LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA DAVIS Tbe English Comédie 'bumaine bome Library SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY FROM THE SPECTATOR THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH THE MAN OF FEELING BY HENRY MACKENZIE The English Comédie bumaine bome Library Masterpieces of the great English novelists in which are portrayed the varying aspects of English life from the time of Addison to the present day: a series anal- ogous to that in which Balzac depicted the man- ners and morals of his French contemporaries. Coverley Hall Tbe Englisb Comédie 'humaine bome Library SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY PAPERS FROM THE SPECTATOR NEW YORK The Century Co. 1907 ' ne?TY OF CALIFORNIA BRARY CE OF AGRICULTURE DAVIS Copyright, 1902, hy THE CENTURY Co. Published November, 1902. 1 PUBLISHERS' NOTE JOSEPH ADDISON (1672–1719) was the father of modern English fiction; for the papers in the “Spectator” in which the character and opinions of Sir Roger de Coverley are described form the first sketch of the novel of character as distinguished from the romance or novel of incident and adventure. It is, indeed, only a sketch; but it was destined to be filled out a generation later by the mighty pens of Richardson and Fielding, and it has re- tained undiminished its charm as a sympathetic study of the best type of the English country gentleman at the beginning of the eighteenth century. The character of Sir Roger was outlined by Sir Richard Steele (1672–1729), but the portrait was completed by Addison, and it is with his name that it is properly associated. The Coverley papers appeared during the years 1711-12. OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728–1774) belongs in a much later period, the “Vicar of Wakefield” having been published in 1766, twenty- five years after the appearance of “Pamela” and twenty-four after that of “ Joseph Andrews” (both of which are included in this series). This famous little classic, however, from the purity of its style and the exquisite simplicity of its delineation of a single type of rural character, the country parson,- forms a fitting companion to “Sir Roger de Coverley.” Its place in the history of English fiction is assured. It is, to-day, the only novel of the later part of the eighteenth century which holds its rank with the masterpieces of the first great novelists, Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett. To a still later time belongs HENRY MACKENZIE (1745-1831), whose most famous work, “The Man of Feeling,” was published in 1771. It is written in the manner or at least under the inspiration —of Sterne, and is marked by an exaggerated senti- mentality. Upon its own time Upon its own time, however, it produced an impres- sion which has been compared with that made by Rousseau's “Nouvelle Héloise"; and it is a reflection of an important phase of eighteenth-century life and feeling. 61138 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS After drawings by Fred Tayler, engraved by John Thompson. COVERLEY HALL Frontispiece THE COVERLEY GUEST FACING PAGE 22 A COVERLEY LOVE MATCH . 54 . COVERLEY HALL AT CHRISTMAS TIME. 92 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY PAPERS FROM THE SPECTATOR SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY PAPERS FROM THE SPECTATOR I No. 1.] Thursday, March 1, 1711. [Addison. Non fumum ex fulgore, sed ex fumo dare lucem Cogitat, ut speciosa dehinc miracula promat.-Hor. HAVE observed, that a reader seldom peruses a book with pleasure till he knows whether the writer of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor, with other particulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to the right understanding of an author. To gratify this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I design this paper, and my next, as prefatory discourses to my following writings, and shall give some account in them of the several persons that are engaged in this work. As the chief trouble of compiling, digesting, and correcting will fall to my share, I must do myself the justice to open the work with my own history. I was born to a small hereditary estate, which according to the tradition of the village where it lies, was bounded by the same hedges and ditches in William the Conqueror's time that it is at present, and has been delivered down from father to son whole and entire, without the loss or acquisition of a single field or meadow, during the space of six hundred years. There runs a story in the family, that when my mother was gone with child of me about three months, she dreamt that she was brought to bed of a judge. Whether this might proceed from One with a flash begins, and ends in smoke; Another out of smoke brings glorious light, And (without raising expectation high) Surprises us with dazzling miracles.-Roscommon. 3 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY a law-suit which was then depending in the family, or my father's being a justice of the peace, I cannot determine; for I am not so vain as to think it presaged any dignity that I should arrive at in my future life, though that was the interpretation which the neighbourhood put upon it. The gravity of my be- haviour at my very first appearance in the world, and all the time that I sucked, seemed to favour my mother's dream: for, as she has often told me, I threw away my rattle before I was two months old, and would not make use of my coral till they had taken away the bells from it. As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing in it re- markable, I shall pass it over in silence. I find that, during my nonage, I had the reputation of a very sullen youth, but was always a favourite of my schoolmaster, who used to say, that my parts were solid, and would wear well. I had not been long at the university, before I distinguished myself by a most profound silence: for, during the space of eight years, except- ing in the public exercises of the college, I scarce uttered the quantity of an hundred words; and indeed do not remember that I ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life. Whilst I was in this learned body, I applied myself with so much diligence to my studies, that there are very few celebrated books, either in the learned or the modern tongues, which I am not acquainted with. Upon the death of my father I was resolved to travel into foreign countries, and therefore left the university, with the character of an odd unaccountable fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I would but show it. An insatiable thirst after knowledge carried me into all the countries of Europe, in which there was anything new or strange to be seen; nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised, that having read the contro- versies of some great men concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage to Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the meas- ure of a pyramid; and, as soon as I had set myself right in that particular, returned to my native country with great satis- faction. I have passed my latter years in this city, where I am fre- quently seen in most public places, though there are not above half a dozen of my select friends that know me; of whom my next paper shall give a more particular account. There is no 4 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY place of general resort wherein I do not often make my appear- ance; sometimes I am seen thrusting my head into a round of politicians at Will's, and listening with great attention to the narratives that are made in those little circular audiences. Sometimes I smoke a pipe at Child's, and while I seem attentive to nothing but the Post-Man, overhear the conversation of every table in the room. I appear on Sunday nights at St. James's coffee house, and sometimes join the little committee of politics in the inner room, as one who comes there to hear and improve. My face is likewise very well known at the Grecian, the Cocoa-Tree, and in the theatres both of Drury Lane and the Hay-Market. I have been taken for a merchant upon the Ex- change for above these ten years, and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's. In short, wherever I see a cluster of people, I always mix with them, though I never open my lips but in my own club. Thus I live in the world, rather as a spectator of mankind, than as one of the species, by which means I have made myself a speculative statesman, soldier, merchant, and artizan, without ever meddling with any practical part in life. I am very well versed in the theory of an husband, or a father, and can discern the errors in the economy, business, and diversion of others, better than those who are engaged in them; as standers-by discover blots, which are apt to escape those who are in the game. I never espoused any party with violence, and am re- solved to observe an exact neutrality between the Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare myself by the hostili- ties of either side. In short, I have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker-on, which is the character I intend to preserve in this paper. I have given the reader just so much of my history and character, as to let him see I am not altogether unqualified for the business I have undertaken. As for other particulars in my life and adventures, I shall insert them in following papers, as I shall see occasion. In the meantime, when I consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I begin to blame my own taciturnity; and since I have neither time nor inclination to communicate the fulness of my heart in speech, I am resolved to do it in writing, and to print myself out, if possible, before I die. I have been often told by my friends that it is pity so 5 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY many useful discoveries which I have made, should be in the possession of a silent man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a sheet full of thoughts every morning, for the benefit of my contemporaries; and if I can any way contribute to the diversion or improvement of the country in which I live, I shall leave it, when I am summoned out of it, with the secret satis- faction of thinking that I have not lived in vain. There are three very material points which I have not spoken to in this paper, and which, for several important reasons, I must keep to myself, at least for some time: I mean, an account of my name, my age, and my lodgings. I must confess I would gratify my reader in anything that is reasonable; but as for these three particulars, though I am sensible they might tend very much to the embellishment of my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution of communicating them to the public. They would indeed draw me out of that obscurity which I have enjoyed for many years, and expose me in public places to several salutes and civilities, which have been always very disagreeable to me; for the greatest pain I can suffer, is the being talked to, and being stared at. It is for this reason like- wise, that I keep my complexion and dress as very great secrets; though it is not impossible, but I may make discov- eries of both in the progress of the work I have undertaken. After having been thus particular upon myself, I shall in to-morrow's paper give an account of those gentlemen who are concerned with me in this work; for, as I have before in- timated, a plan of it is laid and concerted (as all other matters of importance are) in a club. However, as my friends have engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a mind to cor- respond with me, may direct their letters To the Spectator, at Mr. Buckley's, in Little Britain. For I must further acquaint the reader that, though our club meets only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, we have appointed a committee to sit every night, for the inspection of all such papers as may contribute to the advancement of the public weal. C. 6 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 2.] Friday, March 2, 1711. [Steele. Ast alii sex Et plures, uno conclamant ore. 1-Juv. HE first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country-dance which is called after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his be- haviour, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his being unconfined to modes and forms, makes him but the readier and more capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town he lives in Soho Square. It is said, he keeps himself a bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentle- man, had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. But being ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a half; and though his temper being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of himself and never dressed afterwards. He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. 'Tis said Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after he had forgot this cruel beauty, insomuch that it is re- ported he has frequently offended in point of chastity with beggars and gypsies: but this is look'd upon by his friends rather as matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty- sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a good house in both town and country; a great lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather be- Six more at least join their consenting voice, 1 7 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY loved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company. When he comes into a house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way upstairs to a visit. I must not omit that Sir Roger is a justice of the quorum; that he fills the chair at a quarter- session with great abilities, and three months ago, gained uni- versal applause by explaining a passage in the Game-Act. The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner-Temple; a man of great probity, wit and understanding; but he has chosen his place of residence rather to obey the direction of an old humoursome father, than in pursuit of his own incli- nations. He was placed there to study the laws of the land, and is the most learned of any of the house in those of the stage. Aristotle and Longinus are much better understood by him than Littleton or Coke. The father sends up every post questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures, in the neighbourhood; all which questions he agrees with an attorney to answer and take care of in the lump. He is study- ing the passions themselves, when he should be inquiring into the debates among men which arise from them. He knows the argument of each of the orations of Demosthenes and Tully, but not one case in the reports of our own courts. No one ever took him for a fool, but none, except his intimate friends, know he has a great deal of wit. This turn makes him at once both disinterested and agreeable. As few of his thoughts are drawn from business, they are most of them fit for conversation. His taste of books is a little too just for the age he lives in; he has read all, but approves of very few. His familiarity with the customs, manners, actions, and writ- ings of the ancients, makes him a very delicate observer of what occurs to him in the present world. He is an excellent critic, and the time of the play is his hour of business; exactly at five he passes through New-Inn, crosses through Russel Court, and takes a turn at Will's till the play begins; he has his shoes rubbed and his perriwig powdered at the barber's as you go into the Rose. It is for the good of the audience when he is at a play, for the actors have an ambition to please him. 8 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the city of London. A person of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great experience. His notions of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich man has usually some sly way of jesting, which would make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea the British common. He is acquainted with commerce in all its parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion by arms; for true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will often argue, that if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should gain from one nation; and if another, from another. I have heard him prove that diligence makes more lasting acquisitions than valour, and that sloth has ruined more nations than the sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims, amongst which the greatest favourite is, "A penny saved is a penny got.” A general trader of good sense is pleasanter company than a general scholar; and Sir Andrew having a natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He has made his fortunes himself; and says that England may be richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he himself is richer than other men; though at the same time I can say this of him, that there is not a point in the compass, but blows home a ship in which he is an owner. Next to Sir Andrew in the club-room sits Captain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good understanding, but in- vincible modesty. He is one of those that deserve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents within the observation of such as should take notice of them. He was some years a captain, and behaved himself with great gallantry in several engagements, and at several sieges; but having a small estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way of life in which no man can rise suitably to his merit, who is not something of a courtier, as well as a soldier. I have heard him often lament that in a profession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to this purpose, I never heard him make a sour expression, but frankly confess that he left the world because he was not fit 9 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY for it. A strict honesty and an even regular behaviour, are in themselves obstacles to him that must press through crowds who endeavour at the same end with himself, the favour of a commander. He will, however, in this way of talk, excuse generals, for not disposing according to men's desert, or in- quiring into it: for, says he, that great man who has a mind to help me, has as many to break through to come at me, as I have to come at him: therefore he will conclude, that the man who would make a figure, especially in a military way, must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against the importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be back- ward in asserting what you ought to expect, as it is a military fear to be slow in attacking when it is your duty. With this candour does the gentleman speak of himself and others. The same frankness runs through all his conversation. The mili- tary part of his life has furnished him with many adventures, in the relation of which he is very agreeable to the company; for he is never over-bearing, though accustomed to command men in the utmost degree below him; nor ever too obsequious, from an habit of obeying men highly above him. But that our society may not appear a set of humorists unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman who, according to his years, should be in the decline of his life, but having ever been very careful of his person, and always had a very easy fortune, time has made but very little impression, either by wrinkles on his forehead, or traces in lis brain. His person is well turned, and of a good height. He is very ready at that sort of discourse with which men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed very well, and remembers habits as others do men. He can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows the history of every mode, and can inform you from which of the French king's wenches our wives and daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that way of placing their hoods; whose frailty was covered by such a sort of petticoat, and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of the dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his conversation and knowl- edge has been in the female world. As other men of his age IQ SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY will take notice to you what such a minister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you when the Duke of Mon- mouth danced at court, such a woman was then smitten, an- other was taken with him at the head of his troop in the Park. In all these important relations, he has ever about the same time received a kind glance, or a blow of a fan, from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present Lord such-a-one. If you speak of a young Commoner that said a lively thing in the House, he starts up, “ He has good blood in his veins, Tom Mirabell begot him, the rogue cheated me in that affair; that young fellow's mother used me more like a dog than any woman I ever made advances to.” This way of talking of his very much enlivens the conversation among us of a more sedate turn; and I find there is not one of the company but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks of him as that sort of man, who is usually called a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude his character, where women are not concerned, he is an honest worthy man. I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am next to speak of, as one of our company; for he visits us but seldom, but when he does, it adds to every man else a new en- joyment of himself. He is a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of general learning, great sanctity of life, and the most exact good breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very weak constitution, and consequently cannot accept of such cares and business as preferments in his function would oblige him to: he is therefore among divines what a chamber- counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind, and the integrity of his life, create him followers, as being eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the subject he speaks upon; but we are so far gone in years, that he observes when he is among us an earnestness to have him fall on some divine topic, which he always treats with much authority, as one who has no interests in this world, as one who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordinary companions. R. II SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 6.] Wednesday, March 7, 1711. [Steele. I Credebant hoc grande nefas, et morte piandum Si Juvenis vetulo non assurrexerat. - Juv. KNOW no evil under the sun so great as the abuse of the understanding, and yet there is no one vice more common. It has diffused itself through both sexes and all qualities of mankind; and there is hardly that person to be found, who is not more concerned for the reputation of wit and sense, than honesty and virtue. But this unhappy affectation of being wise rather than honest, witty than good-natured, is the source of most of the ill habits of life. Such false impressions are owing to the abandoned writings of men of wit, and the awk- ward imitation of the rest of mankind. For this reason Sir Roger was saying last night, that he was of opinion that none but men of fine parts deserve to be hanged. The reflections of such men are so delicate upon all occurrences which they are concerned in, that they should be exposed to more than ordinary infamy and punishment, for offending against such quick admonitions as their own souls give them, and blunting the fine edge of their minds in such a manner, that they are no more shocked at vice and folly than men of slower capacities. There is no greater monster in being than a very ill man of great parts. He lives like a man in a palsy, with one side of him dead. While perhaps he en- joys the satisfaction of luxury, of wealth, of ambition, he has lost the taste of good-will, of friendship, of innocence. Scare- crow, the beggar, in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, who disabled him- self in his right leg, and asks alms all day to get himself a warm supper and a trull at night, is not half so despicable a wretch, as such a man of sense. The beggar has no relish above sensations; he finds rest more agreeable than motion; and while he has a warm fire and his doxy, never reflects that he deserves to be whipped. Every man who terminates his satisfaction and enjoyments within the supply of his own necessities and passions, is, says Sir Roger, in my eye, as poor a rogue as Scarecrow. But,” continued he, “ for the loss of 1 'Twas impious then (so much was age revered) For youth to keep their seats when an old man appear'd. I2 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY public and private virtue, we are beholden to your men of parts forsooth; it is with them no matter what is done, so it is done with an air. But to me, who am so whimsical in a corrupt age as to act according to nature and reason, a selfish man, in the most shining circumstance and equipage, appears in the same condition with the fellow above-mentioned, but more contemptible in proportion to what more he robs the public of, and enjoys above him. I lay it down therefore for a rule, that the whole man is to move together; that every action of any importance is to have a prospect of public good; and that the general tendency of our indifferent actions ought to be agreeable to the dictates of reason, of religion, of good-breed- ing; without this, a man, as I have before hinted, is hopping instead of walking; he is not in his entire and proper motion.” While the honest knight was thus bewildering himself in good starts, I looked intentively upon him, which made him, I thought, collect his mind a little. What I am at," says he, “is to represent that I am of opinion, to polish our under- standings, and neglect our manners, is of all things the most inexcusable. Reason should govern passion, but instead of that, you see, it is often subservient to it; and, as unaccount- able as one would think it, a wise man is not always a good man.” This degeneracy is not only the guilt of particular persons, but also, at some times, of a whole people; and per- haps it may appear upon examination, that the most polite ages are the least virtuous. This may be attributed to the folly of admitting wit and learning as merit in themselves, without con- sidering the application of them. By this means it becomes a rule, not so much to regard what we do, as how we do it. But this false beauty will not pass upon men of honest minds and true taste. Sir Richard Blackmore says, with as much good sense as virtue, It is a mighty dishonour and shame to em- ploy excellent faculties and abundance of wit, to humour and please men in their vices and follies. The great enemy of mankind, notwithstanding his wit and angelic faculties, is the most odious being in the whole creation.” He goes on soon after to say, very generously, that he undertook the writing to rescue the Muses out of the hands of ravish- crs, to restore them to their sweet and chaste mansions, and to engage them in an employment suitable to their dignity.” 66 of his poem 13 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY 1 This certainly ought to be the purpose of every man who ap- pears in public, and whoever does not proceed upon that foun- dation injures his country as fast as he succeeds in his studies. When modesty ceases to be the chief ornament of one sex, and integrity of the other, society is upon a wrong basis, and we shall be ever after without rules to guide our judgment in what is really becoming and ornamental. Nature and reason direct one thing, passion and humour another. To follow the dic- tates of the two latter is going into a road that is both endless and intricate; when we pursue the other, our passage is de- lightful, and what we aim at easily attainable. I do not doubt but England is at present as polite a nation as any in the world; but any man who thinks can easily see that the affectation of being gay and in fashion has very near eaten up our good sense and our religion. Is there anything so just as that mode and gallantry should be built upon exert- ing ourselves in what is proper and agreeable to the institu- tions of justice and piety among us? And yet is there any- thing more common than that we run in perfect contradiction to them? All which is supported by no other pretension than that it is done with what we call a good grace. Nothing ought to be held laudable or becoming, but what nature itself should prompt us to think so. Respect to all kinds of superiors is founded, methinks, upon instinct; and yet what is so ridiculous as age? I make this abrupt transi- tion to the mention of this vice, more than any other, in order to introduce a little story, which I think a pretty instance that the most polite age is in danger of being the most vicious. “It happened at Athens, during a public representation of some play exhibited in honour of the commonwealth, that an old gentleman came too late for a place suitable to his age and quality. Many of the young gentlemen, who observed the difficulty and confusion he was in, made signs to him that they would accommodate him if he came where they sat. The good man bustled through the crowd accordingly; but when he came to the seats to which he was invited, the jest was to sit close and expose him, as he stood, out of countenance, to the whole audience. The frolic went round all the Athenian benches. But on those occasions there were also particular places assigned for foreigners. When the good man skulked ( 7 14 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY towards the boxes appointed for the Lacedæmonians, that honest people, more virtuous than polite, rose up all to a man, and with the greatest respect received him among them. The Athenians, being suddenly touched with a sense of the Spartan virtue and their own degeneracy, gave a thunder of applause; and the old man cried out, “The Athenians understand what is good, but the Lacedæmonians practise it." R. HA No. 106.] Monday, July 2, 1711. [Addison. Hinc tibi copia Manabit ad plenum, benigno Ruris honorum opulenta cornu. 