics of literature, (for, by the way, it may be observed that I always forgot the meanness of my circumstances when I could converse upon such subjects,) from him I learned that there were not two men in his whole Uni- versity 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 bui'then of my moveables, like ^sop and 174 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. his basket of bread ; for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When I came to Lou- vain, I v^i^as resolved not to go sneaking to the lower professors ; but openly tendered my talents to the prin- cipal himself. I went, had admittance, and offered him my service as a master of the Greek language, which I had been told was a desideratum in his University. The principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities ; but of these I offered to convince him, by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposals, he ad- dressed me thus : — ' You see me, young man,' continued he, ' I never learned Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I have had a doctor's cap and gown vdthout Greek ; I have ten thousand florins a-year with- out 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 return- ing; so I resolved to go forward. I had some know- ledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now turned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to be very merry ; for I ever found THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 176 them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards nightfall, I played one of my most merry tmies, and that prociu'ed 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 raptm-es, and the ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means, it was received with contempt ; a proof how ready the world is to miderrate those talents by which a man is supported. *' In tliis manner I proceeded to Paris, with no de- sign but just to look about me, and then to go for- ward. The people of Paris are much fonder of stran- gers that have money than of those that have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was no great favom-ite. After walking about the towni four or five days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when, passing through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but our cousin to whom you first re- commended me. This meeting was very agreeable to 17G THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. me, and I believe not displeasing to him. He in- quired into the natm'e of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his owni business there, which was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a gentleman in London, who had just step- ped into taste and a large fortime. 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 cognoscento 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 the picture might have been bet- ter if the painter had taken more pains ; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino. — ' But,' says he, ' as I once taught you how to be an author in London, I '11 now undertake to instruct you in the art of picture- buying at Paris.' " 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 di'ess by his assist- ance, and after some time accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were expected to be pui'chasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who referred THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 177 themselves to his judgment upon every picture or me- dal, as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked his opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, slirug, look wise, return, and assure the company that he could give no opinion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more supported assurance. I remember to have seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring of a pictiu*e was not mellow enough, very de- liberately 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 distinc- tion, 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 Em'ope. I was to be the young gentleman's governor ; but with a pro- viso, that he should always be permitted to govern him- self. My pupil, in fact, understood the art of guiding in money concerns much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand pomids, 2a 178 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. left liim by an uncle in the West Indies ; and his guard- ians, to qualify him for the management of it, had bound him aj)prentice 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 could turn to account when disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on the way as could be seen for nothing he was ready enough to look at ; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been told they were not worth see- ing. 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, there- fore, miable to withstand the temptation ; so paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he took leave, and embarked with only one attendant for London. " I now, therefore, was left once more upon the world at large ; but then it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in music could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 179 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 con- vents there are upon certain days philosophical theses maintained against every adventitious disputant ; for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, therefore, I fought my way towards England, walked along from city to city, exa- mined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, how- ever, are but few : I fomid that monarchy was the best government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the rich. I found that riches in general were in every country another name for freedom ; and that no man is so fond of liberty himself, as not to be desirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to his own. " Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay my respects first to you, and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was going forward ; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed, by meet- ing an old acquaintance, who, I found, belonged to a company of comedians that were going to make a sum- mer campaign in the country. The company seemed 180 THE VICAR OE WAKEFIELD. not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, however, apprized me of the importance of the task at which I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed monster, and that only such as had very good heads could please it : that acting was not to be learned in a day ; and that without some traditional slu'ugs, 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 com- pany has happily hindered me from acting." " Now," cried I, holding up my children. " nci:^ let the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish,"-— Page 197 CHAPTER XXI. THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG THE VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION. My son's account was too long to be delivered at once ; the first part of it was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest after dinner the next day, when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at the door 182 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. seemed to make a pause in tlie general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my friend in the fa- mily, informed me with a whisper, that the 'Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill's entering, he seemed at seeing my son and me to start back ; but I readily imputed that to sm-prise and not displeasure. However, upon our ad- vancing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the most apparent candour ; and after a short time, his pre- sence 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 per- fectly well. He then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son ; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep it a secret : " For at best," cried he, "it is but divulging one's own infamy; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine." We were here interrupted by a servant, who came to ask the 'Squire in to stand up at country-dances ; so THE VICAR OF ^YAKEriELD. 