1—Hor. AVING often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed when I please; dine at his own table, or in my chamber, as I think fit; sit still, and say nothing, with- out bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at. I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it con- sists of sober and staid persons; for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leav- ing him: by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would take his valet de chambre for his brother; his butler is gray-headed; his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen; and his coach- man has the looks of a privy-councillor. You see the good- ness of the master even in the old house-dog; and in a gray Here Plenty's liberal horn shall pour Of fruits for thee a copious show'r, Rich honours of the quiet plain. 15 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY 1 1 pad that is kept in the stable with great care and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several years. I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure, the joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master ; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time the good old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to them- selves. This humanity and good-nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good humour, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with : on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as of his particular friend. My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense, and some learning, of a very regular life, and obliging conversation : he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem; so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependent. I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humorist; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particularly his and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would ap- pear in their common and ordinary colours. As I was walk- 16 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY ing with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned; and, without staying for my answer, told me, that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table; for which reason, he desired a particular friend of his at the University, to find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of backgammon. "My friend” (says Sir Roger) “ found me out this gentleman, who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish; and because I know his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years; and, though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a law-suit in the parish since he has lived among them: if any dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never hap- pened above once, or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons which have been printed in English, and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another naturally, and make a con- tinued system of practical divinity.” As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of came up to us; and upon the knight's asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us, the Bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Doctor Barrow, Doctor Calamy, with several living authors who have pub- lished discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and 17 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY a clear voice; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pro- nounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my sat- isfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is like the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would follow this example, and, instead of wasting their spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would endeavour after a handsome elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves but more edifying to the people. No. 107.] Tuesday, July 3, 1711. [Steele. Æsopo ingentem statuam posuere Attici, Servumque collocarunt æterna in basi, Patere honoris scirent ut cunctis viam. - Phaedr. HE reception, manner of attendance, undisturbed free- dom and quiet, which I meet with here in the country has confirmed me in the opinion I always had, that the general corruption of manners in servants is owing to the conduct of masters. The aspect of every one in the family carries so much satisfaction, that it appears he knows the happy lot which has befallen him in being a member of it. There is one par- ticular which I have seldom seen but at Sir Roger's; it is usual in all other places, that servants fly from the parts of the house through which their master is passing; on the contrary, here they industriously place themselves in his way; and it is on both sides, as it were, understood as a visit, when the servants appear without calling. This proceeds from the humane and equal temper of the man of the house, who also perfectly well knows how to enjoy a great estate, with such economy as ever to be much beforehand. This makes his own mind untroubled, and consequently unapt to vent peevish ex- pressions, or give passionate or inconsistent orders to those 1 The Athenians erected a large statue to Æsop, and placed him, though a slave, on a lasting pedestal; to shew, that the way to honour lies open indifferently to all. 18 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY about him. Thus respect and love go together; and a certain cheerfulness in performance of their duty is the particular dis- tinction of the lower part of this family. When a servant is called before his master, he does not come with an expectation to hear himself rated for some trivial fault, threatened to be stripped, or used with any other unbecoming language which mean masters often give to worthy servants; but, it is often to know, what road he took that he came so readily back accord- ing to order; whether he passed by such a ground; if the old man who rents it is in good health; or whether he gave Sir Roger's love to him, or the like. A man who preserves a respect founded on his benevolence to his dependents, lives rather like a prince than a master in his family; his orders are received as favours rather than duties; and the distinction of approaching him is part of the reward for executing what is commanded by him. There is another circumstance in which my friend excels in his management, which is the manner of rewarding his serv- ants. He has ever been of opinion, that giving his cast clothes to be worn by valets has a very ill effect upon little minds, and creates a silly sense of equality between the parties, in persons affected only with outward things. I have heard him often pleasant on this occasion, and describe a young gentleman abusing his man in that coat, which a month or two before was the most pleasing distinction he was conscious of in himself. He would turn his discourse still more pleasantly upon the ladies' bounties of this kind; and I have heard him say he knew a fine woman, who distributed rewards and punishments in giving becoming or unbecoming dresses to her maids. But my good friend is above these little instances of good- will, in bestowing only trifles on his servants; a good servant to him is sure of having it in his choice very soon of being no servant at all. As I before observed, he is so good an husband, and knows so thoroughly that the skill of the purse is the cardinal virtue of this life; I say he knows so well that fru- gality is the support of generosity, that he can often spare large fine when a tenement falls, and give that settlement to a good servant who has a mind to go into the world, or make a stranger pay the fine to that servant, for his more comfortable maintenance, if he stays in his service. 19 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY | A man of honour and generosity considers it would be miserable to himself to have no will but that of another, though it were of the best person breathing, and for that reason goes on as fast as he is able to put his servants into independent livelihoods. The greatest part of Sir Roger's estate is ten- anted by persons who have served himself or his ancestors. It was to me extremely pleasant to observe the visitants from the several parts to welcome his arrival into the country: and all the difference that I could take notice of between the late servants who came to see him, and those who stayed in the family, was that these latter were looked upon as finer gentle- men and better courtiers. This manumission and placing them in a way of livelihood, I look upon as only what is due to a good servant; which en- couragement will make his successor be as diligent, as humble, and as ready as he was. There is something wonderful in the narrowness of those minds, which can be pleased, and be bar- ren of bounty to those who please them. One might, on this occasion, recount the sense that great persons in all ages have had of the merit of their dependents, and the heroic services which men have done their masters in the extremity of their fortunes; and shown to their undone patrons, that fortune was all the difference between them; but as I design this my speculation only as a gentle admonition to thankless masters, I shall not go out of the occurrences of common life, but assert it as a general observation, that I never saw, but in Sir Roger's family and one or two more, good servants treated as they ought to be. Sir Roger's kindness extends to their children's children, and this very morning he sent his coachman's grandson to prentice. I shall conclude this paper with an account of a picture in his gallery, where there are many which will deserve my future observation. At the very upper end of this handsome structure I saw the portraiture of two young men standing in a river, the one naked, the other in a livery. The person supported seemed half dead, but still so much alive as to show in his face ex- quisite joy and love towards the other. I thought the fainting figure resembled my friend Sir Roger; and looking at the butler who stood by me, for an account of it, he informed me that the person in the livery was a servant of Sir Roger's, who 20 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY stood on the shore while his master was swimming, and ob- serving him taken with some sudden illness, and sink under water, jumped in and saved him. He told me Sir Roger took off the dress he was in as soon as he came home, and by a great bounty at that time, followed by his favour ever since, had made him master of that pretty seat which we saw at a dis- tance as we came to this house. I remembered indeed Sir Roger said, there lived a very worthy gentleman, to whom he was highly obliged, without mentioning anything further. Upon my looking a little dissatisfied at some part of the pic- ture, my attendant informed me that it was against Sir Roger's will, and at the earnest request of the gentleman himself, that he was drawn in the habit in which he had saved his master. R. No. 108.] Wednesday, July 4, 1711. [Addison. Gratis anhelans, multa agendo nihil agens. 1-Phaedr. AS I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger be- fore his house, a country fellow brought him a huge fish, which, he told him, Mr. William Wimble had caught that very morning; and that he presented it with his service to him, and intended to come and dine with him. At the same time he delivered a letter, which my friend read to me as soon as the messenger left him. SIR ROGER, “I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the best I have caught this season. I intend to come and stay with you a week, and see how the perch bite in the Black River. I ob- served with some concern, the last time I saw you upon the bowling-green, that your whip wanted a lash to it; I will bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week, which I hope will serve you all the time you are in the country. I have not been out of the saddle for six days last past, having been at Eton with Sir John's eldest son. He takes to his learning hugely. "I am, Sir, your humble Servant, “WILL WIMBLE.” *Out of breath to no purpose, and very busy about nothing. 21 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY ! 1 1 This extraordinary letter, and message that accompanied it, made me very curious to know the character and quality of the gentleman who sent them; which I found to be as follows- Will Wimble is younger brother of a baronet, and descended of the ancient family of the Wimbles. He is now between forty and fifty; but being bred to no business, and born to no estate, he generally lives with his elder brother as superin- tendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better than any man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a hare. He is extremely well versed in all the little handicrafts of an idle man; he makes a May-fly to a miracle; and fur- nishes the whole country with angle-rods. As he is a good- natured, officious fellow, and very much esteemed upon ac- count of his family, he is a welcome guest at every house, and keeps up a good correspondence among all the gentlemen about him. He carries a tulip root in his pocket from one to another, or exchanges a puppy between a couple of friends that live perhaps in the opposite sides of the county. Will is a particu- lar favourite of all the young heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has weaved, or a setting dog that he has made himself; he now and then presents a pair of garters of his own knitting to their mothers or sisters; and raises a great deal of mirth among them, by inquiring, as often as he meets them, “how they wear?” These gentleman-like manufac- tures, and obliging little humours, make Will the darling of the country. Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, when he saw him make up to us with two or three hazel-twigs in his hand, that he had cut in Sir Roger's woods as he came through them in his way to the house. I was very much pleased to observe on one side the hearty and sincere welcome with which Sir Roger received him, and on the other, the secret joy which his guest discovered at sight of the good old knight. After the first salutes were over, Will desired Sir Roger to lend him one of his servants to carry a set of shuttle- cocks, he had with him in a little box, to a lady that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he had promised such a present for above this half-year. Sir Roger's back was no sooner turned, but honest Will began to tell me of a large cock pheas- ant that he had sprung in one of the neighbouring woods, with > 22 was The Coverley Guest 1 1 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY two or three other adventures of the same nature. Odd and uncommon characters are the game that I look for, and most delight in; for which reason I was as much pleased with the novelty of the person that talked to me, as he could be for his life with the springing of a pheasant, and therefore listened to him with more than ordinary attention. In the midst of his discourse the bell rung to dinner, where the gentleman I have been speaking of had the pleasure of seeing the huge jack he had caught, served up for the first dish in a most sumptuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it, he gave us a long account how he had hooked it, played with it, foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the bank, with sev- eral other particulars, that lasted all the first course. A dish of wild fowl, that came afterwards, furnished conversation for the rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late invention of Will's for improving the quail-pipe. Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I was secretly touched with compassion towards the honest gentleman that had dined with us; and could not but consider, with a great deal of concern, how so good an heart, and such busy hands, were wholly employed in trifles; that so much humanity should be so little beneficial to others, and so much industry so little advantageous to himself. The same temper of mind, and ap- plication to affairs, might have recommended him to the public esteem, and have raised his fortune in another station of life. What good to his country, or himself, might not a trader or inerchant have done with such useful, though ordinary, quali- fications ? Will Wimble's is the case of many a younger brother of a great family, who had rather see their children starve like gentlemen, than thrive in a trade or profession that is beneath their quality. This humour fills several parts of Europe with pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trading nation, like ours, that the younger sons, though incapable of any lib- eral art or profession, may be placed in such a way of life, as may perhaps enable them to vie with the best of their family. Accordingly, we find several citizens that were launched into the world with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest industry to greater estates than those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable but Will was formerly tried at divinity, law, or 23 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY physic; and that finding his genius did not lie that way, his parents gave him up at length to his own inventions. But certainly, however improper he might have been for studies of a higher nature, he was perfectly well turned for the occupa- tions of trade and commerce. As I think this is a point which cannot be too much incul- cated, I shall desire my reader to compare what I have here written with what I have said in my twenty-first speculation. L. I No. 109.] Thursday, July 5, 1711. [Steele. Abnormis sapiens. 1 _Hor. WAS this morning walking in the gallery, when Sir Roger entered at the end opposite to me, and advancing towards me, said he was glad to meet me among his relations, the de Coverleys, and hoped I liked the conversation of so much good company, who were as silent as myself. I knew he alluded to the pictures, and as he is a gentleman who does not a little value himself upon his ancient descent, I expected he would give me some account of them. We were now arrived at the upper end of the gallery, when the knight faced towards one of the pictures, and as he stood before it, he entered into the matter, after his blunt way of saying things as they occur to his imagination, without regular introduction, or care to pre- serve the appearance of chain of thought. “ It is,” said he, worth while to consider the force of dress; and how the persons of one age differ from those of another, merely by that only. One may observe also, that the general fashion of one age has been followed by one particu- lar set of people in another, and by them preserved from one generation to another. Thus the vast jetting coat and small bonnet, which was the habit in Harry the Seventh's time, is kept on in the yeoman of the guard; not without a good and politic view, because they look a foot taller, and a foot and an half broader : besides, that the cap leaves the face expanded, and consequently more terrible, and fitter to stand at the en- trance of palaces. 'Of plain good sense, untutor'd in the schools, 24 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY “This predecessor of ours you see is dressed after this man- ner, and his cheeks would be no larger than mine, were he in a hat as I am. He was the last man that won a prize in the Tilt- yard (which is now a common street before Whitehall). You see the broken lance that lies there by his right foot. He shiv- ered that lance of his adversary all to pieces; and bearing himself, look you, sir, in this manner, at the same time he came within the target of the gentleman who rode against him, and taking him with incredible force before him on the pommel of his saddle, he in that manner rid the tournament over, with an air that shewed he did it rather to perform the rule of the lists, than expose his enemy; however it appeared he knew how to make use of a victory, and with a gentle trot he marched up to a gallery where their mistress sat (for they were rivals), and let him down with laudable courtesy and pardonable insolence. I don't know, but it might be exactly where the coffee-house is now. “ You are to know this, my ancestor was not only of a military genius, but fit also for the arts of peace, for he played on the bass-viol as well as any gentleman at court; you see where his viol hangs by his basket-hilt sword. The action at the Tilt-yard you may be sure won the fair lady, who was a maid of honour, and the greatest beauty of her time; here she stands the next picture. You see, sir, my great great great grandmother has on the new-fashioned petticoat, except that the modern is gathered at the waist; my grandmother appears as if she stood in a large drum, whereas the ladies now walk as if they were in a go-cart. For all this lady was bred at court, she became an excellent country-wife, she brought ten children, and when I show you the library, you shall see in her own hand (allowing for the difference of the language) the best receipt now in England both for an hasty-pudding and a white-pot. "If you please to fall back a little, because 'tis necessary to look at the three next pictures at one view; these are three sisters. She on the right hand, who is so very beautiful, died a maid; the next to her, still handsomer, had the same fate, against her will; this homely thing in the middle had both their portions added to her own, and was stolen by a neighbouring gentleman, a man of stratagem and resolution, for he poisoned 25 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY three mastiffs to come at her, and knocked down two deer- stealers in carrying her off. Misfortunes happen in all families. The theft of this romp, and so much money, was no great matter to our estate. But the next heir that possessed it was this soft gentleman, whom you see there. Observe the small buttons, the little boots, the laces, the slashes about his clothes, and above all, the posture he is drawn in (which to be sure was his own choosing); you see he sits with one hand on a desk writing and looking as it were another way, like an easy writer, or a sonneteer. He was one of those that had too much wit to know how to live in the world; he was a man of no justice, but great good-manners; he ruined every body that had any thing to do with him, but never said a rude thing in his life; the most indolent person in the world, he would sign a deed that passed away half his estate with his gloves on, but would not put on his hat before a lady if it were to save his country. He is said to be the first that made love by squeezing the hand. He left the estate with ten thousand pounds debt upon it; but, however, by all hands I have been informed that he was every way the finest gentleman in the world. That debt lay heavy on our house for one generation, but it was retrieved by a gift from that honest man you see there, a citizen of our name, but nothing at all akin to us. I know Sir Andrew Freeport has said behind my back, that this man was descended from one of the ten children of the maid of honour I shewed you above; but it was never made out. We winked at the thing indeed, because money was wanting at that time.” Here I saw my friend a little embarrassed, and turned my face to the next portraiture. Sir Roger went on with his account of the gallery in the fol- lowing manner: “ This man (pointing to him I looked at) I take to be the honour of our house-Sir Humphrey de Cover- ley; he was in his dealings as punctual as a tradesman, and as generous as a gentleman. He would have thought himself as much undone by breaking his word, as if it were to be fol- lowed by bankruptcy. He served his country as knight of this shire to his dying day. He found it no easy matter to main- tain an integrity in his words and actions, even in things that regarded the offices which were incumbent upon him, in the 26 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY care of his own affairs and relations of life, and therefore dreaded (though he had great talents) to go into employments of state, where he must be exposed to the snares of ambition. Innocence of life and great ability were the distinguishing parts of his character; the latter, he had often observed, had led to the destruction of the former, and he used frequently to lament that great and good had not the same signification. He was an excellent husbandman, but had resolved not to ex- ceed such a degree of wealth; all above it he bestowed in secret bounties .nany years after the sum he aimed at for his own use was attained. Yet he did not slacken his industry, but to a decent old age spent the life and fortune which was superfluous to himself, in the service of his friends and neigh- bours.” Here we were called to dinner, and Sir Roger ended the dis- course of this gentleman, by telling me, as we followed the servant, that this his ancestor, was a brave man, and narrowly escaped being killed in the civil wars; “ For," said he," he was sent out of the field upon a private message, the day before the battle of Worcester.” The whim of narrowly escaping by having been within a day of danger, with other matters above mentioned, mixed with good sense, left me at a loss whether I was more delighted with my friend's wisdom or simplicity. R. A ; 1 No. 110.] Friday, July 6, 1711. [Addison. Horror ubique animos, simul ipsa silentia terrent.--Virg. I a little distance from Sir Roger's house, among the a which are shot up so very high, that when one passes under them, the rooks and crows that rest upon the tops of them seem to be cawing in another region. I am very much de- lighted with this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants of his whole creation, and who, in the beautiful language of the Psalms, feedeth the young ravens that call upon him. I like All things are full of horror and affright, And dreadful ev'n the silence of the night.-Dryden. 27 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY this retirement the better because of an ill report it lies under of being haunted; for which reason (as I have been told in the family) no living creature ever walks in it besides the chaplain. My good friend the butler desired me with a very grave face not to venture myself in it after sun-set, for that one of the footmen had been almost frightened out of his wits by a spirit that appeared to him in the shape of a black horse without an head; to which he added, that about a month ago one of the maids coming home late that way with a pail of milk upon her head, heard such a rustling among the bushes that she let it fall. I was taking a walk in this place last night between the hours of nine and ten, and could not but fancy it one of the most proper scenes in the world for a ghost to appear in. The ruins of the abbey are scattered up and down on every side, and half covered with ivy and elder bushes, the harbours of several solitary birds which seldom make their appearance till the dusk of the evening. The place was formerly a church- yard, and has still several marks in it of graves and burying- places. There is such an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that if you stamp but a little louder than ordinary, you hear the sound repeated. At the same time the walk of elms, with the croaking of the ravens which from time to time are heard from the tops of them, looks exceeding solemn and venerable. These objects naturally raise seriousness and attention; and when night heightens the awfulness of the place, and pours out her supernumerary horrors upon everything in it, I do not at all wonder that weak minds fill it with spectres and ap- paritions. Mr. Locke, in his chapter of the Association of Ideas, has very curious remarks to shew how by the prejudice of educa- tion one idea often introduces into the mind a whole set that bear no resemblance to one another in the nature of things. Among several examples of this kind, he produces the follow- ing instance. “The ideas of goblins and sprites have really no more to do with darkness than light: yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these often on the mind of a child, and raise them there together, possibly he shall never be able to separate them again so long as he lives; but darkness shall ever after- 28 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY 1 wards bring with it those frightful ideas, and they shall be so joined, that he can no more bear the one than the other." As I was walking in this solitude, where the dusk of the evening conspired with so many other occasions of terror, I observed a cow grazing not far from me, which an imagina- tion that was apt to startle might easily have construed into a black horse without an head : and I dare say the poor footman lost his wits upon some such trivial occasion. My friend Sir Roger has often told me with a great deal of mirth, that at his first coming to his estate he found three parts of his house altogether useless; that the best room in it had the reputation of being haunted, and by that means was locked up; that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight o'clock at night; that the door of one of his chambers was nailed up, because there went a story in the family that a butler had formerly hanged himself in it; and that his mother, who lived to a great age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which either her husband, a son, or daughter, had died. The knight seeing his habitation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his mother ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and exor- cised by his chaplain, who lay in every room one after another, and by that means dissipated the fears which had so long reigned in the family. I should not thus have been particular upon these ridiculous horrors, did not I find them so very much prevail in all parts of the country. At the same time I think a person who is thus terrified with the imagination of ghosts and spectres much more reasonable than one who, contrary to the reports of all historians sacred and profane, ancient and modern, and to the traditions of all nations, thinks the appearance of spirits fabu- lous and groundless. Could not I give myself up to this gen- eral testimony of mankind, I should to the relations of particu- lar persons who are now living, and whom I cannot distrust in other matters of fact. I might here add, that not only the historians, to whom we may join the poets, but likewise the philosophers of antiquity, have favoured this opinion. Lucre- tius himself, though by the course of his philosophy he was obliged to maintain that the soul did not exist separate from 29 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY the body, makes no doubt of the reality of apparitions, and that men have often appeared after their death. This I think very remarkable: he was so pressed with the matter of fact which he could not have the confidence to deny, that he was forced to account for it by one of the most absurd unphilosophical notions that was ever started. He tells us, that the surfaces of all bodies are perpetually flying off from their respective bodies, one after another; and that these surfaces or thin cases that included each other whilst they were joined in the body like the coats of an onion, are sometimes seen entire when they are separated from it; by which means we often behold the shapes and shadows of persons who are either dead or absent. I shall dismiss this paper with a story out of Josephus, not so much for the sake of the story itself as for the moral reflec- tions with which the author concludes it, and which I shall here set down in his own words. “Glaphyra the daughter of King Archelaus, after the death of her two first husbands (being married to a third who was brother to her first husband, and so passionately in love with her that he turned off his former wife to make room for this marriage) had a very odd kind of dream. She fancied that she saw her first husband coming towards her, and that she embraced him with great tenderness; when in the midst of the pleasure which she expressed at the sight of him, he reproached her after the following manner : Glaphyra, says he, thou hast made good the old saying, that women are not to be trusted. Was not I the husband of thy virginity? Have I not children by thee? How couldst thou forget our loves so far as to enter into a second marriage, and after that into a third, nay to take for thy husband a man who has so shamelessly crept into the bed of his brother? How- ever, for the sake of our past loves, I shall free thee from thy present reproach, and make thee mine forever. Glaphyra told this dream to several women of her acquaintance, and died soon after. I thought this story might not be impertinent in this place, wherein I speak of those kings: besides that, the example deserves to be taken notice of as it contains a most certain proof of the immortality of the soul, and of Divine Providence. If any man thinks these facts incredible, let him 30 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY enjoy his own opinion to himself, but let him not endeavour to disturb the belief of others, who by instances of this nature are excited to the study of virtue." L. I No. 112.] Monday, July 9, 1711. [Addison. 'Αθανάτους μεν πρώτα θεούς, νόμω ως διάκειται, Τιμά. . -Pythag. AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet to- gether with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard, as a citizen does upon the Change, the whole parish-politics being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before the bell rings. My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beauti- fied the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his own expense. He lias often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a common-prayer book : and at the same time em- ployed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the coun- 'First, in obedience to thy country's rites, Worship th' immortal Gods. 31 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY try for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the psalms; upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer no body to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees any body else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servant to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congre- gation have done with it; sometimes when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces amen three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when every body else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews it seems is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd man- ner which accompanies him in all circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see any thing ridiculous in his behaviour; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities. As soon as the sermon is finished, no body presumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side: and every now and then inquires how such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church; which is under- stood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent. The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising-day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a bible to be given him next day for his en- 32 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY couragement; and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church service, has promised upon the death of the present incumbent who is very old, to bestow it according to merit. The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more re- markable, because the very next village is famous for the dif- ferences and contentions that rise between the parson and the 'squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. The parson is always preaching at the 'squire; and the 'squire to be revenged on the parson, never comes to church. The 'squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers; while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them in almost every sermon, that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters are come to such an extremity, that the 'squire has not said his prayers either in public or private this half year; and that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation. Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very fatal to the ordinary people; who are so used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a man of an estate, as of a man of learning; and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how im- portant soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they know there are several men of five hundred a year who do not believe it. L. No. 113.] Tuesday, July 10, 1711. [Steele. IN Haerent infixi pectore vultus. 1 — Virg. N my first description of the company in which I pass most of my time, it may be remembered, that I mentioned a great affliction which my friend Sir Roger had met with in his youth; which was no less than a disappointment in love. It *Her looks were deep imprinted in his heart. 33 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY happened this evening, that we fell into a very pleasing walk at a distance from his house. As soon as we came into it, “ It is," quoth the good old man, looking round him with a smile, very hard, that any part of my land should be settled upon cne who has used me so ill as the perverse widow did; and yet I am sure I could not see a sprig of any bough of this whole walk of trees, but I should reflect upon her and her severity. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world. You are to know, this was the place wherein I used to muse upon her: and by that custom I can never come into it, but the same tender sentiments revive in my mind, as if I had actu- ally walked with that beautiful creature under these shades. I have been fool enough to carve her name on the bark of sev- eral of these trees; so unhappy is the condition of men in love, to attempt the removing of their passion by the methods which serve only to imprint it deeper. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world.” Here followed a profound silence; and I was not displeased to observe my friend falling so naturally into a discourse, which I had ever before taken notice he industriously avoided. After a very long pause, he entered upon an account of this great circumstance in his life, with an air which I thought raised my idea of him above what I had ever had before; and gave me the picture of that cheerful mind of his, before it re- ceived that stroke which has ever since affected his words and actions. But he went on as follows: "I came to my estate in my twenty-second year, and resolved to follow the steps of the most worthy of my ancestors who have inhabited this spot of earth before me, in all the methods of hospitality and good neighbourhood, for the sake of my fame; and in country sports and recreations, for the sake of my health. In my twenty-third year I was obliged to serve as sheriff of the county; and in my servants, officers, and whole equipage, indulged the pleasure of a young man (who did not think ill of his own person) in taking that public occasion of shewing my figure and behaviour to advantage. You may easily imagine to yourself what appearance I made, who am pretty tall, rid well, and was very well dressed, at the head of a whole county, with music before me, a feather in my hat, and my horse well bitted. I can assure you, I was not a little 34 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY pleased with the kind looks and glances I had from all the balconies and windows as I rode to the hall where the assizes were held. But when I came there, a beautiful creature in a widow's habit sat in court to hear the event of a cause concern- ing her dower. This commanding creature (who was born for the destruction of all who behold her) put on such a resig- nation in her countenance, and bore the whispers of all around the court with such a pretty uneasiness, I warrant you, and then recovered herself from one eye to another, until she was perfectly confused by meeting something so wistful in all she encountered, that at last, with a murrain to her, she cast her bewitching eye upon me. I no sooner met it but I bowed like a great surprised booby; and knowing her cause to be the first which came on, I cried, like a captivated calf as I was, “ Make way for the defendant's witnesses.” This sudden partiality made all the county immediately see the sheriff also was be- come a slave to the fine widow. During the time her cause was upon trial, she behaved herself, I warrant you, with such a deep attention to her business, took opportunities to have little billets handed to her counsel, then would be in such a pretty confusion, occasioned, you must know, by acting before so much company, that not only I but the whole court was prejudiced in her favour; and all that the next heir to her husband had to urge, was thought so groundless and frivolous, that when it came to her counsel to reply, there was not half so much said as every one besides in the court thought he could have urged to her advantage. You must understand, sir, this perverse woman is one of those unaccountable creatures that secretly rejoice in the admiration of men, but indulge them- selves in no further consequences. Hence it is that she has ever had a train of admirers, and she removes from her slaves in town to those in the country, according to the seasons of the year. She is a reading lady, and far gone in the pleasures of friendship. She is always accompanied by a confidant, who is witness to her daily protestations against our sex, and conse- quently a bar to her first steps towards love, upon the strength of her own maxims and declarations. “However, I must needs say, this accomplished mistress of mine has distinguished me above the rest, and has been known to declare Sir Roger de Coverley was the tamest and 35 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY most human of all the brutes in the country. I was told she said so, by one who thought he rallied me; but upon the strength of this slender encouragement of being thought least detestable, I made new liveries, new-paired my coach-horses, sent them all to town to be bitted, and taught to throw their legs well, and move all together, before I pretended to cross the country, and wait upon her. As soon as I thought my retinue suitable to the character of my fortune and youth, I set out from hence to make my addresses. The particular skill of this lady has ever been to inflame your wishes, and yet com- mand respect. To make her mistress of this art, she has a greater share of knowledge, wit, and good sense, than is usual even among men of merit. Then she is beautiful beyond the race of women. If you won't let her go on with a certain artifice with her eyes, and the skill of beauty, she will arm her- self with her real charms, and strike you with admiration in- stead of desire. It is certain that if you were to behold the whole woman, there is that dignity in her aspect, that com- posure in her motion, that complacency in her manner, that if her form makes you hope, her merit makes you fear. But then again, she is such a desperate scholar, that no country- gentleman can approach her without being a jest. As I was going to tell you, when I came to her house I was admitted to her presence with great civility; at the same time she placed herself to be first seen by me in such an attitude, as I think you call the posture of a picture, that she discovered new charms, and I at last came towards her with such an awe as made me speechless. This she no sooner observed but she made her advantage of it, and began a discourse to me con- cerning love and honour, as they both are followed by pre- tenders, and the real votaries to them. When she [had] dis- cussed these points in a discourse, which I verily believe was as learned as the best philosopher in Europe could possibly make, she asked me whether she was so happy as to fall in with my sentiments on these important particulars. Her confidant sat by her, and upon my being in the last confusion and silence, this malicious aid of hers turning to her says, I am very glad to observe Sir Roger pauses upon this subject, and seems re- solved to deliver all his sentiments upon the matter when he pleases to speak. They both kept their countenances, and 36 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY after I had sat half an hour meditating how to behave before such profound casuists, I rose up and took my leave. Chance has since that time thrown me very often in her way, and she as often has directed a discourse to me which I do not under- stand. This barbarity has kept me ever at a distance from the most beautiful object my eyes ever beheld. It is thus also she deals with all mankind, and you must make love to her, as you would conquer the sphynx, by posing her. But were she like other women, and that there were any talking to her, how constant must the pleasure of that man be, who would converse with a creature—But, after all, you may be sure her heart is fixed on some one or other; and yet I have been credibly in- formed; but who can believe half that is said ! after she had done speaking to me, she put her hand to her bosom, and ad- justed her tucker. Then she cast her eyes a little down, upon my beholding her too earnestly. They say she sings excel- lently: her voice in her ordinary speech has something in it inexpressibly sweet. You must know I dined with her at a public table the day after I first saw her, and she helped me to some tansy in the eye of all the gentlemen in the country. She has certainly the finest hand of any woman in the world. I can assure you, sir, were you to behold her, you would be in the same condition; for as her speech is music, her form is angelic. But I find I grow irregular while I am talking of her; but indeed it would be stupidity to be unconcerned at such perfection. Oh the excellent creature! she is as in- imitable to all women, as she is inaccessible to all men.” I found my friend begin to rave, and insensibly led him towards the house, that we might be joined by some other com- pany; and am convinced that the widow is the secret cause of all that inconsistency which appears in some parts of my friend's discourse; though he has so much command of him- self as not directly to mention her, yet according to that of Martial, which one knows not how to render into English, dum tacet hanc loquitur. I shall end this paper with that whole epigram, which represents with much humour my hon- est friend's condition: Quicquid agit Rufus, nihil est, nisi Nævia Rufo, Si gaudet, si flet, si tacet, hanc loquitur : 37 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY Cænat, propinat, poscit, negat, annuit, una est Nævia ; si non sit Nævia, mutus erit. Scriberet hesternâ patri cùm luce salutem, Nævia lux, inquit, Nævia lumen, ave.—Epig. i. 69. Let Rufus weep, rejoice, stand, sit, or walk, Still he can nothing but of Nævia talk; Let him eat, drink, ask questions, or dispute, Still he must speak of Nævia, or be mute. He writ to his father, ending with this line, I am, my lovely Nævia, ever thine. R. No. 114.] Wednesday, July 11, 1711. [Steele. Paupertatis pudor et fuga.'-Hor. fortunes which good-breeding has upon our conversa- tions. There is a pretending behaviour in both cases, which instead of making men esteemed, renders them both miserable and contemptible. We had yesterday at Sir Roger's a set of country gentlemen who dined with him': and after dinner the glass was taken, by those who pleased, pretty plentifully. Among others I observed a person of a tolerable good aspect, who seemed to be more greeedy of liquor than any of the com- pany, and yet methought he did not taste it with delight. As he grew warm, he was suspicious of every thing that was said, and as he advanced towards being fuddled, his humour grew worse. At the same time his bitterness seemed to be rather an inward dissatisfaction in his own mind, than any dislike he had taken to the company. Upon hearing his name, I knew him to be a gentleman of a considerable fortune in this county, but greatly in debt. What gives the unhappy man this peevish- ness of spirit is, that his estate is dipped, and is eating out with usury; and yet he has not the heart to sell any part of it. His proud stomach, at the cost of restless nights, constant in- quietudes, danger of affronts, and a thousand nameless incon- veniencies, preserves this canker in his fortune, rather than it The dread of nothing more Than to be thought necessitous and poor.-Pooly. 38 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY shall be said he is a man of fewer hundreds a year than he has been commonly reputed. Thus he endures the torment of poverty, to avoid the name of being less rich. If you go to his house, you see great plenty; but served in a manner that shews it is all unnatural, and that the master's mind is not at home. There is a ertain waste and carelessness in the air of every thing, and the whole appears but a covered indigence, a mag- nificent poverty. That neatness and cheerfulness which at- tends the table of him who lives within compass, is wanting, and exchanged for a libertine way of service in all about him. This gentleman's conduct, though a very common way of management, is as ridiculous as that officer's would be, who had but few men under his command, and should take the charge of an extent of country rather than of a small pass. To pay for, personate, and keep in a man's hands, a greater estate than he really has, is of all others the most unpardon- able vanity, and must in the end reduce the man who is guilty of it to dishonour. Yet if we look round us in any county of Great Britain, we shall see many in this fatal error; if that may be called by so soft a name, which proceeds from a false shame of appearing what they really are, when the contrary behaviour would in a short time advance them to the condition which they pretend to. Laertes has fifteen hundred pounds a year; which is mort- gaged for six thousand pounds; but it is impossible to con- vince him, that if he sold as much as would pay off that debt, he would save four shillings in the pound, which he gives for the vanity of being the reputed master of it. Yet if Laertes did this, he would perhaps be easier in his own fortune; but then Irus, a fellow of yesterday, who has but twelve hundred a year, would be his equal. Rather than this shall be, Laertes goes on to bring well-born beggars into the world, and every twelvemonth charges his estate with at least one year's rent more by the birth of a child. Laertes and Irus are neighbours, whose way of living are an abomination to each other. Irus is moved by the fear of poverty, and Laertes by the shame of it. Though the motive of action is of so near affinity in both, and may be resolved into this, " that to each of them poverty is the greatest of all evils," yet are their manners very widely different. Shame of poverty 39 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY makes Laertes launch into unnecessary equipage, vain expense, and lavish entertainments. Fear of poverty makes Irus allow himself only plain necessaries, appear without a servant, sell his own corn, attend his labourers, and be himself a labourer. Shame of poverty makes Laertes go every day a step nearer to it: and fear of poverty stirs up Irus to make every day some further progress from it. These different motives produce the excesses which men are guilty of in the negligence of and provision for themselves. Usury, stock-jobbing, extortion, and oppression, have their seed in the dread of want; and vanity, riot, and prodigality, from the shame of it: but both these excesses are infinitely below the pursuit of a reasonable creature. After we have taken care to command so much as is necessary for maintain- ing ourselves in the order of men suitable to our character, the care of superfluities is a vice no less extravagant, than the neglect of necessaries would have been before. Certain it is, that they are both out of nature, when she is followed with reason and good sense. It is from this reflec- tion that I always read Mr. Cowley with the greatest pleasure. His magnanimity is as much above that of other considerable men, as his understanding, and it is a true distinguishing spirit in the elegant author who published his works, to dwell so much upon the temper of his mind and the moderation of his desires. By this means he has rendered his friend as amiable as famous. This state of life which bears the face of poverty with Mr. Cowley's great vulgar, is admirably described; and it is no small satisfaction to those of the same turn of desire, that he produces the authority of the wisest men of the best age of the world, to strengthen his opinion of the ordinary pursuits of mankind. It would methinks be no ill maxim of life, if, according to that ancestor of Sir Roger, whom I lately mentioned, every man would point to himself what sum he would resolve not to exceed. He might by this means cheat himself into a tran- quillity on this side of that expectation, or convert what he should get above it to nobler uses than his own pleasures or necessities. This temper of mind would exempt a man from an ignorant envy of restless men above him, and a more inex- cusable contempt of happy men below him. This would be 40 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY sailing by some compass, living with some design; but to be eternally bewildered in prospects of future gain, and putting on unnecessary armour against improbable blows of fortune, is a mechanic being which has not good sense for its direction, but is carried on by a sort of acquired instinct towards things below our consideration, and unworthy our esteem. It is pos- sible that the tranquillity I now enjoy at Sir Roger's may have created in me this way of thinking, which is so abstracted from the common relish of the world: but as I am now in a pleasing arbour surrounded with a beautiful landscape, I find no incli- nation so strong as to continue in these mansions, so remote from the ostentatious scenes of life; and am at this present writing philosopher enough to conclude with Mr. Cowley, If e'er ambition did my fancy 'cheat With any wish so mean as to be great; Continue Heav'n, still from me to remove The humble blessings of that life I love. No. 115.] Thursday, July 12, 1711. [Addison. Ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.'—Juv. BODI ODILY labour is of two kinds, either that which a man submits to for his livelihood, or that which he under- goes for his pleasure. The latter of them generally changes the name of labour for that of exercise, but differs only from ordinary labour as it rises from another motive. A country life abounds in both these kinds of labour, and for that reason gives a man a greater stock of health, and con- sequently a more perfect enjoyment of himself, than any other way of life. I consider the body as a system of tubes and glands, or, to use a more rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes and strainers, fitted to one another after so wonderful a manner as to make a proper engine for the soul to work with. This de- scription does not only comprehend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins, nerves, and arteries, but every muscle and every ligature which is a composition of fibres, that are so many imperceptible Pray for a sound mind in a sound body. 41 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY tubes or pipes interwoven on all sides with invisible glands or strainers. This general idea of a human body, without considering it in its niceties of anatomy, lets us see how absolutely necessary labour is for the right preservation of it. There must be fre- quent motions and agitations, to mix, digest, and separate the juices contained in it, as well as to clear and cleanse that in- finitude of pipes and strainers of which it is composed, and to give their solid parts a more firm and lasting tone. Labour or exercise ferments the humours, casts them into their proper channels, throws off redundancies, and helps nature in those secret distributions, without which the body cannot subsist in its vigour, nor the soul act with cheerfulness. I might here mention the effects which this has upon all the faculties of the mind, by keeping the understanding clear, the imagination untroubled, and refining those spirits that are necessary for the proper exertion of our intellectual faculties, during the present laws of union between soul and body. It is to a neglect in this particular that we must ascribe the spleen, which is so frequent in men of studious and sedentary tempers, as well as the vapours to which those of the other sex are so often subject. Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our well- being, nature would not have made the body so proper for it, by giving such an activity to the limbs, and such a pliancy to every part as necessarily produce those compressions, exten- sions, contortions, dilatations, and all other kinds of motions that are necessary for the preservation of such a system of tubes and glands as has been before mentioned. And that we might not want inducements to engage us in such an exercise of the body as is proper for its welfare, it is so ordered that nothing valuable can be procured without it. Not to mention riches and honour, even food and raiment are not to be come at without the toil of the hands and sweat of the brows. Provi- dence furnishes' materials, but expects that we should work them up ourselves. The earth must be laboured before it gives its increase, and when it is forced into its several prod- ucts, how many hands must they pass through before they are fit for use! Manufactures, trade, and agriculture, naturally employ more than nineteen parts of the species in twenty; and 1 42 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY as for those who are not obliged to labour, by the condition in which they are born, they are more miserable than the rest of mankind, unless they indulge themselves in that voluntary labour which goes by the name of exercise. My friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable man in busi- ness of this kind, and has hung several parts of his house with the trophies of his former labours. The walls of his great hall are covered with the horns of several kinds of deer that he has killed in the chace, which he thinks the most valuable fur- niture of his house, as they afford him frequent topics of dis. course, and shew that he has not been idle. At the lower end of the hall is a large otter's skin stuffed with hay, which his mother ordered to be hung up in that manner, and the knight looks upon with great satisfaction, because great satisfaction, because it seems he was but nine years old when his dog killed him. A little room adjoin- ing to the hall is a kind of arsenal filled with guns of several sizes and inventions, with which the knight has made great havoc in the woods, and destroyed many thousands of pheas- ants, partridges, and woodcocks. His stable-doors are patched with noses that belonged to foxes of the knight's own hunting down. Sir Roger shewed me one of them that for distinction sake has a brass nail struck through it, which cost him about fifteen hours' riding, carried him through half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of geldings, and lost above half his dogs. This the knight looks upon as one of the greatest exploits of his life. The perverse widow, whom I have given some account of, was the death of several foxes; for Sir Roger has told me that in the course of his amours he patched the western door of his stable. Whenever the widow was cruel, the foxes were sure to pay for it. In proportion as his passion for the widow abated and old age came on, he left off fox-hunting; but a hare is not yet safe that sits within ten miles of his house. There is no kind of exercise which I would so recommend to my readers of both sexes as this of riding, as there is none which so much conduces to health, and is every way accommo- dated to the body, according to the idea which I have given of it. Doctor Sydenham is very lavish in its praises; and if the English reader will see the mechanical effects of it de- scribed at length, he may find them in a book published not many years since, under the title of the Medicina Gymnastica. 