183 that he left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, how- ever, to Miss Wilmot were too obvious to he mistaken ; and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, hut bore them rather in compliance to the will of her aunt than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her la\dsh some kind looks upon my unfortmiate son, which the other could neither extort by his for- tmie nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming composure, however, not a little surprised me. We had now con- tinued here a week, at the pressing instance of Mr. Ar- nold ; but each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot showed my son, IMr. Thornhill's friendsliip seemed pro- portionably 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 proiiuses alone : the morning I designed for my departvu'e, Mr. Thornhill came to me, with looks of real pleasvu'e, 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 o-oin"- to the West Indies, for which he had i)romised but one hmich-ed pounds, his interest having been suffi- cient to get an abatement of tlie other two. *' As for 184 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. this trifling piece of service," continued tlie young gen- tleman, *' I desire no other reward but the pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for the hundred pounds to he paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your leisure." This was a favoui' we wanted words to express om* 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 liis generous patron's directions, who judged it highly expedient to use de- spatch, lest, in the meantime, another shovdd step in with more advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, our young soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dan- gers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress (for Miss Wilmot actually loved him) he was leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. " And now, my boy," cried I, " thou art going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 185 imitate him in all but his misfortmies, if it was a mis- fortune to die with Lord Falkland. 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. Thorn- hill for his late bounty. I left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good breeding procure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself with the hopes of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the 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 Thorn- hill, 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, tliat 2b J 86 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. he made it his whole study to betray the daughters of such as received him into their houses, and after a fortnight or three weeks' possession, turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we con- tinued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, returned, and perceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, what he did there ; to which he only replied in an ironical way, by drinking her health. " Mr. Symonds," cried she, "you use me very ill, and I '11 bear it no longer. Here tlu'ee 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 spoon- ful of liquor were to ciu'e me of a fever I never touch a drop." I now fomid what she would be at, and im- mediately poured her out a glass, which she received with a courtesy, and di'inking towards my good health, " Sir," resumed she, "it is not so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but one camiot help it, when the house is going out of the windows. If the cus- tomers or guests are to be dunned, all the burthen lies upon my back ; he 'd as lief eat that glass as budge af- ter them liimself. There, now, above-stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take vip her lodgings THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 187 here, and I don't believe she has got any money, by her over-civility. I am certain she is very slow of pay- ment, 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 sui'e 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," retmiied the hostess, " gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a sassarara. Gentry may be good things where they take ; but for my part I never saw much good of them at the sign of the Harrow." Thus saying, she ran up a narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room over head, and I soon perceived by the loudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very distinctly : " Out I say ; pack out this moment ; tramp, thou infamous strumpet ! or I '11 give thee a 188 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. mark thou won't be the better for this tlrree months. What ! you trumpery, to come and take up an honest house without cross or coin to bless yourself with ; come along I say!" — "O dear Madam," cried the stranger, "pity me! pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest." I instantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, wliile the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. "Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treasm'e, 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." — " O my ovm dear," — for minutes she could say no more, — "my own dearest, good papa! Coidd angels be kinder ! How do I deserve so much ! The villain ! I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to such goodness ! You can't forgive me. I know you caimot." — "Yes, my child, from my heart I do for- give thee ! only repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia!" — "Ah! never. Sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad and shame at home. But alas ! papa, you look much paler than you used to do. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 189 Could such a thing as I am, give so much uneasiness ? Surely you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself." — " Oui" 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 wis- dom makes but a slow defence against trouble, though at last a siu^e one." 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 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 mea- sure stuprises me, how a person of Mr. Burchell's good sense and seeming honoui' could be guilty of such de- liberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo it." *' My dear papa," retm'ned my daughter, " you labour under a strmige mistake, Mr. Burchell never attempted 190 THE VICA.R OF WAKEFIELD. to deceive me ; instead of that, he took every opportu- nity 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 aban- doned women of the town vdthout breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices, you may remember, would have certainly succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed those reproaches at them, which we all applied to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat their intentions still remains a secret to me ; but I am convinced he was ever our warmest, smcerest friend." " You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I find my first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's baseness were too well gromided : but he can triumph in secu- rity ; for he is rich, and we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as thine?" " Indeed, Sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph to the desire I had of making him, and not myself happy. I knew that the ceremony of our marriage. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 191 wliich was privately performed by a Popish priest, was no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour." — " What ! " interrupted I, " and were you indeed married by a priest, and in orders?" — " Indeed, Sir, we were," replied she, " though we were both sworn to conceal his name." — " Why then, my child, come to my arms again ; and now you are a thousand times more welcome than before ; for you are now his wife to all intents and purposes ; nor can all the laws of man, though written upon tables of ada- mant, lessen the force of that sacred connexion." " Alas ! papa," replied she, " you are but little acquainted with his villainies ; he has been married already by the same priest to six or eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned." "Has he so?" cried I, "then we must hang the priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow." — " But, Sir," returned she, " will that be right, when I am sworn to secrecy?" — "My dear," I replied, "if you have made such a promise I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even 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 J 92 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 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 com- mit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of con- tingent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly follow, yet the interval between commission and advantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in wliich we are called away to answer for the things we have done, and the volume of human actions is closed for ever. But I interrupt you, my dear ; go on." " The very next morning," continued she, " I found what little expectation I was to have from his sinceritjr. That very morning he introduced me to two more un- happy women, whom, like me, he had deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to for- get my infamy in a tumult of pleasure. 