43 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY For my own part, when I am in town, for want of these op- portunities, I exercise myself an hour every morning upon a dumb bell that is placed in a corner of my room, and it pleases me the more because it does every thing I require of it in the most profound silence. My landlady and her daughters are so well acquainted with my hours of exercise, that they never come into my room to disturb me whilst I am ringing. When I was some years younger than I am at present, I used to employ myself in a more laborious diversion, which I learned from a Latin treatise of exercises that is written with great erudition : It is there called the cromaxío, or the fighting with a man's own shadow, and consists in the brandishing of two short sticks grasped in each hand, and loaden with plugs of lead at either end. This opens the chest, exercises the limbs, and gives a man all the pleasure of boxing, without the blows. I could wish that several learned men would lay out that time which they employ in controversies and disputes about nothing, in this method of fighting with their own shadows. It might conduce very much to evaporate the spleen, which makes them uneasy to the public as well as to themselves. To conclude, as I am a compound of soul and body, I con- sider myself as obliged to a double scheme of duties; and I think I have not fulfilled the business of the day when I do not thus employ the one in labour and exercise, as well as the other in study and contemplation. L. No. 116.] Friday, July 13, 1711. [Budgell. Vocat ingenti clamore Cithæron, Taygetique canes. -Virg. TH HOSE who have searched into human nature observe that nothing so much shews the nobleness of the soul, as that its felicity consists in action. Every man has such an active principle in him, that he will find out something to em- ploy himself upon, in whatever place or state of life he is posted. I have heard of a gentleman who was under close * The echoing hills and chiding hounds invite. 44 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY confinement in the Bastile seven years; during which time he amused himself in scattering a few small pins about his cham- ber, gathering them up again, and placing them in different figures on the arm of a great chair. He often told his friends afterwards, that unless he had found out this piece of exercise, he verily believed he should have lost his senses. After what has been said, I need not inform my readers, that Sir Roger, with whose character I hope they are at present pretty well acquainted, has in his youth gone through the whole course of those rural diversions which the country abounds in; and which seem to be extremely well suited to that laborious industry a man may observe here in a far greater degree than in towns and cities. I have before hinted at some of my friend's exploits: he has in his youthful days taken forty cov- eys of partridges in a season; and tired many a salmon with a line consisting but of a single hair. The constant thanks and good wishes of the neighbourhood always attended him, on account of his remarkable enmity towards foxes; having destroyed more of those vermin in one year, than it was thought the whole country could have produced. Indeed the knight does not scruple to own among his most intimate friends, that in order to establish his reputation this way, he has secretly sent for great numbers of them out of other coun- ties, which he used to turn loose about the country by night, that he might the better signalize himself in their destruction the next day. His hunting horses were the finest and best managed in all these parts. His tenants are still full of the praises of a grey stone-horse that unhappily staked himself several years since, and was buried with great solemnity in the orchard. Sir Roger, being at present too old for fox-hunting, to keep himself in action, has disposed of his beagles and got a pack of stop-hounds. What these want in speed, he en- deavours to make amends for by the deepness of their mouths and the variety of their notes, which are suited in such manner to each other, that the whole cry makes up a complete concert. He is so nice in this particular, that a gentleman having made him a present of a very fine hound the other day, the knight returned it by the servant with a great many expressions of civility; but desired him to tell his master, that the dog he had 45 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY sent was indeed a most excellent bass, but that at present he only wanted a counter-tenor. Could I believe my friend had ever read Shakspeare, I should certainly conclude he had taken the hint from Theseus in the Midsummer Night's Dream: My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, So flu'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew, Crook-knee'd and dew-lap'd like Thessalian bulls, Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouths like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never halloo'd to, nor cheer'd with horn. Sir Roger is so keen at this sport, that he has been out al- most every day 'since I came down; and upon the chaplain's offering to lend me his easy pad, I was prevailed on yesterday morning to make one of the company. I was extremely pleased, as we rid along, to observe the general benevolence of all the neighbourhood, towards my friend. The farmers' sons thought themselves happy if they could open a gate for the good old knight as he passed by; which he generally requited with a nod or a smile, and a kind inquiry after their fathers or uncles. After we had rid about a mile from home, we came upon a large heath, and the sportsmen began to beat. They had done so for some time, when, as I was at a little distance from the rest of the company, I saw a hare pop out from a small furze- brake almost under my horse's feet. I marked the way she took, which I endeavoured to make the company sensible of by extending my arm; but to no purpose, till Sir Roger, who knows that none of my extraordinary motions are insignifi- cant, rode up to me, and asked me, if puss was gone that Upon my answering, yes, he immediately called in the dogs, and put them upon the scent. As they were going off, I heard one of the country-fellows muttering to his companion, " that 'twas a wonder they had not lost all their sport, for want of the silent gentleman's crying STOLE AWAY.” This, with my aversion to leaping hedges, made me with- draw to a rising ground, from whence I could have the pic- ture of the whole chace, without the fatigue of keeping in with the hounds. The hare immediately threw them above a mile way? 46 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY behind her; but I was pleased to find, that instead of running straight forwards, or in hunter's language, “flying the coun- try,” as I was afraid she might have done, she wheeled about, and described a sort of a circle round the hill where I had taken my station, in such a manner as gave me a very distinct view of the sport. I could see her first pass by, and the dogs some time afterwards unravelling the whole track she had made, and following her through all her doubles. I was at the same time delighted in observing that deference which the rest of the pack paid to each particular hound, according to the character he had acquired amongst them. If they were at a fault, and an old hound of reputation opened but once, he was immediately followed by the whole cry; while a raw dog, or one who was a noted liar, might have yelped his heart out, without being taken notice of. The hare now, after having squatted two or three times, and been put up again as often, came still nearer to the place where she was at first started. The dogs pursued her, and these were followed by the jolly knight, who rode upon a white gelding, encompassed by his tenants and servants, and cheer- ing his hounds with all the gaiety of five and twenty. One of the sportsmen rode up to me, and told me, that he was sure the chace was almost at an end, because the old dogs, which had hitherto lain behind, now headed the pack. The fellow was in the right. Our hare took a large field just under us, followed by the full cry in view. I niust confess the bright- ness of the weather, the cheerfulness of every thing around me, the chiding of the hounds, which was returning upon us in a double echo from two neighbouring hills, with the halloo- ing of the sportsmen, and the sounding of the horn, lifted my spirits into a most lively pleasure, which I freely indulged because I was sure it was innocent. If I was under any con- cern, it was on the account of the poor hare, that was now quite spent, and almost within the reach of her enemies; when the huntsman getting forward threw down his pole before the dogs. They were now within eight yards of that game which they had been pursuing for almost as many hours; yet on the signal before-mentioned they all made a sudden stand, and though they continued opening as much as before, durst not once attempt to pass beyond the pole. At the same time Sir 47 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY says he, Roger rode forward, and alighting, took up the hare in his arms; which he soon delivered up to one of his servants with an order, if she could be kept alive, to let her go in his great orchard; where it seems he has several of these prisoners of war, who live together in a very comfortable captivity. I was highly pleased to see the discipline of the pack, and the good- nature of the knight, who could not find in his heart to murder a creature that had given him so much diversion. As we were returning home, I remembered that monsieur Paschal in his most excellent discourse on the Misery of Man, tells us, that all our endeavours after greatness proceed from nothing but a desire of being surrounded by a multitude of persons and affairs that may hinder us from looking into ourselves, which is a view we cannot bear. He afterwards goes on to shew that our love of sports comes from the same reason, and is particularly severe upon hunting. “What," unless it be to drown thought, can make men throw away so much time and pains upon a silly animal, which they might buy cheaper in the market?” The foregoing reflection is certainly just, when a man suffers his whole mind to be drawn into his sports, and altogether loses himself in the woods; but does not affect those who propose a far more laudable end from this exercise, I mean, the preservation of health, and keeping all the organs of the soul in a condition to execute her orders. Had that incomparable person, whom I last quoted, been a little more indulgent to himself in this point, the world might probably have enjoyed him much longer; whereas through too great an application to his studies in his youth he contracted that ill habit of body, which, after a tedious sickness, carried him off in the fortieth year of his age; and the whole history we have of his life till that time is but one continued account of the behaviour of a noble soul struggling under innumerable pains and distempers. For my own part, I intend to hunt twice a week during my stay with Sir Roger; and shall prescribe the moderate use of this exercise to all my country friends, as the best kind of physic for mending a bad constitution, and preserving a good one. I cannot do this better, than in the following lines out of Mr. Dryden: 48 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY The first physicians by debauch were made; Excess began, and sloth sustains the trade. By chace our long-liv'd fathers earn’d their food; Toil strung the nerves, and purify'd the blood; But we their sons, a pamper'd race of men, Are dwindled down to threescore years and ten. Better to hunt in fields for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise for cure on exercise depend; God never made his work for man to mend. X. No. 117.] Saturday, July 14, 1711. [Addison. Ipsi sibi somnia fingunt.–Virg. in neuter, without engaging his assent to one side or the other. Such a hovering faith as this, which refuses to settle upon any determination, is absolutely necessary in a mind that is careful to avoid errors and prepossessions. When the argu- ments press equally on both sides in matters that are indif- ferent to us, the safest method is to give up ourselves to neither. It is with this temper of mind that I consider the subject of witchcraft. When I hear the relations that are made from all parts of the world, not only from Norway and Lapland, from the East and West Indies, but from every particular nation in Europe, I cannot forbear thinking that there is such an inter- course and commerce with evil spirits, as that which we ex- press by the name of witchcraft. But when I consider that the ignorant and credulous parts of the world abound most in these relations, and that the persons among us, who are sup- posed to engage in such an infernal commerce, are people of a weak understanding and crazed imagination, and at the same time reflect upon the many impostures and delusions of this nature that have been detected in all ages, I endeavour to sus- pend my belief till I hear more certain accounts than any which have yet come to my knowledge. In short, when I con- sider the question, whether there are such persons in the With voluntary dreams they cheat their minds. 49 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY world as those we call witches, my mind is divided between the two opposite opinions, or rather (to speak my thoughts freely) I believe in general that there is, and has been such a thing as witchcraft; but at the same time can give no credit to any particular instance of it. I anı engaged in this speculation by some occurrences that I met with yesterday, which I shall give my reader an account of at large. As I was walking with my friend Sir Roger by the side of one of his woods, an old woman applied herself to me for my charity. Her dress and figure put me in mind of the following description in Otway: In a close lane as I pursu'd my journey, I spy'd a wrinkled hag, with age grown double, Picking dry sticks, and mbling to herself. Her eyes with scalding rheum were gall’d and red; Cold palsy shook her head; her hands seem'd wither'd; And on her crooked shoulders had she wrapt The tatter'd remnants of an old strip'd hanging, Which serv'd to keep her carcase from the cold: So there was nothing of a piece about her. Her lower weeds were all o'er coarsely patch'd With different colour'd rags, black, red, white, yellow, And seem'd to speak variety of wretchedness. As I was musing on this description, and comparing it with the object before me, the knight told me, that this very old woman had the reputation of a witch all over the country, that her lips were observed to be always in motion, and that there was not a switch about her house which her neighbours did not believe had carried her several hundreds of miles. If she chanced to stumble, they always found sticks or straws that lay in the figure of a cross before her. If she made any mistake at church, and cried amen in a wrong place, they never failed to conclude that she was saying her prayers back- wards. There was not a maid in the parish that would take a pin of her, though she would offer a bag of money with it. She goes by the name of Moll White, and has made the coun- try ring with several imaginary exploits which are palmed upon her. If the dairy-maid does not make her butter come so soon as she should have it, Moll White is at the bottom of the churn. If a horse sweats in the stable, Moll White has been 50 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY upon his back. If a hare makes an unexpected escape from the hounds, the huntsman curses Moll White. “Nay," says Sir Roger, “I have known the master of the pack, upon such an occasion, send one of his servants to see if Moll White had been out that morning.” This account raised my curiosity so far, that I begged my friend Sir Roger to go with me into her hovel, which stood in a solitary corner under the side of the wood. Upon our first entering, Sir Roger winked to me, and pointed at some- thing that stood behind the door, which upon looking that way, I found to be an old broom-staff. At the same time he whispered me in the ear to take notice of a tabby cat that sat in the chimney corner, which, as the old knight told me, lay under as bad a report as Moll White herself; for besides that Moll is said often to accompany her in the same shape, the cat is reported to have spoken twice or thrice in her life, and to have played several pranks above the capacity of an ordi- nary cat. I was secretly concerned to see human nature in so much wretchedness and disgrace, but at the same time could not forbear smiling to hear Sir Roger, who is a little puzzled about the old woman, advising her as a justice of peace to avoid all communication with the devil, and never to hurt any of her neighbours' cattle. We concluded our visit with a bounty, which was very acceptable. In our return home, Sir Roger told me, that old Moll had been often brought before him for making children spit pins, and giving maids the nightmare; and that the country people would be tossing her into a pond and trying experiments with her every day, if it was not for him and his chaplain. I have since found upon enquiry, that Sir Roger was sev- eral times staggered with the reports that had been brought him concerning this old woman, and would frequently have bound her over to the county sessions, had not his chaplain with much ado persuaded him to the contrary. I have been the more particular in this account, because I hear there is scarce a village in England that has not a Moll White in it. When an old woman begins to doat, and grow chargeable to a parish, she is generally turned into a witch, and fills the whole country with extravagant fancies, imagi- 51 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY nary distempers, and terrifying dreams. In the mean time, the poor wretch that is the innocent occasion of so many evils begins to be frighted at herself, and sometimes confesses secret commerce and familiarities that her imagination forms in a delirious old age. This frequently cuts off charity from the greatest objects of compassion, and inspires people with a malevolence towards those poor decrepit parts of our species, in whom human nature is defaced by infirmity and dotage. L. No. 118.) Monday, July 16, 1711. [Steele. Hæret lateri lethalis arundo.'-Virg. TH HIS agreeable seat is surrounded with so many pleasing walks, which are struck out of a wood, in the midst of which the house stands, that one can hardly ever be weary of rambling from one labyrinth of delight to another. To one used to live in a city the charms of the country are so exquisite, that the mind is lost in a certain transport which raises us above ordinary life, and is yet not strong enough to be incon- sistent with tranquillity. This state of mind was I in, ravished with the murmur of waters, the whisper of breezes, the singing of birds; and whether I looked up to the heavens, down on the earth, or turned to the prospects around me, still struck with new sense of pleasure; when I found by the voice of my friend, who walked by me, that we had insensibly strolled into the grove sacred to the widow. This woman,” says he, “is of all others the most unintelligible; she either designs to marry, or she does not. What is the most perplexing of all is, that she doth not either say to her lovers she has any resolution against that condition of life in general, or that she banishes them; but conscious of her own merit she permits their addresses, without fear of any ill consequence, or want of respect, from their rage or despair. She has that in her aspect, against which it is impossible to offend. A man whose thoughts are constantly bent upon so agreeable an object, must be excused if the or- "The fatal dart Sticks in his side, and rankles in his heart.-Dryden. 52 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY dinary occurrences in conversation are below his attention. I call her indeed perverse, but, alas! why do I call her so ? be- cause her superior merit is such, that I cannot approach her without awe, that my heart is checked by too much esteem: I am angry that her charms are not more accessible, that I am more inclined to worship than salute her. How often have I wished her unhappy, that I might have an opportunity of serv- ing her? And how often troubled in that very imagination, at giving her the pain of being obliged? Well, I have led a miserable life in secret upon her account; but fancy she would have condescended to have some regard for me, if it had not been for that watchful animal her confidant. “Of all persons under the sun," (continued he, calling me by my name)“ be sure to set a mark upon confidants: they are of all people the most impertinent. What is most pleasant to observe in them is, that they assume to themselves the merit of the persons whom they have in their custody. Orestilla is a great fortune, and in wonderful danger of surprises, therefore full of suspicions of the least indifferent thing, particularly careful of new acquaintance, and of growing too familiar with the old. Themista, her favourite woman, is every whit as careful of whom she speaks to, and what she says. Let the ward be a beauty, her confidant shall treat you with an air of distance; let her be a fortune, and she assumes the suspicious behaviour of her friend and patroness. Thus it is that very many of our unmarried women of distinction are to all intents and purposes married, except the consideration of different sexes. They are directly under the conduct of their whisperer ; and think they are in a state of freedom, while they can prate with one of these attendants of all men in general, and still avoid the man they most like. You do not see one heiress in a hundred whose fate does not turn upon this circumstance of choosing a confidant. Thus it is that the lady is addressed to, presented and flattered, only by proxy, in her woman. In my case, how is it possible that—" Sir Roger was proceeding in his harangue, when we heard the voice of one speaking very importunately, and repeating these words, “what, not one smile?” We followed the sound till we came to a close thicket, on the other side of which we saw a young woman sitting as it were in a personated sullenness just over a trans- 53 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY parent fountain. Opposite to her stood Mr. William, Sir Roger's master of the game. The knight whispered me, “ Hist, these are lovers." The huntsman looking earnestly at the shadow of the young maiden in the stream, “Oh thou dear picture, if thou couldst remain there in the absence of that fair creature whom you represent in the water, how willingly could I stand here satisfied for ever, without troubling my dear Betty herself with any mention of her unfortunate William, whom she is angry with! But, alas! when she pleases to be gone, thou wilt also vanish -Yet let me talk to thee while thou dost stay. Tell my dearest Betty thou dost not more depend upon her, than does her William : her absence will make away with me as well as thee. If she offers to remove thee, I'll jump into these waves to lay hold on thee; herself, her own dear person, I must never embrace again.-Still do you hear me without one smile-It is too much to bear-” He had no sooner spoke these words, but he made an offer of throwing himself into the water: at which his mistress started up, and at the next instant he jumped across the fountain and met her in an embrace. She half-recovering from her fright, said in the most charming voice imaginable, and with a tone of com- plaint, “ I thought how well you would drown yourself. No, no, you won't drown yourself till you have taken your leave of Susan Holiday." The huntsman, with a tenderness that spoke the most passionate love, and with his cheek close to hers, whispered the softest vows of fidelity in her ear, and cried, "Don't, my dear, believe a word Kate Willow says; she is spite. ful, and makes stories, because she loves to hear me talk to herself for your sake.” “ Look you there,” quoth Sir Roger, do you see there, all mischief comes from confidants! But let us not interrupt them; the maid is honest, and the man dares not be otherwise: for he knows I loved her father : I will interpose in this matter, and hasten the wedding. Kate Wil- low is a witty mischievous wench in the neighbourhood, who was a beauty: and makes me hope I shall see the perverse widow in her condition. She was so flippant with her answers to all the honest fellows that came near her, and so very vain of her beauty, that she has valued herself upon her charms till they are ceased. She therefore now makes it her business to prevent other young women from being more discreet than 54 A Coverley Love Match SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY she was herself: however, the saucy thing said the other day well enough, 'Sir Roger and I must make a match, for we are both despised by those we loved.' The hussy has a great deal of power wherever she comes, and has her share of cunning. However, when I reflect upon this woman, I do not know whether in the main I am the worse for having loved her : whenever she is recalled to my imagination my youth returns, and I feel a forgotten warmth in my veins. This affliction in my life has streaked all my conduct with a softness, of which I should otherwise have been incapable. It is, perhaps, to this dear image in my heart owing that I am apt to relent, that I easily forgive, and that many desirable things are grown into my temper, which I should not have arrived at by better mo- tives than the thought of being one day hers. I am pretty well satisfied such a passion as I have had is never well cured; and between you and me, I am often apt to imagine it has had some whimsical effect upon my brain: for I frequently find, that in my most serious discourse I let fall some comical familiarity of speech or odd phrase that makes the company laugh. How- ever, I cannot but allow she is a most excellent woman. When she is in the country I warrant she does not run into dairies, but reads upon the nature of plants: but has a glass-hive, and comes into the garden out of books to see them work, and ob- serve the policies of their commonwealth. She understands every thing. I would give ten pounds to hear her argue with my friend Sir Andrew Freeport about trade. No, no, for all she looks so innocent as it were, take my word for it she is no fool.” T. No. 119.] Tuesday, July 17, 1711. [Addison. TH Urbem quam dicunt Roman, Melibee, putavi, Stultus ego huic nostrae similem. –Virg. HE first and most obvious reflections which arise in a man who changes the city for the country, are upon the different manners of the people whom he meets with in those two different scenes of life. By manners I do not mean The city men call Rome, unskilful clown, I thought resembled this our humble town.-Warton, 1 55 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY morals, but behaviour and good breeding, as they shew them- selves in the town and in the country. And here, in the first place, I must observe a very great revolution that has happened in this article of good-breeding. Several obliging deferences, condescensions, and submissions, with many outward forms and ceremonies that accompany them, were first of all brought up among the politer part of mankind, who lived in courts and cities, and distinguished themselves from the rustic part of the species (who on all occa- sions acted bluntly and naturally) by such a mutual complais- ance and intercourse of civilities. These forms of conversation by degrees multiplied and grew troublesome; the modish world found too great a constraint in them, and have therefore thrown most of them aside. Conversation, like the Romish religion, was so encumbered with show and ceremony, that it stood in need of a reformation to retrench its superfluities, and restore it to its natural good sense and beauty. At present, therefore, an unconstrained carriage, and a certain openness of behaviour, are the height of good-breeding. The fashionable world is grown free and easy; our manners sit more loose upon us. Nothing is so modish as an agreeable negligence. In a word, good-breeding shews itself most, where to an ordi- nary eye it appears the least. If after this we look on the people of mode in the country, we find in them the manners of the last age. They have no sooner fetched themselves up to the fashion of the polite world, but the town has dropped them and are nearer to the first state of nature, than to those refinements which formerly reigned in the court, and still prevail in the country. One may now know a man that never conversed in the world by his excess of good- breeding. A polite country 'squire shall make you as many bows in half an hour, as would serve a courtier for a week. There is infinitely more to do about place and precedency in a meeting of justices' wives, than in an assembly of duchesses. This rural politeness is very troublesome to a man of my temper, who generally take the chair that is next me, and walk first or last, in the front or in the rear, as chance directs. I have known my friend Sir Roger's dinner almost cold before the company could adjust the ceremonial, and be prevailed upon to sit down; and have heartily pitied my old friend when 56 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY I have seen him forced to pick and cull his guests, as they sat at the several parts of his table, that he might drink their healths according to their respective ranks and qualities. Honest Will Wimble, whom I should have thought had been altogether uninfected with ceremony, gives me abundance of trouble in this particular. Though he has been fishing all the morning, he will not help himself at dinner until I am served. When we are going out of the hall, he runs behind me; and last night, as we were walking in the fields, stopped short at a stile till I came up to it, and upon my making signs to him to get over, told me, with a serious smile, that sure I believed they had no manners in the country. There has happened another revolution in the point of good- breeding, which relates to the conversation among men of mode, and which I cannot but look upon as very extraordinary. It was certainly one of the first distinctions of a well-bred man, to express everything that had the most remote appearance of being obscene, in modest terms and distant phrases; whilst the clown, who had no such delicacy of conception or expression, clothed his ideas in those plain homely terms that are the most obvious and natural. This kind of good manners was perhaps carried to an excess, so as to make conversation too stiff, formal, and precise; for which reason (as hypocrisy in one age is generally succeeded by atheism in another) conversation is in a great measure relapsed into the first extreme; so that at present several of our men of the town, and particularly those who have been polished in France, make use of the most coarse uncivilized words in our language, and utter themselves often in such a manner as a clown would blush to hear. This infamous piece of good-breeding, which reigns among the coxcombs of the town, has not yet made its way into the country; and as it is impossible for such an irrational way of conversation to last long among a people that make any profes- sion of religion, or show of modesty, if the country gentlemen get into it, they will certainly be left in the lurch. Their good- breeding will come too late to them, and they will be thought a parcel of lewd clowns, while they fancy themselves talking together like men of wit and pleasure. As the two points of good-breeding, which I have hitherto insisted upon, regard behaviour and conversation, there is a 57 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY third which turns upon dress. In this too the country are very much behindhand. The rural beaus are not yet got out of the fashion that took place at the time of the Revolution, but ride about the country in red coats and laced hats; while the women in many parts are still trying to outvie one another in the height of their head-dresses. But a friend of mine, who is now upon the western circuit, having promised to give me an account of the several modes and fashions that prevail in the different parts of the nation through which he passes, I shall defer the enlarging upon this last topic till I have received a letter from him, which I expect every post. L. No. 120.) Wednesday, July 18, 1711. [Addison. Equidem credo, quia sit divinitus illis Ingenium.'— Virg. My friend Sir Roger is very often merry with me upon my Y is my time among He has caught me twice or thrice looking after a bird's nest, and several times sitting an hour or two together near an hen and chickens. He tells me he believes I am personally acquainted with every fowl about his house; calls such a particular cock my favourite; and frequently complains that his ducks and geese have more of my company than himself. I must confess I am infinitely delighted with those specula- tions of nature which are to be made in a country-life; and as my reading has very much lain among books of natural his- tory, I cannot forbear recollecting upon this occasion the sev- eral remarks which I have met with in authors, and compar- ing them with what falls under my own observation : the argu- ments for Providence drawn from the natural history of ani- mals being in my opinion demonstrative. The make of every kind of animal is different from that of every other kind; and yet there is not the least turn in the muscles or twist in the fibres of any one, which does not render 'I deem their breasts inspir'd With a divine sagacity. 58 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY them more proper for that particular animal's way of life than any other cast or texture of them would have been. The most violent appetites in all creatures are lust and hun- ger: the first is a perpetual call upon them to perpetuate their kind; the latter to preserve themselves. It is astonishing to consider the different degrees of care that descend from the parent to the young, so far as is abso- lutely necessary for the leaving a posterity. Some creatures cast their eggs as chance directs them and think of them no farther; as insects and several kinds of fish. Others, of a nicer frame, find out proper beds to deposit them in, and there leave them; as the serpent, the crocodile, and ostrich; others hatch their eggs and tend the birth, until it is able to shift for itself. What can we call the principle which directs every different kind of bird to observe a particular plan in the structure of its nest, and directs all the same species to work after the same model? It cannot be imitation; for though you hatch a crow under a hen, and never let it see any of the works of its own kind, the nest it makes shall be the same, to the laying of a stick, with all the other nests of the same species. It cannot be reason; for were animals endued with it to as great a degree as man, their buildings would be as different as ours, accord- ing to the different conveniences that they would propose to themselves. Is it not remarkable, that the same temper of weather, which raises this genial warmth in animals, should cover the trees with leaves, and the fields with grass, for their security and concealment, and produce such infinite swarms of insects for the support and sustenance of their respective broods ? Is it not wonderful, that the love of the parent should be so violent while it lasts, and that it should last no longer than is necessary for the preservation of the young ? The violence of this natural love is exemplify'd by a very barbarous experiment; which I shall quote at length, as I find in it an excellent author, and hope my readers will pardon the mentioning such an instance of cruelty, because there is noth- ing can so effectually show the strength of that principle in animals of which I am here speaking. A person who was well skilled in dissection opened a bitch, and as she lay in the 59 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY most exquisite tortures, offered her one of her young puppies, which she immediately fell a-licking; and for the time seemed insensible of her own pain: on the removal she kept her eye fixt on it, and began a wailing sort of cry, which seemed rather to proceed from the loss of her young one, than from the sense of her own torments. But notwithstanding this natural love in brutes is much more violent and intense than in rational creatures, Providence has taken care that it should be no longer troublesome to the parent than it is useful to the young; for so soon as the wants of the latter cease, the mother withdraws her fondness, and leaves them to provide for themselves; and what is a very re- markable circumstance in this part of instinct, we find that the love of the parent may be lengthened out beyond its usual time, if the preservation of the species requires it: as we may see in birds that drive away their young as soon as they are able to get their livelihood, but continue to feed them if they are tied to the nest, or confined within a cage, or by any other means appear to be out of a condition of supplying their own necessi- ties. This natural love is not observed in animals to ascend from the young to the parent, which is not at all necessary for the continuance of the species: nor indeed in reasonable creatures does it rise in any proportion, as it spreads itself downward, for in all family affection, we find protection granted and fa- vours bestowed, are greater motives to love and tenderness, than safety, benefits, or life received. One would wonder to hear sceptical men disputing for the reason of animals, and telling us it is only our pride and prejudices that will not allow them the use of that faculty. Reason shows itself in all occurrences of life; whereas the Brute makes no discovery of such a talent, but in what imme- diately regards his own preservation, or the continuance of his species. Animals in their generation are wiser than the sons of men; but their wisdom is confined to a few particulars, and lies in a very narrow compass. Take a brute out of his in- stinct, and you find him wholly deprived of understanding. To use an instance that comes often under observation: With what caution does the hen provide herself a nest in places unfrequented, and free from noise and disturbance! 60 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY when she has laid her eggs in such a manner that she can cover them, what care does she take in turning them fre- quently, that all parts may partake of the vital warmth! when she leaves them, to provide for her necessary sustenance, how punctually does she return before they have time to cool, and become incapable of producing an animal! In the summer you see her giving herself greater freedoms, and quitting her care for above two hours together; but in winter, when the rigour of the season would chill the principles of life, and de- stroy the young one, she grows more assiduous in her attend- ance, and stays away but half the time. When the birth ap- proaches, with how much nicety and attention does she help the chick to break its prison ! not to take notice of her covering it from the injuries of the weather, providing it proper nourish- ment, and teaching it to help itself; nor to mention her forsak- ing the nest, if after the usual time of reckoning the young one does not make its appearance. A chemical operation could not be followed with greater art or diligence, than is seen in the hatching of a chick; though there are many other birds that shew an infinitely greater sagacity in all the foremen- tioned particulars. But at the same time the hen, that has all this seeming in- genuity (which is indeed absolutely necessary for the propa- gation of the species), considered in other respects, is without the least glimmering of thought or common sense. She mis- takes a piece of chalk for an egg, and sits upon it in the same manner. She is insensible of any increase or diminution in the number of those she lays. She does not distinguish between her own and those of another species; and when the birth ap- pears of never so different a bird, will cherish it for her own. In all these circumstances which do not carry an immediate re- gard to the subsistence of herself or her species, she is a very idiot. There is not in my opinion, any thing more mysterious in nature than this instinct in animals, which thus rises above reason, and falls infinitely short of it. It cannot be accounted for by any properties in matter, and at the same time works after so odd a manner, that one cannot think it the faculty of an intellectual being. For my own part, I look upon it as upon the principle of gravitation in bodies, which is not to be 61 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY explained by any known qualities inherent in the bodies them- selves, nor from any laws of mechanism, but, according to the best notions of the greatest philosophers, is an immediate im- pression from the first Mover, and the divine energy acting in the creatures. L. No. 121.] Thursday, July 19, 1711. [Addison. Jovis omnia plena.' S I was walking this morning in the great yard that be- longs to my friend's country-house, I was wonderfully pleased to see the different workings of instinct in a hen fol- lowed by a brood of ducks. The young, upon the sight of a pond, immediately ran into it; while the stepmother, with all imaginable anxiety, hovered about the borders of it, to call them out of an element that appeared to her so dangerous and destructive. As the different principle which acted in these different animals cannot be termed reason, so when we call it instinct, we mean something we have no knowledge of. To me, as I hinted in my last paper, it seems the immediate direc- tion of Providence, and such an operation of the supreme Being, as that which determines all the portions of matter to their proper centres. A modern philosopher, quoted by Monsieur Bayle in his learned dissertation on the souls of brutes, delivers the same opinion, though in a bolder form of words, where he says, Deus est anima brutorum,“ God himself is the soul of brutes.” Who can tell what to call that seeming sagacity in animals, which directs them to such food as is proper for them, and makes them naturally avoid whatever is noxious or unwholesome? Tully has observed, that a lamb no sooner falls from its mother, but immediately and of its own accord applies itself to the teat. Dampier, in his Travels, tells us, that when seamen are thrown upon any of the un- known coasts of America they never venture upon the fruit of any tree, how tempting soever it may appear, unless they ob- serve that it is marked with the pecking of birds; but fall on * All things are full of Jove. 62 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY without any fear or apprehension where the birds have been before them. But notwithstanding animals have nothing like the use of reason, we find in them all the lower parts of our nature, the passions and senses in their greatest strength and perfection. And here it is worth our observation, that all beasts and birds of prey are wonderfully subject to anger, malice, revenge, and all the other violent passions that may animate them in search of their proper food; as those that are incapable of defending themselves, or annoying others, or whose safety lies chiefly in their flight, are suspicious, fearful, and apprehensive of every thing they see or hear; whilst others, that are of assistance and use to man have their natures softened with something mild and tractable, and by that means are qualified for a domestic life. In this case the passions generally correspond with the make of the body. We do not find the fury of a lion in so weak and defenceless an animal as a lamb; nor the meekness of a lamb in a creature so armed for battle and assault as the lion. In the same manner, we find that particular animals have a more or less exquisite sharpness and sagacity in those particular senses which most turn to their advantage, and in which their safety and welfare is the most concerned. Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms with which nature has differently fortified the bodies of several kind of animals, such as claws, hoofs, and horns, teeth, and tusks, a tail, a sting, a trunk, or a proboscis. It is likewise observed by naturalists, that it must be some hidden principle, distinct from what we call reason, which instructs animals in the use of these their arms, and teaches them to manage them to the best advantage; because they naturally defend themselves with that part in which their strength lies, before the weapon be formed in it; as is remarkable in lambs, which, though they are bred within doors, and never saw the actions of their own species, push at those who approach them with their foreheads, before the first budding of a horn appears. I shall add to these general observations an instance, which Mr. Locke has given us of Providence even in the imperfec- tions of a creature which seems the meanest and the most despicable in the whole animal world. “ We may," says he, " from the make of an oyster, or cockle, conclude, that it has 63 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY not so many nor so quick senses as a man, or several other animals : nor if it had, would it, in that state and incapacity of transferring itself from one place to another, be bettered by them. What good would sight and hearing do to a creature, that cannot move itself to or from the object, wherein at a distance it perceives good or evil? and would not quickness of sensation be an inconvenience to an animal that must be still where chance has once placed it, and there receive the afflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul water, as it happens to come to it?” I shall add to this instance out of Mr. Locke another out of the learned Dr. Moor, who cites it from Cardan, in relation to another animal which Providence has left defective, but at the same time has shown its wisdom in the formation of that organ in which it seems chiefly to have failed. “What is more obvious and ordinary than a mole? and yet what more palpable argument of Providence than she? the members of her body are so exactly fitted to her nature and manner of life: for her dwelling being under ground where nothing is to be seen, nature has so obscurely fitted her with eyes, that naturalists can hardly agree whether she have any sight at all, or no. But for amends, what she is capable of for her defence and warning of danger, she has very eminently conferred upon her; for she is exceeding quick of hearing. And then her short tail and short legs, but broad fore-feet armed with sharp claws; we see by the event to what purpose they are, she so swiftly working herself under ground, and making her way so fast in the earth as they that behold it cannot but admire it. Her legs therefore are short, that she need dig no more than will serve the mere thickness of her body; and her fore-feet are broad that she may scoop away much earth at a time; and little or no tail she has, because she courses it not on the ground, like the rat or mouse, of whose kindred she is; but lives under the earth, and is fain to dig herself a dwelling there. And she making her way through so thick an element, which will not yield easily, as the air or the water, it had been dangerous to have drawn so long a train behind her; for her enemy might fall upon her rear, and fetch her out, before she had completed or got full possession of her works." I cannot forbear mentioning Mr. Boyle's remark upon this 64 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY last creature, who I remember somewhere in his works ob- serves, that though the mole be not totally blind (as it is com- monly thought) she has not sight enough to distinguish par- ticular objects. Her eye is said to have but one humour in it, which is supposed to give her the idea of light but of nothing else, and is so formed that this idea is probably painful to the animal. Whenever she comes up into broad day she might be in danger of being taken, unless she were thus affected by a light striking upon her eye and immediately warning her to bury herself in her proper element. More sight would be use- less to her, as none at all might be fatal. I have only instanced such animals as seem the most im- perfect works of nature; and if Providence shows itself even in the blemishes of these creatures, how much more does it discover itself in the several endowments which it has vari- ously bestowed upon such creatures as are more or less fin- ished and completed in their several faculties, according to the condition of life in which they are posted. I could wish our Royal Society would compile a body of natural history, the best that could be gathered together from books and observations. If the several writers among them took each his particular species, and gave us a distinct account of its original, birth and education; its policies, hostilities and alliances, with the frame and texture of its inward and out- ward parts, and particularly those that distinguish it from all other animals, with their peculiar aptitudes for the state of being in which Providence has placed them, it would be one of the best services their studies could do mankind, and not a little redound to the glory of the all-wise Contriver. It is true, such a natural history, after all the disquisi- tions of the learned, would be infinitely short and defective. Seas and deserts hide millions of animals from our observa- tion. Innumerable artifices and stratagems are acted in the howling wilderness and in the great deep, that can never come to our knowledge. Besides that there are infinitely more species of creatures which are not to be seen without, nor in- deed with the help of the finest glasses, than of such as are bulky enough for the naked eye to take hold of. However, from the consideration of such animals as lie within the com- pass of our knowledge, we might easily form a conclusion of 65 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY the rest, that the same variety of wisdom and goodness runs through the whole creation, and puts every creature in a con- dition to provide for its safety and subsistence in its proper station. Tully has given us an admirable sketch of natural history in his second book concerning the Nature of the Gods; and then in a style so raised by metaphors and descriptions, that it lifts the subject above raillery and ridicule, which frequently fall on such nice observations when they pass through the hands of an ordinary writer. L. No. 122.] Friday, July 20, 1711. [Addison. Comes jucundus in via pro vehiculo est.'—Publ. Syr. А MAN'S first care should be to avoid the reproaches of his own heart; his next, to escape the censures of the world. If the last interferes with the former, it ought to be entirely neglected; but otherwise there cannot be a greater satisfaction to an honest mind, than to see those approbations which it gives itself, seconded by the applauses of the public. A man is more sure of his conduct, when the verdict which he passes upon his own behaviour is thus warranted and con- firmed by the opinion of all that know him. My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who is not only at peace within himself, but beloved and esteemed by all about him. He receives a suitable tribute for his universal benevo- lence to mankind, in the returns of affection and goodwill, which are paid him by every one that lives within his neigh- bourhood. I lately met with two or three odd instances of that general respect which is shewn to the good old knight. He would needs carry Will Wimble and myself with him to the county assizes. As we were upon the road Will Wimble joined a couple of plain men who rid before us, and con- versed with them for some time; during which my friend Sir Roger acquainted me with their characters. “The first of them," says he," that has a spaniel by his * An agreeable companion upon the road is as good as a coach. 66 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY side, is a yeoman of about an hundred pounds a year, an hon- est man. He is just within the game act, and qualified to kill an hare or a pheasant. He knocks down a dinner with his gun twice or thrice a week; and by that means lives much cheaper than those who have not so good an estate as himself. He would be a good neighbour if he did not destroy so many partridges. In short, he is a very sensible man; shoots fly- ing; and has been several times foreman of the petty-jury." “ The other that rides along with him is Tom Touchy, a fellow famous for taking the law' of everybody. There is not one in the town where he lives that he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. The rogue had once the impudence to go to law with the Widow. His head is full of costs, damages, and ejectments. He plagued a couple of honest gentlemen so long for a trespass in breaking one of his hedges, till he was forced to sell the ground it enclosed to defray the charges of the prosecution. His father left him fourscore pounds a year; but he has cast and been cast so often, that he is not now worth thirty. I suppose he is going upon the old business of the willow-tree.” As Sir Roger was giving me this account of Tom Touchy, Will Wimble and his two companions stopped short till we came up to them. After having paid their respects to Sir Roger, Will told him that Mr. Touchy and he must appeal to him upon a dispute that arose between them. Will, it seems, had been giving his fellow-traveller an account of his angling one day in such a hole; when Tom Touchy, instead of hearing out his story, told him, that Mr. such an one, if he pleased, might" take the law of him" for fishing in that part of the river. My friend Sir Roger heard them both, upon a round trot, and after having paused some time, told them, with the air of a man who would not give his judgment rashly," that much might be said on both sides." They were neither of them dissatisfied with the knight's determination, because neither of them found himself in the wrong by it. Upon which we made the best of our way to the assizes. The court was sat before Sir Roger came, but notwith- standing all the justices had taken their places upon the bench, they made room for the old knight at the head of them; who, for his reputation in the country, took occasion to whisper in 67 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY up.” the judge's ear, that he was glad his lordship had met with so much good weather in his circuit. I was listening to the pro- ceeding of the court with much attention, and infinitely pleased with that great appearance and solemnity which so properly accompanies such a public administration of our laws; when, after about an hour's sitting, I observed, to my great surprise, in the midst of a trial, that my friend Sir Roger was getting up to speak. I was in some pain for him, until I found he had acquitted himself of two or three sentences, with a look of much business and great intrepidity. Upon his first rising the court was hushed, and a general whisper ran among the country people that Sir Roger“ was The speech he made was so little to the purpose, that I shall not trouble my readers with an account of it; and I be- lieve was not so much designed by the knight himself to in- form the court, as to give him a figure in my eye, and keep up his credit in the country. I was highly delighted, when the court rose, to see the gen- tlemen of the country gathering about my old friend, and striving who should compliment him most; at the same time that the ordinary people gazed upon him at a distance, not a little admiring his courage, that was not afraid to speak to the judge. In our return home we met with a very odd accident; which I cannot forbear relating, because it-shews how desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him marks of their esteem. When we were arrived upon the verge of his estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves and our horses. The man of the house had, it seems, been formerly a servant in the knight's family; and to do honour to his old master, had some time since, unknown to Sir Roger, put him up in a sign-post before the door; so that the knight's head had hung out upon the road about a week before he himself knew anything of the matter. As soon as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded wholly from affection and good-will, he only told him that he had made him too high a compliment; and when the fellow seemed to think that could hardly be, added with a more decisive look, that it was too great an honour for any man under a duke; but told him at the same time, that it might be altered with a very few touches, 68 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY and that he himself would be at the charge of it. Accord- ingly they got a painter, by the knight's directions, to add a pair of whiskers to the face, and by a little aggravation of the features to change it into the Saracen's Head. I should not have known this story, had not the inn-keeper, upon Sir Roger's alighting, told him in my hearing that his honour's head was brought back last night, with the alterations that he had ordered to be made in it. Upon this my friend, with his usual cheerfulness, related the particulars above-mentioned, and or- dered the head to be brought into the room. I could not for- bear discovering greater expressions of mirth than ordinary upon the appearance of this monstrous face, under which, not- withstanding it was made to frown and stare in the most ex- traordinary manner, I could still discover a distant resem- blance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I thought it possible for people to know him in that disguise. I at first kept my usual silence; but upon the knight's conjuring me to tell him whether it was not still more like himself than a Saracen, I composed my countenance in the best manner I could, and replied, that "much might be said on both sides." These several adventures, with the knight's behaviour in them, gave me as pleasant a day as ever I met with in any of L. my travels. No. 123.) Saturday, July 21, 1711. [Addison. A Doctrina sed vim promovet insitam, Rectique cultus pectora roborant: Utcunque defecere mores, Dedecorant bene nata culpæ.