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 contri- buted to increase my melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite away. Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he more insolent ; till at last the monster THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 193 had the assurance to offer me to a young baronet of his acquaintance. Need I describe, Sir, how his ingrati- tude stung me ! My answer to this proposal was ahnost madness. I desired to part. As I was going, he offered me a pm'se : but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from him in a rage that for awhile kept me in- sensible of the miseries of my situation. But 1 soon looked romid me, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world to apply to. " Just in that interval a stage-coach happening to pass by, I took a place ; it being my only aim to bo driven at a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. I was set do\\ai here, where, since my arrival, my own anx- iety and this woman's unkindness have been my only companions. The hoiu's of pleasm-e 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 mixed with guilt and infamy." "Have patience, my child," cried I, "and I hope things will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and to morrow I '11 carry you home to your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will re- ceive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this has gone to her heart but she loves you still, Olivia, and will Ibr- get it." 2o My compassion for my poor daugbter, overpowered by this new disaster, interrupted ■roliat I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support her, and after a short time she recovered, — Pa^e 207. CHAPTER XXII. OFFENCES ARE EASILY PAEDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM. The next morning I took my daughter beliind me, and set out on my return home. As we travelled along, I strove by every persuasion to calm her sor- rows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. I took every op- portunity, from the prospect of a fine country, through THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 195 which we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven was to us, than we to each other, and that the misfor- tunes of Nature's making were very few. I assm-ed her, that she should never perceive any change in my affections, and that dming my life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the censm'es of the world ; showed her that books were sweet, mn-eproach- ing companions to the miserable, and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endiu'e it. The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house ; and as I was willing to prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached ovu* appointed stage : however, after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, 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 approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections out- went my haste, and hovered round my little fireside 196 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. with all the raptvire of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the wel- come I was to receive. I already felt my wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The la- bourers 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 plea- sure, and before I was within a fui'long of the place, our honest mastiff came rmuiing 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 happiness ; 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 convul- sive outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till this been asleep, and he perceiving the flames instantly waked my wife and daughter, and all running out naked and wild with ap- prehension, 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. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 197 I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my t^vo little ones ; but they were not to be seen. O misery ! " ^\^lere," cried I, " where are my little ones?" — "They are burnt to death in the flames," says my wife, calmly, " and I will die with them." — That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and notliing could have stopped me. "Where, where are my childi-en?" cried I, rushing tlu'ough the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in which they were confined, "Where are my little ones?" — " Here, dear papa, here we are," cried they together, while the flames were just catcliing 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 smik in. " Now," cried I, holding up my chil- dren, " now let the flames burn on, and all my posses- sions perish. Here they are ; I have saved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall 5^et be happy." We kissed oux little darlings a thou- sand times, they clasped us roimd the neck, and seemed to share oiu* transports, while their mother laughed and wept by tm'ns. I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time began to perceive that my arm to the 198 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. slioulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was, therefore, out of my power to give my son any assist- ance, either in attempting to save our goods, or pre- venting the flames spreading to our com. 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' for- tunes, were entirely consumed, except a box wdth 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 neighbom's contributed, however, what they could to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and fiunished one of oiu: out-houses 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 imtutored bene- volence 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 parti- cular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our lost one, and though we had nothing but wretched- THE VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 199 ness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have been more difficult hut for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not the coiu'age to look up at her mother, whom no instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation ; for women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. " Ah, Madam," cried her mother, " this is but a poor place you have 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 vniha2)py 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 reluni lo duty 200 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hard- ships 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 con- tented, as there are enough of us to shut out the cen- suring world and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example. Heaven, v\^e are assured, is much more pleased to vievvr a repentant sin- ner, than ninety-nine persons who have supported a course of undeviating rectitude. And tliis is right : for that single effort by which we stop short in the down- hill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue than a hundred acts of justice." The consequence of my incapacity was bis driving my cattle that evening, and their being appraised and sold the nest day for less than half their value. — Page 214. CHAPTER XXIII. NONE PTJT THE fUIIT-TT CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MISERABLE. Some assiduity was now required to make our