—Hor. S I was yesterday taking the air with my friend Sir Roger, we were met by a fresh-coloured ruddy young man who rid by us full speed, with a couple of servants be- hind him. Upon my inquiry who he was, Sir Roger told me that he was a young gentleman of a considerable estate, who ? Yet the best blood by learning is refin'd, And virtue arms the solid mind; Whilst vice will stain the noblest race, And the paternal stamp efface.-Oldisworth, 69 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY had been educated by a tender mother that lived not many miles from the place where we were. She is a very good lady, says my friend, but took so much care of her son's health, that she has made him good for nothing. She quickly found that reading was bad for his eyes, and that writing made his head ache. He was let loose among the woods as soon as he was able to ride on horseback, or to carry a gun upon his shoulder. To be brief, I found, by my friend's account of him, that he had got a great stock of health, but nothing else; and that if it were a man's business only to live, there would not be a more accomplished young fellow in the whole country. The truth of it is, since my residing in these parts I have seen and heard innumerable instances of young heirs and elder brothers who, either from their own reflecting upon the estates they are born to, and therefore thinking all other accomplish- ments unnecessary, or from hearing these notions frequently inculcated to them by the flattery of their servants and do- mestics, or from the same foolish thought prevailing in those who have the care of their education, are of no manner of use but to keep up their families, and transmit their lands and houses in a line to posterity. This makes me often think on a story I have heard of two friends, which I shall give my reader at large, under feigned names. The moral of it may, I hope, be useful, though there are some circumstances which make it rather appear like a novel, than a true story. Eudoxus and Leontine began the world with small estates. They were both of them men of good sense and great virtue. They prosecuted their studies together in their earlier years, and entered into such a friendship as lasted to the end of their lives. Eudoxus, at his first setting out in the world, threw himself into a court, where by his natural endowments and his acquired abilities he made his way from one post to another, until at length he had raised a very considerable fortune. Leontine on the contrary sought all opportunities of improving his mind by study, conversation, and travel. He was not only acquainted with all the sciences, but with the most eminent professors of them throughout Europe. He knew perfectly well the interests of its princes, with the customs and fashions of their courts, and could scarce meet with the name of an 70 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY extraordinary person in the gazette whom he had not either talked to or seen. In short, he had so well mixt and digested his knowledge of men and books, that he made one of the most accomplished persons of his age. During the whole course of his studies and travels he kept up a punctual correspondence with Eudoxus, who often made himself acceptable to the prin- cipal men about court by the intelligence which he received from Leontine. When they were both turned of forty (an age in which according to Mr. Cowley, “there is no dallying with life") they determined, pursuant to the resolution they had taken in the beginning of their lives, to retire, and pass the remainder of their days in the country. In order to do this, they both of them married much about the same time. Leontine, with his own and his wife's fortune, bought a farm of three hundred a year, which lay within the neighbourhood of his friend Eudoxus, who had purchased an estate of as many thousands. They were both of them fathers about the same time, Eudoxus having a son born to him, and Leontine a daughter; but to the unspeakable grief of the latter, his young wife (in whom all his happiness was wrapt up) died in a few days after the birth of her daughter. His affliction would have been insupportable, had not he been comforted by the daily visits and conversations of his friend. As they were one day talking together with their usual intimacy, Leontine, con- sidering how incapable he was of giving his daughter a proper education in his own house, and Eudoxus reflecting on the or- dinary behaviour of a son who knows himself to be the heir of a great estate, they both agreed upon an exchange of children, namely, that the boy should be bred up with Leontine as his son, and that the girl should live with Eudoxus as his daugh- ter, until they were each of them arrived at years of discretion. The wife of Eudoxus, knowing that her son could not be so advantageously brought up as under the care of Leontine, and considering at the same time that he would be perpetually under her own eye, was by degrees prevailed upon to fall in with the project. She therefore took Leonilla, for that was the name of the girl, and educated her as her own daughter. The two friends on each side had wrought themselves to such an habitual tenderness for the children who were under their direction, that each of them had the real passion of a father, 71 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY where the title was but imaginary. Florio, the name of the young heir that lived with Leontine, though he had all the duty and affection imaginable for his supposed parent, was taught to rejoice at the sight of Eudoxus, who visited his friend very frequently, and was dictated by his natural affection, as well as by the rules of prudence, to make himself esteemed and be- loved by Florio. The boy was now old enough to know his supposed father's circumstances, and that therefore he was to make his way in the world by his own industry. This con- sideration grew stronger in him every day, and produced so good an effect, that he applied himself with more than ordi- nary attention to the pursuit of every thing which Leontine recommended to him. His natural abilities, which were very good, assisted by the directions of so excellent a counsellor, enabled him to make a quicker progress than ordinary through all the parts of his education. Before he was twenty years of age, having finished his studies and exercises with great ap- plause, he was removed from the university to the inns of court, where there are very few that make themselves con- siderable proficients in the studies of the place, who know they shall arrive at great estates without them. This was not Florio's case; he found that three hundred a year was but a poor estate for Leontine and himself to live upon, so that he studied without intermission till he gained a very good insight into the constitution and laws of his country. I should have told my reader, that whilst Florio lived at the house of his foster-father, he was always an acceptable guest in the family of Eudoxus, where he became acquainted with Leonilla from her infancy. His acquaintance with her by degrees grew into love, which in a mind trained up in all the sentiments of honour and virtue became a very uneasy passion. He despaired of gaining an heiress of so great a for- tune, and would rather have died than attempted it by any indirect methods. Leonilla, who was a woman of the greatest beauty joined with the greatest modesty, entertained at the same time a secret passion for Florio, but conducted herself with so much prudence that she never gave him the least in- timation of it. Florio was now engaged in all those arts and improvements that are proper to raise a man's private fortune, and give him a figure in his country, but secretly tormented 72 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY with that passion which burns with the greatest fury in a virtuous and noble heart, when he received a sudden sum- mons from Leontine to repair to him into the country next day. For it seems Eudoxus was so filled with the report of his son's reputation, that he could no longer withhold making himself known to him. The morning after his arrival at the house of his supposed father, Leontine told him that Eudoxus had something of great importance to communicate to him; upon which the good man embraced him, and wept. Florio was no sooner arrived at the great house that stood in his neighbour- hood, but Eudoxus took him by the hand, after the first salutes were over, and conducted him into his closet. He there opened to him the whole secret of his parentage and education, concluding after this manner: “I have no other way left of acknowledging my gratitude to Leontine, than by marrying you to his daughter. He shall not lose the pleasure of being your father by the discovery I have made to you. Leonilla too shall be still my daughter; her filial piety, though mis- placed, has been so exemplary that it deserves the greatest reward I can confer upon it. You shall have the pleasure of seeing a great estate fall to you, which you would have lost the relish of had you known yourself born to it. Continue only to deserve it in the same manner you did before you were possessed of it. I have left your mother in the next room. Her heart yearns towards you. She is making the same dis- coveries to Leonilla which I have made to yourself.” Florio was so overwhelmed with this profusion of happiness, that he was not able to make a reply, but threw himself down at his father's feet, and amidst a flood of tears, kissed and embraced his knees, asking his blessing, and expressing in dumb show those sentiments of love, duty, and gratitude that were too big for utterance. To conclude, the happy pair were married, and half Eudoxus's estate settled upon them. Leontine and Eu- doxus passed the remainder of their lives together; and re- ceived in the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of Florio and Leonilla the just recompense, as well as the natural effects of that care which they had bestowed upon them in their educa- tion. L. 73 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 125.] Tuesday, July 24, 1711. [Addison. Ne pueri, ne tanta animis assuescite bella: Neu patriae validas in viscera vertite vires.'—Virg. Y malice of parties, very frequently tells us an accident that happened to him when he was a school-boy, which was at the time when the feuds ran high between the Roundheads and Cavaliers. This worthy knight, being then but a stripling, had occasion to inquire which was the way to St. Anne's Lane, upon which the person whom he spoke to, instead of answering his question, called him a young popish cur, and asked him who had made Anne a saint? The boy, being in some confu- sion, inquired of the next he met, which was the way to Anne's Lane; but was called a prick-eared cur for his pains, and in- stead of being shewn the way, was told that she had been a saint before he was born, and would be one after he was hanged. “Upon this,” says Sir Roger, “ I did not think fit to repeat the former question, but going into every lane of the neighbourhood, asked what they called the name of that lane." By which ingenious artifice he found out the place he inquired after, without giving offence to any party. Sir Roger gener- ally closes this narrative with reflections on the mischief that parties do in the country; how they spoil good neighbourhood, and make honest gentlemen hate one another; besides that they manifestly tend to the prejudice of the land tax, and the de- struction of the game. There cannot a greater judgment befal a country than such a dreadful spirit of division as rends a government into two distinct people, and makes them greater strangers and more averse to one another, than if they were actually two different nations. The effects of such a division are pernicious to the last degree, not only with regard to those advantages which they give the common enemy, but to those private evils which they produce in the heart of almost every particular person. This influence is very fatal both to men's morals and their un- * This thirst of kindred blood, my sons, detest, Nor turn your force against your country's breast.–Dryden. 74 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY derstandings; it sinks the virtue of a nation, and not only so, but destroys even common sense. A furious party spirit, when it rages in its full violence, exerts itself in civil war and bloodshed; and when it is under its greatest restraints naturally breaks out in falsehood, de- traction, calumny, and a partial administration of justice. In a word, it fills a nation with spleen and rancour, and ex- tinguishes all the seeds of good-nature, compassion, and hu- manity. Plutarch says very finely, “ that a man should not allow himself to hate even his enemies, because," says he, "if you indulge this passion in some occasions, it will rise of itself in others; if you hate your enemies, you will contract such a vicious habit of mind, as by degrees will break out upon those who are your friends, or those who are indifferent to you." I might here observe how admirably this precept of morality (which derives the malignity of hatred from the passion itself, and not from its object) answers to that great rule which was dictated to the world about an hundred years before this phi- losopher wrote; but instead of that, I shall only take notice, with a real grief of heart, that the minds of many good men among us appear soured with party-principles, and alienated from one another in such a manner, as seems to me altogether inconsistent with the dictates either of reason or religion. Zeal for a public cause is apt to breed passions in the hearts of virtuous persons, to which the regard of their own private interest would never have betrayed them. If this party-spirit has so ill an effect on our morals, it has likewise a very great one upon our judgments. We often hear a poor insipid paper or pamphlet cried up, and some- times a noble piece depreciated, by those who are of a different principle from the author. One who is actuated by this spirit is almost under an incapacity of discerning either real blem- ishes or beauties. A man of merit in a different principle [is] like an object seen in two different mediums, [that] appears crooked or broken, however straight and entire it may be in itself. For this reason there is scarce a person of any figure in England, who does not go by two contrary characters, as opposite to one another as light and darkness. Knowledge and learning suffer in a particular manner from this strange 75 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY prejudice, which at present prevails amongst all ranks and degrees in the British nation. As men formerly became emi- nent in learned societies by their parts and acquisitions, they now distinguish themselves by the warmth and violence with which they espouse their respective parties.-Books are valued upon the like considerations. An abusive scurrilous style passes for satire, and a dull scheme of party-notions is called fine writing There is one piece of sophistry practised by both sides, and that is the taking any scandalous story that has been ever whispered or invented of a private man, for a known un- doubted truth, and raising suitable speculations upon it. Calumnies that have been never proved, or have been often re- futed, are the ordinary postulatums of these infamous scrib- blers, upon which they proceed as upon first principles granted by all men, though in their hearts they know they are false, or at best very doubtful. When they have laid these foundations of scurrility, it is no wonder that their superstructure is every way answerable to them. If this shameless practice of the present age endures much longer, praise and reproach will cease to be motives of action in good men. There are certain periods of time in all governments when this inhuman spirit prevails. Italy was long torn in pieces by the Guelfes and Gibellines, and France by those who were for and against the league; but it is very unhappy for a man to be born in such a stormy and tempestuous season. It is the rest- less ambition of artful men that thus breaks a people into fac- tions, and draws several well-meaning persons to their interest by a specious concern for their country. How many honest minds are filled with uncharitable and barbarous notions, out of their zeal for the public good? What cruelties and out- rages would they not commit against men of an adverse party, whom they would honour and esteem, if, instead of consider- ing them as they are represented, they knew them as they are? Thus are persons of the greatest probity seduced into shameful errors and prejudices, and made bad men even by that noblest of principles, the “ love of their country.” I cannot here for- bear mentioning the famous Spanish proverb, “ If there were neither fools nor knaves in the world, all people would be of one mind.” 76 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY For my own part I could heartily wish that all honest men would enter into an association, for the support of one another against the endeavours of those whom they ought to look upon as their common enemies, whatsoever side they may belong to. Were there such an honest body of neutral forces, we should never see the worst of men in great figures of life because they are useful to a party; nor the best unregarded because they are above practising those methods which would be grate- ful to their faction. We should then single every criminal out of the herd, and hunt him down, however formidable and overgrown he might appear: on the contrary, we should shelter distressed innocence, and defend virtue, however beset with contempt or ridicule, envy or defamation. In short, we should not any longer regard our fellow-subjects as whigs or tories, but should make the man of merit our friend, and the villain our enemy. C. No. 126.] Wednesday, July 25, 1711. [Addison. I Tros Rutulusve fuat, nullo discrimine habebo. –Virg. N my yesterday's paper I proposed, that the honest men of all parties should enter into a kind of association for the defence of one another, and the confusion of their common enemies. As it is designed this neutral body should act with a regard to nothing but truth and equity, and divest them- selves of the little heats and prepossessions that cleave to parties of all kinds, I have prepared for them the following form of an association, which may express their intentions in the most plain and simple manner. “We whose names are hereunto subscribed do solemnly declare, that we do in our consciences believe two and two make four; and that we shall adjudge any man whatsoever to be our enemy who endeavours to persuade us to the con- trary. We are likewise ready to maintain with the hazard of all that is near and dear to us, that six is less than seven in all times and all places; and that ten will not be more three years hence than it is at present. We do also firmly declare, that it Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me.—Dryden. 77 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY is our resolution as long as we live to call black black, and white white. And we shall upon all occasions oppose such persons that upon any day of the year shall call black white, or white black, with the utmost peril of our lives and fortunes.” Were there such a combination of honest men, who without any regard to places would endeavour to extirpate all such furious zealots as would sacrifice one half of their country to the passion and interest of the other; as also such infamous hypocrites, that are for promoting their own advantage under colour of the public good; with all the profligate immoral retainers to each side, that have nothing to recommend them but an implicit submission to their leaders; we should soon see that furious party-spirit extinguished, which may in time expose us to the derision and contempt of all the nations about us A member of this society that would thus carefully employ himself in making room for merit, by throwing down the worthless and depraved part of mankind from those conspicu- ous stations of life to which they have been sometimes ad- vanced, and all this without any regard to his private interest, would be no small benefactor to his country. I remember to have read in Diodorus Siculus an account of a very active little animal, which I think he calls the ichneumon, that makes it the whole business of his life to break the eggs of the crocodile, which he is always in search after. This instinct is the more remarkable, because the ichneumon never feeds upon the eggs he has broken, nor in any other way finds his account in them. Were it not for the incessant labours of this industrious animal, Egypt, says the historian, would be over-run with crocodiles; for the Egyp- tians are so far from destroying those pernicious creatures, that they worship them as gods. If we look into the behaviour of ordinary partizans, we shall find them far from resembling this disinterested animal; and rather acting after the example of the wild Tartars, who are ambitious of destroying a man of the most extraordinary parts and accomplishments, as thinking that upon his decease the same talents, whatever post they qualified him for, enter of course into his destroyer, 78 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY As in the whole train of my speculations, I have endeav- oured as much as I am able to extinguish that pernicious spirit of passion and prejudice, which rages with the same violence in all parties, I am still the more desirous of doing some good in this particular, because I observe that the spirit of party reigns more in the country than in the town. It here contracts a kind of brutality and rustic fierceness, to which men of a politer conversation are wholly strangers. It extends itself even to the return of the bow and the hat; and at the same time that the heads of parties preserve toward one another an outward show of good-breeding, and keep up a perpetual in- tercourse of civilities, their tools that are dispersed in these outlying parts will not so much as mingle together at a cock- match. This humour fills the country with several periodical meetings of Whig jockies and Tory fox-hunters; not to men- tion the innumerable curses, frowns, and whispers it produces at a quarter-sessions. I do not know whether I have observed in any of my former papers that my friends Sir Roger de Coverley and Sir Andrew Freeport are of different principles, the first of them inclined to the landed and the other to the monied interest. This humour is so moderate in each of them, that it proceeds no farther than to an agreeable raillery, which very often diverts the rest of the club. I find however that the knight is a much stronger Tory in the country than in town, which as he has told me in my ear, is absolutely necessary for the keeping up his interest. In all our journey from London to his house we did not so much as bait at a Whig inn; or if by chance the coach- man stopped at a wrong place, one of Sir Roger's servants would ride up to his master full speed, and whisper to him that the master of the house was against such an one in the last election. This often betrayed us into hard beds and bad cheer; for we were not so inquisitive about the inn as the inn- keeper; and provided our landlord's principles were sound, did not take any notice of the staleness of his provisions. This I found still the more inconvenient, because the better the host was, the worse generally were his accommodations; the fellow knowing very well that those who were his friends would take 79 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY up with coarse diet and a hard lodging. For these reasons all the while I was upon the road I dreaded entering into a house of any one that Sir Roger had applauded for an honest man. Since my stay at Sir Roger's in the country, I daily find more instances of this narrow party-humour. Being upon the bowling-green at a neighbouring market-town the other day, (for that is the place where the gentlemen of one side meet once a week) I observed a stranger among them of a better presence and genteeler behaviour than ordinary; but was much surprised, that notwithstanding he was a very fair better, no body would take him up. But upon inquiry, I found, that he was one who had given a disagreeable vote in a former parliament, for which reason there was not a man upon that bowling-green who would have so much correspondence with him as to win his money of him. Among other instances of this nature, I must not omit one which cancerns myself. Will Wimble was the other day relat- ing several strange stories that he had picked up, nobody knows where, of a certain great man; and upon my staring at him, as one that was surprised to hear such things in the country, which had never been so much as whispered in the town, Will stopped short in the thread of his discourse, and after dinner asked my friend Sir Roger in his ear if he was sure that I was not a fanatic. It gives me a serious concern to see such a spirit of dissen- sion in the country; not only as it destroys virtue and common sense, and renders us in a manner barbarians towards one another, but as it perpetuates our animosities, widens our breaches, and transmits our present passions and prejudices to our posterity. For my own part, I am sometimes afraid that I discover the seeds of a civil war in these our divisions; and therefore cannot but bewail, as in their first principles, the miseries and calamities of our children. C. 80 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 130.] Monday, July 30, 1711. [Addison. A Semperque recentes Convectare juvat praedas, et vivere rapto.'-Virg. S I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my friend Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance from us a troop of gipsies. Upon the first discovery of them, my friend was in some doubt whether he should not exert the justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless vagrants : but not having his clerk with him, who is a necessary counsellor on these occasions, and fearing that his poultry might fare the worse for it, he let the thought drop: but at the same time gave me a particular account of the mischiefs they do in the country, in stealing people's goods, and spoiling their servants. “If a stray piece of linen hangs upon an hedge,” says Sir Roger, " they are sure to have it; if the hog loses his way in the fields, it is ten to one but he becomes their prey: our geese cannot live in peace for them. If a man prosecutes them with severity, his hen-roost is sure to pay for it. They generally straggle into these parts about this time of the year; and set the heads of our servant-maids so agog for husbands, that we do not expect to have any business done as it should be, whilst they are in the country. I have an honest dairy-maid who crosses their hands with a piece of silver every summer, and never fails being promised the handsomest young fellow in the parish for her pains. Your friend the butler has been fool enough to be seduced by them; and though he is sure to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon every time his fortune is told him, generally shuts himself up in the pantry with an old gipsy for about half an hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweethearts are the things they live upon, which they bestow very plentifully upon all those that apply themselves to them. You see now and then some handsome young jades among them; the sluts have very often white teeth and black eyes.” Sir Roger, observing that I listened with great attention to his account of a people who were so entirely new to me, told me, that if I would, they should tell us our fortunes. As I ? A plundering race, still eager to invade, On spoil they live, and make of theft a trade. 