pre- sent 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 oc- cupations, I read to my family from the few books that were saved, and particularly from such as, by 2d 1^02 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. amusing the imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our good neighbours, too, came every day with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at repairing my former dwellhig. Honest farmer Williams was not last among these visitors ; but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have renewed his addresses to my daughter ; but she rejected them in such a manner as totally 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 constitution, and neglect still more contributed to di- minish 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 cm'ed, 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 203 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 '11 give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing, historian. " Matilda was married to a very yomig Neapolitan nobleman of the first quality, and fomid 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 siu'prise, and making an effort to save him, plunged in after ; but far from being able to assist the infant, she herself with great diffi- culty escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French soldiers were plmidering the comitry on that side, who immediately made her their prisoner. " As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with the utmost inliumanity, they were go- ing at once to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. Tliis base resolution, however, was opposed by a yomig officer, who, though their re- treat required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety to his native city* Her 204 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. beauty at first caught his eye, her merit soon after his heart. They were married: he rose to the highest posts; they lived long together and were happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be called permanent: after an interval of several years, the troops which he commanded having met Avitli a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories can produce more various in- stances 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 hus- band of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental m protracting the siege. Their determina- tions were in general executed almost as soon as re- solved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this inter- val of anguish and expectation, that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband and deliverer, de- ploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perisliing by a prematui'e THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 205 death in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with still stronger emotions when he heard her mention her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for whom she had encomitered so much danger. He acknowledged her at once as liis mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed : the cap- tive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friend- ship, and duty could confer on earth, were united." In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daugh- ter ; but she listened with divided attention ; for her own misfortmies engrossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In com- pany she dreaded contempt ; and in solitude she only fomid anxiety. Such was the colour of her wretched- ness, w^ien 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 opportmuty before me to express his con- tempt both of her person and fortmie. Tliis news only served to increase poor Olivia's affliction ; such a fla- grant breach of fidelity was more than her coiuage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more certain information, and to defeat, if possible, the com- 200 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. pletion of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot's with instructions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my family. My son went in pursuance of my directions, and in three days re- tm-ned, assming us of the truth of the account; but that he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thorn- hill and Miss Wilmot were visiting romid the comitry. They were to be married, he said, in a few days, hav- ing appeared together at chiu*ch the Sunday before he was there, in great splendoiu-, the bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials filled the whole country with re- joicing, and they usually rode out together in the grand- est 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 micle. Sir William Thornliill, who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing but mirth and feasting were going for- ward J 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. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 207 "Why, let him if he can," returned I; "but, my son, observe tliis bed of straw and unsheltering roof;- those mouldering walls and humid floor; my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping romid 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 cliildren, 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 ele- gance 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 travellers that are going towards home ; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going into exile." My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster, interrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support her, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from that time more calm, and, I imagined, had gained /a new degree of resolution: but appearances deceived me; for her tranquillity was the languor of overwrought resentment. A supply of provisions charitably sent iis by my kind 208 THE VICAU or WAKEFIELD. parishioners, 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 satisfaction, merely to con- dole 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 cheerful- ness condescended to hover round our little habitation. -ill ■" ■ 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.- Page 218, CHAPTER XXIV. FRESH CALAMITIES. The next morning tlie sun arose with peculiar warmth for the season ; so that we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank : where, while we sat, ni}- youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to the concert on tlie trees about us. Tt was in this 2e 210 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. place my poor Olivia first met lier seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness. But that melan- choly which is excited by objects of pleasure, or in- spired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, upon this occasion felt a pleasing distress, and w^ept, and loved her daugh- ter 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 yom* old father." She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me. When lovely woman stoops to follj', And finds too late tliat men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy'? What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is — to die. As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar soft- ness, the appearance 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 THE VICAll OF WAKEFIELD. 211 sister. In a few minutes lie 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 charac- ter ; and there was a time when I would have chas- tised your insolence for presuming thus to appear before me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains them." " I vow, my dear Sir," retui'ned he, " I am amazed at all this ; nor can I understand what it means : I hope you don't think your davighter'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 se- cures you from my anger. Yet, Sir, I am descended from a family that would not have borne tliis ! And so, thou vile thing ! to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but honoiu' 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 o])inion you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. 212 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. We can marry her to another in a short time, and what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard for her." I fomid all my passions alarmed at this new de- grading proposal ; for although the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little villainy can at any time get within the soul and sting it into rage. " Avoid my sight, thou reptile," cried I, " nor continue to in- sult 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 midone." " 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 friend- ship, 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, tlu'eatens 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 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 213 serve you, and even to have you and your daughter present at my marriage, wliich is shortly to be solemn- ized with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request of my charming Ai-ahella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse." " Mr. Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for all : as to your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to ; and though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and have found its baseness. Never more, therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, and possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity, and though thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt." " If so," returned he, " depend upon it you shall feel the eifects of this insolence, and we shall shortly see wliich is the fittest object of scorn, you or me." Upon which he departed abruptly. My wile and son, who were present at this inter- view, seemed terrified with apprehension. My daughters 214 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. also, finding that he was gone, came out to be informed of the result of ovu* conference, which, when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. But as to my- self, I disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevo- lence : he had already struck the blow, and now I stood prepared to repel every new effort. Like one of those instruments used in the art of war, which however thrown still presents a point to receive the enemy. We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain; for the very next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which, by the train of acci- dents already related, I was miable to pay. The con- sequence 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 incvu' certain destruction. They even begged of me to admit liis 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 tlu-eatened 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! THE TTCAR OF WAKEFIELD. 215 My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but my con- science will not permit me to approve. Would you have me applaud to the world what my heart must in- ternally condenm ? Would you have me tamely sit down and flatter ova infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid a prison, continually suffer the more galling bonds of mental confinement ? No, never ! If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right ; and wherever we are thro-wni, we can still retire to a charming apartment, when we can look round our own hearts with intrepidity and with pleasm-e ! " In this mamier we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abun- dance 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 rumiing in, with looks all pale, to tell us, that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice, were making towards the house. Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where I lay, after previously informing me of their employment and business, made me their prisoner, bid- ding me prepare to go with them to the county gaol, which was eleven miles oil'. " My friends," said I, " this is severe weather on 210 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. which you have come to take me to a prison ; and it is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burned in a terrible mamier, 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 tiu-ned to my wife and children, and directed them to get together what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I en- treated them to be expeditious, 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 romid at the strangers. In the mean time 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. -I was apprized of the usual perquisite required upon these occasions, and imnjediately complied with the demand, though the little money I had was nearly exhausted - Page 220. CHAPTER XXV. NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WEETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT. We set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being en- feebled by a slow fever, which had begun for some days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers, who 2 F 218 THE VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. had a horse, kindly took her behind him ; for even these men cannot entirely divest themselves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell not for her own but my dis- tresses. We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we saw a crowd running and shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my poorest pa- rishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, and swearing they would never see their minister go to gaol while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defence, were going to use them with great severity. The conse- quence might have been fatal, had I not immediately interposed, and with some difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the enraged multitude. My chil- dren, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures. But they were soon unde- ceived, upon hearing me address the poor deluded peo- ple, 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 instruc- tions I have given you from the pulpit ! Thus to fly THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 219 in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on your- selves and me ! Whicli 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 de- luded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your coiuitry, 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 consisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and retaming no marks of its ancient superiority but the gaol. Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we had such refreshments as could most readily be procm-ed, and I supped with my family with my usual cheerful- ness. After seeing tliem properly accommodated for that night, I next attended the sheriff's oflicers to the prison, which had formerly been built for the piuposes 220 THE VICAR OP WAKEPIELD. of war, and consisted of one large apartment strongly grated and paved with stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the night. I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but lamentations and various somids of misery ; but it was very different. The prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in merri- ment or clamour. I was apprized of the usual perqui- site required upon these occasions, and immediately com- plied with the demand, though the little money I had was very nearly being all exhausted. This was imme- diately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison soon was filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness. " How," cried I to myself, " shall men so very wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ! I feel only the same confinement with them, and I think I have more reason to be happy." With such reflections I labom'ed to become cheerful ; but cheerfiilness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself painful. As I was sitting therefore in the cor- ner of the gaol in a pensive postrue, one of my fellow- prisoners came up, and sitting by me entered into con- versation. It was my constant rule in life never to THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 221 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 milettered sense, but a tho- rough 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 unfortmiate," 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 humanity in a gaol in misfortunes ; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, " That the sage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in afiiiction, when he said, tov kq^l-UBR:*^Y(9/: •^ University Research Library e c*> lJ> a .«f