81 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY was very well pleased with the knight's proposal, we rid up and communicated our hands to them. A Cassandra of the crew, after having examined my lines very diligently, told me that I loved a pretty maid in a corner, that I was a good woman's man, with some other particulars, which I do not think proper to relate. My friend Sir Roger alighted from his horse, and exposing his palm to two or three that stood by him, they crumpled it into all shapes, and diligently scanned every wrinkle that could be made in it; when one of them, who was older and more sunburnt than the rest, told him that he had a widow in his line of life. Upon which the knight cried, “Go, go, you are an idle baggage”; and at the same time smiled upon me. The gipsy, finding he was not dis- pleased in his heart, told him, after a farther inquiry into his hand, that his true love was constant, and that she should dream of him to-night. My old friend cried Pish, and bid her go on. The gipsy told him that he was a bachelor, but would not be so long; and that he was dearer to somebody than he thought. The knight still repeated, “She was an idle bag- gage," and bid her go on. “Ah, master," says the gipsy, that roguish leer of yours makes a pretty woman's heart ache; you ha'n't that simper about the mouth for nothing." The uncouth gibberish with which all this was uttered, like the darkness of an oracle, made us the more attentive to it. To be short, the knight left the money with her that he had crossed her hand with, and got up again on his horse. As we were riding away, Sir Roger told me, that he knew several sensible people who believed these gipsies now and then foretold very strange things; and for half an hour to- gether appeared more jocund than ordinary. In the height of this good humour, meeting a common beggar upon the road, who was no conjurer, as he went to relieve him, he found his pocket was picked: that being a kind of palmistry at which this race of vermin are very dexterous. I might here entertain my reader with historical remarks on this idle, profligate people, who infest all the countries of Europe, and live in the midst of governments in a kind of commonwealth by themselves. But, instead of entering into observations of this nature, I shall fill the remaining part of my paper with a story which is still fresh in Holland, and was 82 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY printed in one of our monthly accounts about twenty years ago. “ As the trekschuyt, or hackney-boat, which carries passengers from Leyden to Amsterdam, was putting off, a boy running along the side of the canal desired to be taken in; which the master of the boat refused because the lad had not quite money enough to pay the usual fare. An eminent mer- chant being pleased with the looks of the boy, and secretly touched with compassion towards him, paid the money for him, and ordered him to be taken on board. Upon talking with him afterwards, he found that he could speak readily in three or four languages, and learned, upon farther examina- tion, that he had been stolen away when he was a child by a gipsy, and had rambled ever since with a gang of those strollers up and down several parts of Europe. It happened that the merchant, whose heart seems to have inclined towards the boy by a secret kind of instinct, had himself lost a child some years before. The parents, after a long search for him, gave him for drowned in one of the canals with which that country abounds; and the mother was so afflicted at the loss of a fine boy, who was her only son, that she died for grief of it. Upon laying together all particulars, and examining the sev- eral moles and marks by which the mother used to describe the child when he was first missing, the boy proved to be the son of the merchant, whose heart had so unaccountably melted at the sight of him. The lad was very well pleased to find a father who was so rich, and likely to leave him a good estate: the father, on the other hand, was not a little delighted to see a son return to him, whom he had given for lost, with such a strength of constitution, sharpness of understanding, and skill in languages.” Here the printed story leaves off ; but if I may give credit to reports, our linguist having received such ex- traordinary rudiments towards a good education, was after- wards trained up in everything that becomes a gentleman; wearing off, by little and little, all the vicious habits and prac- tices that he had been used to in the course of his peregrina- tions. Nay, it is said, that he has since been employed in for- eign courts upon national business, with great reputation to himself, and honour to those who sent him, and that he has visited several countries as a public minister, in which he formerly wandered as a gipsy. C. 83 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 131.] Tuesday, July 31, 1711. [Addison. Ipsae rursum concedite sylvae.'-Virg. IT a T game in his own grounds, and divert himself upon those that belong to his neighbour. My friend Sir Roger generally goes two or three miles from his house, and gets into the frontiers of his estate, before he beats about in search of a hare or partridge, on purpose to spare his own fields, where he is always sure of finding diversion, when the worst comes to the worst. By this means the breed about his house has time to increase and multiply, besides that the sport is the more agree- able where the game is the harder to come at, and does not lie so thick as to produce any perplexity or confusion in the pur- suit. For these reasons the country gentleman, like the fox, seldom preys near his own home. In the same manner I have made a month's excursion out of the town, which is the great field of game for sportsmen of my species, to try my fortune in the country, where I have started several subjects, and hunted them down, with some pleasure to myself, and I hope to others. I am here forced to use a great deal of diligence before I can spring anything to my mind, whereas in town, whilst I am following one charac- ter, it is ten to one but I am crossed in my way by another, and put up such a variety of odd creatures in both sexes, that they foil the scent of one another, and puzzle the chace. My great- est difficulty in the country is to find sport, and in town to choose it. In the mean time, as I have given a whole month's rest to the cities of London and Westminster, I promise my- self abundance of new game upon my return thither. It is indeed high time for me to leave the country, since I find the whole neighbourhood begin to grow very inquisitive after my name and character; my love of solitude, taciturnity, and particular way of life, having raised a great curiosity in all these parts. The notions which have been framed of me are various; some look upon me as very proud, some as very modest, and "Once more, ye woods, adieu. 84 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY some as very melancholy. Will Wimble, as my friend the butler tells me, observing me very much alone, and extremely silent when I am in company, is afraid I have killed a man. The country people seem to suspect me for a conjurer; and some of them hearing of the visit which I made to Moll White, will needs have it that Sir Roger has brought down a cunning man with him, to cure the old woman, and free the country from her charms. So that the character which I go under in part of the neighbourhood, is what they here call a White Witch. A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off, and is not of Sir Roger's party, has it seems said twice or thrice at his table, that he wishes Sir Roger does not harbour a Jesuit in his house, and that he thinks the gentlemen of the country would do very well to make me give some account of myself. On the other side, some of Sir Roger's friends are afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a designing fellow, and as they have heard that he converses very promiscuously when he is in town, do not know but he has brought down with him some discarded Whig, that is sullen, and says nothing because he is out of place. Such is the variety of opinions which are here entertained of me, so that I pass among some for a disaffected person, and among others for a popish priest; among some for a wizard, and among others for a murderer; and all this for no other reason that I can imagine, but because I do not hoot, and halloo, and make a noise. It is true, my friend Sir Roger tells them,-“ That it is my way,” and that I am only a phi- losopher; but this will not satisfy them. They think there is more in me than he discovers, and that I do not hold my tongue for nothing For these and other reasons I shall set out for London to- orrow, having found by experience that the country is not a place for a person of my temper, who does not love jollity, and what they call good neighbourhood. A man that is out of humour when an unexpected guest breaks in upon him, and does not care for sacrificing an afternoon to every chance- comer, that will be the master of his own time, and the pursuer of his own inclinations, makes but a very unsociable figure in this kind of life. I shall therefore retire into the town, if I 85 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY may make use of that phrase, and get into the crowd again as fast as I can, in order to be alone. I can there raise what speculations I please upon others without being observed my- self, and at the same time enjoy all the advantages of company, with all the privileges of solitude. In the mean while, to finish the month, and conclude these my rural speculations, I shall here insert a letter from my friend Will Honeycomb, who has not lived a month for these forty years out of the smoke of London, and rallies me after his way upon my country life. “DEAR SPEC, “I suppose this letter will find thee picking of daisies, or smelling to a lock of hay, or passing away thy time in some innocent country diversion of the like nature. I have however orders from the club to summon thee up to town, being all of us cursedly afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our company, after thy conversations with Moll White, and Will Wimble. Pr’ythee don't send us up any more stories of a cock and a bull, nor frighten the town with spirits and witches. Thy speculations begin to smell confoundedly of woods and mead- ows. If thou dost not come up quickly, we shall conclude that thou art in love with one of Sir Roger's dairy-maids. Service to the knight. Sir Andrew is grown the cock of the club since he left us, and if he does not return quickly will make every mother's son of us commonwealth's-men. Dear SPEC, Thine eternally, C. WILL HONEYCOMB.” No. 132.] Wednesday, August 1, 1711. [Steele. Qui aut tempus quid postulet non videt, aut plura loquitur, aut se ostentat, aut eorum quibuscum est rationem non habet, is ineptus esse dicitur.'-Tull. should set out for London the next day, his horses were ready at the appointed hour in the evening; and attended 1 That man may be called impertinent, who considers not the cir- cumstances of time, or engrosses the conversation, or makes himself the subject of his discourse, or pays no regard to the company he is in. 86 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY by one of his grooms, I arrived at the county-town at twilight, in order to be ready for the stage-coach the day following. As soon as we arrived at the inn, the servant who waited upon me, inquired of the chamberlain in my hearing what company he had for the coach? The fellow answered, “Mrs. Betty Arable the great fortune, and the widow her mother; a recruiting offi- cer (who took a place because they were to go); young squire Quickset her cousin (that her mother wished her to be mar- ried to); Ephraim the quaker, her guardian; and a gentleman that had studied himself dumb from Sir Roger de Coverley's.” I observed by what he said of myself, that according to his office he dealt much in intelligence; and doubted not but there was some foundation for his reports of the rest of the com- pany, as well as for the whimsical account he gave of me. The next morning at day-break we were all called; and I who know my own natural shyness, and endeavour to be as little liable to be disputed with as possible, dressed immediately, that I might make no one wait. The first preparation for our setting out was, that the captain's half pike was placed near the coachman, and a drum behind the coach. In the mean time the drummer, the captain's equipage, was very loud, that none of the captain's things should be placed so as to be spoiled;” upon which his cloke-bag was fixed in the seat of the coach; and the captain himself, according to a frequent though invidious behaviour of military men, ordered his man to look sharp, that none but one of the ladies should have the place he had taken fronting to the coach-box. We were in some little time fixed in our seats, and sat with that dislike which people not too good-natured usually con- ceive of each other at first sight. The coach jumbled us in- sensibly into some sort of familiarity: and we had not moved above two miles, when the widow asked the captain what suc- cess he had in his recruiting? The officer, with a frankness he believed very graceful, told her, " that indeed he had but very little luck, and had suffered much by desertion, therefore should be glad to end his warfare in the service of her or her fair daughter. In a word,” continued he, “I am a soldier, and to be plain is my character: you see me, madam, young, sound, and impudent; take me yourself, widow, or give me to her, I will be wholly at your disposal. I am a soldier of for- 87 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY tune, ha!”—This was followed by a vain laugh of his own, and a deep silence of all the rest of the company. I had nothing left for it but to fall fast asleep, which I did with all speed.--" Come," said he, "resolve upon it, we will make a wedding at the next town: we will wake this pleasant com- panion who has fallen asleep, to be the brideman; and,” giving the quaker a clap on the knee, he concluded, “ This sly saint, who, I'll warrant, understands what's what as well as you or I, widow, shall give the bride as father.” The quaker, who happened to be a man of smartness, answered, “Friend, I take it in good part that thou hast given me the authority of a father over this comely and virtuous child; and I must assure thee, that if I have the giving her, I shall not bestow her on thee. Thy mirth, friend, savoureth of folly: thou art a person of a light mind, thy drum is a type of thee, it soundeth because it is empty. Verily, it is not from thy fulness, but thy emptiness that thou hast spoken this day. Friend, friend, we have hired this coach in partnership with thee, to carry us to the great city; we cannot go any other way. This worthy mother must hear thee if thou wilt needs utter thy follies; we cannot help it, friend, I say: if thou wilt, we must hear thee; but if thou wert a man of understanding, thou wouldst not take advantage of thy courageous countenance to abash us children of peace. Thou art, thou sayest, a soldier; give quarter to us, who cannot resist thee. Why didst thou fleer at our friend who feigned himself asleep? He said nothing; but how dost thou know what he containeth? If thou speakest improper things in the hearing of this virtuous young virgin, consider it is an outrage against a distressed person that cannot get from thee: to speak indiscreetly what we are obliged to hear, by being hasped up with thee in this public vehicle, is in some degree assaulting on the high road.' Here Ephraim paused, and the captain with an happy and uncommon impudence (which can be convicted and support itself at the same time) cries, "Faith, friend, I thank thee; I should have been a little impertinent if thou hadst not repri- manded me. Come, thou art, I see, a smoky old fellow, and I'll be very orderly the ensuing part of the journey. I was going to give myself airs, but, ladies, I beg pardon. The captain was so little out of humour, and our company 88 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY was so far from being soured by this little ruffle, that Ephraim and he took a particular delight in being agreeable to each other for the future; and assumed their different provinces in the conduct of the company. Our reckonings, apartments, and accommodation, fell under Ephraim; and the captain looked to all disputes on the road, as the good behaviour of our coachman, and the right we had of taking place, as going to London, of all vehicles coming from thence. The occur- rences we met with were ordinary, and very little happened which could entertain by the relation of them: but when I con- sider the company we were in, I took it for no small good- fortune, that the whole journey was not spent in impertinences, which to one part of us might be an entertainment, to the other a suffering. What therefore Ephraim said when we were almost arrived at London, had to me an air not only of good understanding, but good breeding. Upon the young lady's expressing her satisfaction in the journey, and declaring how delightful it had been to her, Ephraim declared himself as fol- lows: “There is no ordinary part of human life, which ex- presseth so much a good mind, and a right inward man, as his behaviour upon meeting with strangers, especially such as may seem the most unsuitable companions to him: such a man, when he falleth in the way with persons of simplicity and inno- cence, however, knowing he may be in the ways of men, will not vaunt himself thereof, but will the rather hide his su- periority to them, that he may not be painful unto them. My good friend," continued he, turning to the officer, “ thee and I are to part by and by, and peradventure we may never meet again : but be advised by a plain man; modes and apparel are but trifles to the real man, therefore do not think such a man as thyself terrible for thy garb, nor such a one as me con- temptible for mine. When two such as thee and I meet, with affections as we ought to have towards each other, thou shouldst rejoice to see my peaceable demeanour, and I should be glad to see thy strength and ability to protect me in it.” T. 89 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 269.) Tuesday, January 8, 1712. [Addison. Ævo rarissima nostro Simplicitas.'-Ovid. I WAS this morning surprised with a great knocking at the door, when my landlady's daughter came up to me and told me that there was a man below desired to speak with me. Upon my asking her who it was, she told me it was a very grave elderly person, but that she did not know his name. I immediately went down to him, and found him to be the coach- man of my worthy friend, Sir Roger de Coverley. He told me that his master came to town last night, and would be glad to take a turn with me in Gray's-Inn alks. As I was won- dering in myself what had brought Sir Roger to town, not having lately received any letter from him, he told me that his master was come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that he desired I would immediately meet him. I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the old knight, though I did not much wonder at it, having heard him say more than once in private discourse, that he looked upon Prince Eugenio (for so the knight always calls him) to be a greater man than Scanderbeg. I was no sooner come into Gray's-Inn walks, but I heard my friend upon the terrace hemming twice or thrice to himself with great vigour, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air (to make use of his own phrase), and is not a little pleased with any one who takes notice of the strength which he still exerts in his morning hems. I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good old man, who before he saw me was engaged in conversation with a beggar-man that had asked an alms of him. I could hear my friend chide him for not finding out some work; but at the same time saw him put his hand in his pocket and give him sixpence. Our salutations were very hearty on both sides, consisting of many kind shakes of the hand, and several affectionate looks which we cast upon one another. After which the knight told Most rare is now our old Simplicity.—Dryden, 90 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY me my good friend his chaplain was very well, and much at my service, and that the Sunday before he had made a most incomparable sermon out of Dr. Barrow. "I have left," says he, “all my affairs in his hands, and being willing to lay an obligation upon him, have deposited with him thirty marks, to be distributed among his poor parishioners." He then proceeded to acquaint me with the welfare of Will Wimble. Upon which he put his hand into his fob and pre- sented me in his name with a tobacco-stopper, telling me that Will had been busy all the beginning of the winter in turning great quantities of them; and that he made a present of one to every gentleman in the country who has good principles, and smokes. He added, that poor Will was at present under great tribulation, for that Tom Touchy had taken the law of him for cutting some hazel sticks out of one of his hedges. Among other pieces of news which the knight brought from his country-seat, he informed me that Moll White was dead, and that about a month after her death the wind was so very high, that it blew down the end of one of his barns. But for my own part," says Sir Roger, “I do not think that the old woman had any hand in it.” He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions which had passed in his house during the holidays; for Sir Roger, after the laudable custom of his ancestors, always keeps open house at Christmas. I learned from him that he had killed eight fat hogs for the season, that he had dealt about his chines very liberally amongst his neighbours, and that in particular he had sent a string of hogs-puddings with a pack of cards to every poor family in the parish. “I have often thought,” says Sir Roger, "it happens very well that Christmas should fall out in the middle of the winter. It is the most dead uncom- fortable time of the year, when the poor people would suffer very much from their poverty and cold, if they had not good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas gambols to support them. I love to rejoice their poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole village merry in my great hall. I allow a double quan- tity of malt to my small-beer, and set it a running for twelve days to every one that calls for it. I have always a piece of cold beef and a mince-pie upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to see my tenants pass away a whole evening in play- 91 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY ing their innocent tricks, and smutting one another. Our friend Will Wimble is as merry as any of them, and shews a thousand roguish tricks upon these occasions." I was very much delighted with the reflection of my old friend, which carried so much goodness in it. He then launched out into the praise of the late act of parliament for se- curing the church of England, and told me with great satis- faction, that he believed it already began to take effect, for that a rigid dissenter who chanced to dine at his house on Christ- mas-day, had been observed to eat very plentifully of his plum- porridge. After having dispatched all our country matters, Sir Roger made several inquiries concerning the club, and particularly of his old antagonist, Sir Andrew Freeport. He asked me with a kind of smile, whether Sir Andrew had not taken ad- vantage of his absence, to vent among them some of his re- publican doctrines; but soon after gathering up his counten- ance into a more than ordinary seriousness, “ Tell me truly," says he, “ don't you think Sir Andrew had a hand in the pope's procession ?”—But without giving me time to answer him, Well, well,” says he, “ I know you are a wary man, and do not care to talk of public matters.” The knight then asked me, if I had seen Prince Eugenio, and made me promise to get him a stand in some convenient place where he might have a full sight of that extraordinary man, whose presence does so much honour to the British na- tion. He dwelt very long on the praises of this great general, and I found that since I was with him in the country he had drawn many observations together out of his reading in Baker's Chronicle, and other authors, who always lie in his hall window, which very much redound to the honour of this prince. Having passed away the greatest part of the morning in hearing the knight's reflections, which were partly private and partly political, he asked me if I would smoke a pipe with him over a dish of coffee at Squire's? As I love the old man, I take delight in complying with every thing that is agreeable to him, and accordingly waited on him to the coffee-house, where his venerable figure drew upon us the eyes of the whole room. He had no sooner seated himself at the upper end of 92 ET a d. In at t- 1- Fer me nd Te- en- y," be's uim do nio, ient lary na. eral had I his this Coverley Hall at Christmas Time ig in - and I him ian, seabl louse whole ind of SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY the high table, but he called for a clean pipe, a paper of to- bacco, a dish of coffee, a wax candle, and the Supplement, with such an air of cheerfulness and good-humour, that all the boys in the coffee-room (who seemed to take pleasure in serving him) were at once employed on his several errands, insomuch that nobody else could come at a dish of tea, until the knight had got all his conveniences about him. L. No. 329.] Tuesday, March 18, 1712. [Addison. Ire tamen restat, Numa quo devenit et Ancus.'-Hor. Y friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me t'other night, that he had been reading my paper upon Westminster Abbey, in which, says he, there are a great many ingenious fancies. He told me at the same time, that he observed I had promised another paper upon the tombs, and that he should be glad to go and see them with me, not having visited them since he had read history. I could not at first imagine how this came into the knight's head, till I recollected that he had been very busy all summer upon Baker's Chronicle, which he has quoted several times in his disputes with Sir Andrew Free- port, since his last coming to town. Accordingly I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we might go together to the Abbey. I found the knight under his butler's hands, who always shaves him. He was no sooner dressed, than he called for a glass of the widow Truby's water, which he told me he always drank before he went abroad. He recommended to me a dram of it at the same time, with so much heartiness, that I could not forbear drinking it. As soon as I had got it down, I found it very unpalatable; upon which the knight, observing that I had made several wry faces, told me that he knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the best thing in the world against the stone or gravel. I could have wished, indeed, that he had acquainted me with With Ancus, and with Numa, kings of Rome, We must descend into the silent tomb. 93 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY the virtues of it sooner; but it was too late to complain, and I knew what he had done was out of good-will. Sir Roger told me further, that he looked upon it to be very good for a man whilst he staid in town, to keep off infection, and that he got together a quantity of it upon the first news of the sickness being at Dantzick: when of a sudden turning short to one of his servants, who stood behind him, he bid him call a hackney coach, and take care it was an elderly man that drove it. He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Truby's water, telling me that the widow Truby was one who did more good than all the doctors and apothecaries in the country; that she distilled every poppy that grew within five miles of her; that she distributed her water gratis among all sorts of people; to which the knight added that she had a very great jointure, and that the whole country would fain have it a match between him and her; "and truly," says Sir Roger, "if I had not been engaged, perhaps I could not have done better." His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he had called a coach. Upon our going to it, after having cast his eye upon the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axle- tree was good; upon the fellow's telling him he would warrant it, the knight turned to me, told me he looked like an honest man, and went in without further ceremony. We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping out his head, called the coachman down from his box, and upon his presenting himself at the window, asked him if he smoked. As I was considering what this would end in, he bid him stop by the way at any good tobacconist's, and take in a roll of their best Virginia. Nothing material happened in the re- maining part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of the Abbey. As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monuments, and cried out, “A brave man, I warrant him!” Passing afterwards by Sir Cloudsley Shovel, he flung his hand that way, and cried, “ Sir Cloudsley Shovel! a very gallant man!” As we stood before Busby's tomb, the knight uttered himself again after the same manner: "Dr. Busby! a great man! he whipped my grand- father; a very great man! I should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a blockhead; a very great man!” 94 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY We were immediately conducted into the little chapel on the right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our historian's elbow, was very attentive to everything he said, particularly to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut off the king of Morocco's head. Among several other figures, he was very well pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his knees; and, concluding them all to be great men, was conducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our interpreter's telling us that she was a maid of honor to Queen Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive into her name and family; and after having regarded her finger for some time, “ I wonder,” says he, “ that Sir Richard Baker has said nothing of her in his Chronicle.” We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, where my old friend, after having heard that the stone underneath the most ancient of them, which was brought from Scotland, was called Jacob's Pillar, sat himself down in the chair; and looking like the figure of an old Gothic king, asked our inter- preter what authority they had to say that Jacob had ever been ir Scotland? The fellow, instead of returning him an answer, told him, that he hoped his honour would pay his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled upon being thus tre- panned; but our guide not insisting upon his demand, the knight soon recovered his good humour, and whispered in my ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw those two chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco-stopper out of one or t’other of them. Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward the Third's sword, and leaning upon the pommel of it, gave us the whole history of the Black Prince; concluding, that, in Sir Richard Baker's opinion, Edward the Third was one of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne. We were then shewn Edward the Confessor's tomb; upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he was the first who touched for the evil: and afterwards Henry the Fourth's; upon which he shook his head, and told us, there was fine read- ing in the casualties in that reign. Our conductor then pointed to that monument where there is the figure of one of our English kings without an head; 95 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY and upon giving us to know that the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen away several years since, “Some Whig, I'll warrant you,” says Sir Roger; “ you ought to lock up your kings better; they will carry off the body too, if you don't take care." The glorious names of Henry the Fifth and Queen Eliza- beth gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, who, as our knight ob- served with some surprise, had a great many kings in him, whose monuments he had not seen in the Abbey. For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the knight show such an honest passion for the glory of his coun- try, and such a respectful gratitude to the memory of its princes. I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old friend, which flows out towards every one he converses with, made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon as an extraordinary man; for which reason he shook him by the hand at parting, telling him, that he should be very glad to see him at his lodgings in Norfolk-buildings, and talk over these matters with him more at leisure. No. 335.] Tuesday, March 25, 1712. [Addison. MY 1 Respicere exemplar vitæ morumque jubebo Doctum imitatorem, et veras hinc ducere voces.' –Hor. Y friend Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met to- gether at the club, told me, that he had a great mind to see the new tragedy with me, assuring me at the same time, that he had not been at a play these twenty years. “ The last I saw,” said Sir Roger," was The Committee, which I should not have gone to neither, had not I been told beforehand that it was a good Church of England comedy.” He then pro- ceeded to inquire of me who this Distressed Mother was; and upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me, that her husband was a brave man, and that when he was a school- * Keep Nature's great original in view, And thence the living images pursue.-Francis. 96 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY boy, he had read his life at the end of the dictionary. My friend asked me, in the next place, if there would not be some danger in coming home late, in case the Mohocks should be abroad. “I assure you,” says he, “ I thought I had fallen into their hands last night; for I observed two or three lusty black men that followed me half way up Fleet Street, and mended their pace behind me, in proportion as I put on to get away from them. You must know," continued the knight with a smile, “I fancied they had a mind to hunt me; for I remember an honest gentleman in my neighbourhood, who was served such a trick in King Charles the Second's time; for which rea- son he has not ventured himself in town ever since. I might have shewn them very good sport, had this been their design; for as I am an old fox-hunter, I should have turned and dodged, and have played them a thousand tricks they had never seen in their lives before.” Sir Roger added, that “if these gentle- men had any such intention, they did not succeed very well in it; for I threw them out,” says he, at the end of Norfolk Street, where I doubled the corner, and got shelter in my lodg- ings before they could imagine what was become of me. However," says the knight, “if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night, and if you will both of you call upon me about four o'clock, that we may be at the house before it is full, I will have my own coach in readiness to attend you, for John tells me he has got the fore-wheels mended.” The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the ap- pointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he had put on the same sword which he made use of at the battle of Steen- kirk. Sir Roger's servants, and among the rest my old friend the butler, had, I found, provided themselves with good oaken plants, to attend their master upon this occasion. When we had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left hand, the captain before him, and his butler at the head of his footmen in the rear, we convoyed him in safety to the play-house; where, after having marched up the entry in good order, the captain and I went in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. As soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted, my old friend stood up and looked about him with that pleasure, which a mind seasoned with humanity naturally feels in itself, at the sight of a multitude of people who seem pleased 7 97 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY with one another, and partake of the same common entertain- ment. I could not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the knight told me, that he did not believe the King of France him- self had a better strut. I was, indeed, very attentive to my old friend's remarks, because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism, and was well pleased to hear him at the con- clusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and a little while after as much for Hermione: and was extremely puzzled to think what would become of Pyrrhus. When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to her lover's importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was sure she would never have him; to which he added, with a more than ordinary vehemence, “ You can't imagine, sir, what it is to have to do with a widow." Upon Pyrrhus his threat- ening afterwards to leave her, the knight shook his head, and muttered to himself, “Ay, do if you can." This part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking of something else, he whispered in my ear, “ These widows, sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. But pray,” says he, “ you that are a critic, is this play according to your dramatic rules, as you call them? Should your people in tragedy always talk to be understood ? Why, there is not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning of." The fourth act very luckily begun before I had time to give the old gentleman an answer ; Well,” says the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, “I suppose we are now to see Hector's ghost.” He then renewed his attention, and from time to time fell a praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her pages, whom, at his first enter- ing, he took for Astyanax; but he quickly set himself right in that particular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been very glad to have seen the little boy,“ who," says he, “must needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him." Upon Hermione's going off with a menace to 98 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger added, “ On my word, a notable young baggage!” As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in the audience during the whole action, it was natural for them to take the opportunity of the intervals between the acts, to ex- press their opinion of the players, and of their respective parts. Sir Roger, hearing a cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them, that he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible man. As they were afterwards applaud- ing Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time, “ And let me tell you,” says he, “though he speaks but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them.” Captain Sentry, seeing two or three wags who sat near us, lean with an atten- tive ear towards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered some- thing in his ear, that lasted till the opening of the fifth act. The knight was wonderfully attentive to the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus his death, and at the conclusion of it, told me it was such a bloody piece of work, that he was glad it was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his raving fit, he grew more than ordinary serious, and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an evil conscience, adding, that “ Orestes, in his madness, looked as if he saw something." As we were the first that came into the house, so we were the last that went out of it; being resolved to have a clear passage for our old friend, whom we did not care to venture among the justling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his entertainment, and we guarded him to his lodging in the same manner that we brought him to the play- house; being highly pleased, for my own part, not only with the performance of the excellent piece which had been pre- sented, but with the satisfaction which it had given to the good old man. L. 99 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 359.) Tuesday, April 22, 1712. [Budgell. AS Torva leaena lupum sequitur, lupus ipse capellam; Florentem cytisum sequitur lusciva capella.'—Virg. S we were at the club last night, I observed that my old friend Sir Roger, contrary to his usual custom, sat very silent, and, instead of minding what was said by the company, was whistling to himself in a very thoughtful mood, and play- ing with a cork. I jogged Sir Andrew Freeport, who sat be- tween us; and, as we were both observing him, we saw the knight shake his head, and heard him say to himself, “ A fool- ish woman! I can't believe it." Sir Andrew gave him a gen- tle pat upon the shoulder, and offered to lay him a bottle of wine that he was thinking of the widow. My old friend started, and, recovering out of his brown study, told Sir An- drew, that once in his life he had been in the right. In short, after some little hesitation, Sir Roger told us in the fulness of his heart, that he had just received a letter from his steward, which acquainted him that his old rival and antagonist in the country, Sir David Dundrum, had been making a visit to the widow. “However," says Sir Roger, “I can never think that she'll have a man that's half a year older than I am, and noted republican into the bargain." Will Honeycomb, who looks upon love as his particular province, interrupting our friend with a jaunty laugh, “I thought, knight,” says he,“ thou hadst lived long enough in the world, not to pin thy happiness upon one that is a woman, and a widow. I think that, without vanity, I may pretend to know as much of the female world as any man in Great Bri- tain, though the chief of my knowledge consists in this, that they are not to be known.” Will immediately, with his usual fluency, rambled into an account of his own amours. “ I am now," says he,“ upon the verge of fifty” (though by the way we all knew he was turned to threescore). You may easily guess,” continued Will,“ that I have not lived so long in the world without having had some thoughts of settling in it, as 1 Lions the wolves, and wolves the kids pursue, The kids sweet thyme,—and still I follow you.—Warton. 100 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY the phrase is. To tell you truly, I have several times tried my fortune that way, though I can't much boast of my success. "I made my first addresses to a young lady in the country; but, when I thought things were pretty well drawing to a con- clusion, her father happening to hear that I had formerly boarded with a surgeon, the old put forbid me his house, and within a fortnight after married his daughter to a fox-hunter in the neighbourhood. "I made my next applications to a widow, and attacked her so briskly, that I thought myself within a fortnight of her. As I waited upon her one morning, she told me, that she intended to keep her ready money and jointure in her own hand, and desired me to call upon her attorney in Lion's inn, who would adjust with me what it was proper for me to add to it. I was so rebuffed by this overture, that I never inquired either for her or her attorney afterwards. “A few months after, I addressed myself to a young lady who was an only daughter, and of a good family. I danced with her at several balls, squeezed her by the hand, said soft things to her, and in short made no doubt of her heart; and, though my fortune was not equal to hers, I was in hopes that her fond father would not deny her the man she had fixed her affections upon. But as I went one day to the house, in order to break the matter to him, I found the whole family in confu- sion, and heard, to my unspeakable surprise, that Miss Jenny was that very morning run away with the butler. “ I then courted a second widow, and am at a loss to this day how I came to miss her, for she had often commended my per- son and behaviour. Her maid indeed told me one day, that her mistress had said she never saw a gentleman with such a spindle pair of legs as Mr. Honeycomb. “ After this I laid siege to four heiresses successively, and, being a handsome young dog in those days, quickly made a breach in their hearts; but I didn't know how it came to pass, though I seldom failed of getting the daughter's consent, I could never in my life get the old people on my side. “I could give you an account of a thousand other unsuc- cessful attempts, particularly of one which I made some years IOI SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY since upon an old woman, whom I had certainly borne away with flying colours, if her relations had not come pouring in to her assistance from all parts of England; nay, I believe I should have got her at last, had not she been carried off by an hard frost." As Will's transitions are extremely quick, he turned from Sir Roger, and, applying himself to me, told me there was a passage in the book I had considered last Saturday, which deserved to be writ in letters of gold : and, taking out a pocket Milton, read the following lines, which are part of one of Adam's speeches to Eve after the fall. Oh! why did our Creator wise! that peopled highest heaven With spirits masculine, create at last This novelty on earth, this fair defect Of nature, and not fill the world at once With men, as angels, without feminine ? Or find some other way to generate Mankind? This mischief had not then befall'n, And more that shall befall, innumerable Disturbances on earth, through female snares, And straight conjunction with this sex: for either He never shall find out fit mate; but such As some misfortune brings him, or mistake; Or whom he wishes most shall seldom gain, Through her perverseness; but shall see her gain'd By a far worse: or if she love, withheld By parents; or his happiest choice too late Shall meet already link'd, and wedlock-bound To a fell adversary, his hate, or shame: Which infinite calamity shall cause To human life, and household peace confound. Sir Roger listened to this passage with great attention; and, desiring Mr. Honeycomb to fold down a leaf at the place, and lend him his book, the knight put it up in his pocket, and told us that he would read over those verses again before he went to bed. X. . 102 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 383-) Tuesday, May 20, 1712. [Addison. Criminibus debent hortos.'—Hor. (Juv. Sat. i. 75.] A S I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking on a subject for my next Spectator, I heard two or three irregular bounces at my landlady's door, and, upon the opening of it, a loud cheerful voice inquiring whether the philosopher was at home. The child who went to the door answered very inno- cently, that he did not lodge there. I immediately recollected that it was my good friend Sir Roger's voice; and that I had promised to go with him on the water to Spring-garden, in case it proved a good evening. But the knight put me in mind of my promise from the bottom of the staircase, but told me that if I was speculating, he would stay below till I had done. Upon my coming down, I found all the children of the family got about my old friend; and my landlady herself, who is a notable prating gossip, engaged in a conference with him; being mightily pleased with his stroking her little boy upon the head, and bidding him to be a good child and mind his book. We were no sooner come to the Temple-stairs, but we were surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering us their re- spective services. Sir Roger after having looked about him very attentively, spied one with a wooden leg, and immediately gave him orders to get his boat ready. As we were walking towards it, “ You must know,” says Sir Roger, “ I never make use of any body to row me, that has not either lost a leg or an arm. I would rather bate him a few strokes of his oar than not employ an honest man that has been wounded in the queen's service. If I was a lord or a bishop, and kept a barge, I would not put a fellow in my livery that had not a wooden leg." My old friend, after having seated himself, and trimmed the boat with his coachman, who, being a very sober man, always serves for ballast on these occasions, we made the best of our way for Fox-hall. Sir Roger obliged the waterman to give us the history of his right leg; and, hearing that he had left A beauteous garden, but by vice maintain'd. 103 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY it at La Hogue, with many particulars which passed in that glorious action, the knight, in the triumph of his heart, made several reflections on the greatness of the British nation; as, that one Englishman could beat three Frenchmen; that we could never be in danger of popery so long as we took care of our fleet; that the Thames was the noblest river in Europe; that London bridge was a greater piece of work than any of the seven wonders of the world; with many other honest preju- dices which naturally cleave to the heart of a true English- man. After some short pause, the old knight, turning about his head twice or thrice, to take a survey of this great metropolis, bid me observe how thick the City was set with churches, and that there was scarce a single steeple on this side Temple-bar. “A most heathenish sight!” says Sir Roger : " there is no religion at this end of the town. The fifty new churches will very much mend the prospect; but church-work is slow, church-work is slow." I do not remember I have any where mentioned in Sir Roger's character, his custom of saluting every body that passes by him with a good-morrow, or a good-night. This the old man does out of the overflowings of his humanity, though at the same time it renders him so popular among all his country neighbours, that it is thought to have gone a good way in making him once or twice knight of the shire. He can- not forbear this exercise of benevolence even in town, when he meets with any one in his morning or evening walk. It broke from him to several boats that passed by us on the water; but, to the knight's great surprise, as he gave the good-night to two or three young fellows a little before our landing, one of them, instead of returning the civility, asked us, what queer old put we had in the boat, and whether he was not ashamed to go a wenching at his years, with a great deal of the like Thames- ribaldry. Sir Roger seemed a little shocked at first, but at length assuming a face of magistracy, told us, that if he were a Middlesex justice, he would make such vagrants know that her majesty's subjects were no more to be abused by water than by land. We were now arrived at Spring-garden, which is exquis- itely pleasant at this time of year. When I considered the 104 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY fragrancy of the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds that sung upon the trees, and the loose tribe of people that walked under their shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me, it put him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the country, which his chaplain used to call an aviary of nightingales. “ You must understand,” says the knight, “ that there is noth- ing in the world that pleases a man in love so much as your nightingale. Ah, Mr. Spectator, the many moon-light nights that I have walked by myself, and thought on the widow by the music of the nightingale!” He here fetched a deep sigh, and was falling into a fit of musing, when a mask, who came behind him, gave him a gentle tap upon the shoulder, and asked him if he would drink a bottle of mead with her? But the knight, being startled at so unexpected familiarity, and dis- pleased to be interrupted in his thoughts of the widow, told her she was a wanton baggage; and bid her go about her business. We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton ale, and a slice of hung beef. When we had done eating ourselves, the knight called a waiter to him, and bid him carry the re- mainder to the waterman that had but one leg. I perceived the fellow stared upon him at the oddness of the message, and was going to be saucy; upon which I ratified the knight's commands with a peremptory look. As we were going out of the garden, my old friend, think- ing himself obliged, as a member of the Quorum, to animad- vert upon the morals of the place, told the mistress of the house, who sat at the bar, that he should be a better customer to her garden, if there were more nightingales, and fewer strumpets. I. 105 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY No. 517.) Thursday, October 23, 1712. [Addison. WE Heu pietas! heu prisca fides !'-Virg. E last night received a piece of ill news at our club, which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead. He departed this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks' sickness. Sir Andrew Freeport has a letter from one of his correspondents in those parts, that informs him the old man caught a cold at the country sessions, as he was very warmly promoting an address of his own pen- ning, in which he succeeded according to his wishes. But this particular comes from a Whig justice of peace, who was al- ways Sir Roger's enemy and antagonist. I have letters both from the chaplain and Captain Sentry, which mention nothing of it, but are filled with many particulars to the honour of the good old man. I have likewise a letter from the butler, who took so much care of me last summer when I was at the knight's house. As my friend the butler mentions, in the sim- plicity of his heart, several circumstances the others have passed over in silence, I shall give my reader a copy of his let- ter, without any alteration or diminution. “ Honoured Sir, “Knowing that you was my old master's good friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy news of his death, which has afflicted the whole country, as well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may say, better than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last county sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow woman, and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neighbouring gentleman; for you know, sir, my good master was always the poor man's friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made was, that he had lost his roast beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, which * Mirror of ancient faith! Undaunted worth! Inviolable truth!-Dryden. 106 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY was served up according to custom; and you know he used to take great delight in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. In- deed we were once in great hope of his recovery, upon a kind message that was sent him from the widow lady whom he had made love to the forty last years of his life; but this only proved a lightning before death. He has bequeathed to this lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my good old lady his mother. He has bequeathed the fine white gelding, that he used to ride a hunting upon, to his chap- lain, because he thought he would be kind to him, and has left you all his books. He has, moreover, bequeathed to the chap- lain a very pretty tenement with good lands about it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourning to every man in the parish a great frieze-coat, and to every woman a black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to see him take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word for weep- ing. As we most of us are grown grey-headed in our dear master's service, he has left us pensions and legacies, which we may live very comfortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity, which is not yet come to my knowledge, and it is peremptorily said in the parish, that he has left money to build a steeple to the church: for he was heard to say some time ago, that if he lived two years longer, Coverley church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells everybody that he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without tears. He was buried, ac- cording to his own directions, among the family of the Cover- leys, on the left hand of his father Sir Arthur. The coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the pall held up by six of the quorum. The whole parish followed the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits; the men in frieze, and the women in riding-hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's nephew, has taken possession of the Hall-house, and the whole estate. When my old master saw him, a little before his death, he shook him by the hand, and wished him joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring him only to make good use of it, and to pay the several legacies, and the gifts of charity, which 107 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY he told him he had left as quit rents upon the estate. The cap- tain truly seems a courteous man, though he says but little. He makes much of those whom my master loved, and shows great kindness to the old house-dog, that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the day of my master's death. He has ne'er joyed himself since; no more has any of us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all from, Honoured sir, your most sorrowful servant, EDWARD Biscuit.” “P. S.—My master desired, some weeks before he died, that a book which comes up to you by the carrier, should be given to Sir Andrew Freeport in his name.” This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that, upon the reading of it, there was not a dry eye in the club. Sir Andrew opening the book, found it to be a collection of Acts of Parliament. There was, in particular, the Acts of Uniformity, with some passages in it marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir Andrew found that they related to two or three points, which he had disputed with Sir Roger the last time he appeared at the club. Sir Andrew, who would have been merry at such an incident on another occasion, at the sight of the old man's hand-writing, burst into tears, and put the book in his pocket. Captain Sentry informs me, that the knight has left rings and mourning for every one in the club. 108 I Tbe Englisb Comedie 'bumaine bome Library THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH ܙ ܕ Young Thornhill's First Interview Tbe Englisb Comédie bumaine bome Library THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD A TALE BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH Sperate miseri, cavete felices NEW YORK The Century Co. 1907 Copyright, 1902, by THE CENTURY Co. Published November, 1902. 1 CONTENTS PAGE ADVERTISEMENT . xi . CHAPTER I THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS 3 II FAMILY MISFORTUNES- THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY 6 III A MIGRATION—THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN PROCURING 9 IV A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS, WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCE, BUT CONSTITUTION 15 V A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED WHAT WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST FATAL 18 . VI THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. 21 . VII A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED-THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO 25 VIII AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FOR- TUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH 29 IX Two LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED- SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SU- PERIOR BREEDING 35 X THE FAMILY ENDEAVOR TO COPE WITH THEIR BET- TERS-- THE MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUM- STANCES 38 CONTENTS CHAPTER XI THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS, . PAGE 42 XII FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD— MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES $6 XIII MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY, FOR HE HAS THE CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. 51 XIV FRESH MORTIFICATIONS ; OR, A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESS- INGS. . 54 XV ALL MR. BURCHELL'S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED - THE FOLLY OF BEING OVERWISE . 59 XVI THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL GREATER 63 XVII SCARCE ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION 68 . XVIII THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE . . 75 XIX THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES 79 XX THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSU- ING NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT 86 XXI THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFACTION . 98 XXII OFFENSES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM 106 XXIII NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COM- PLETELY MISERABLE . . 109 XXIV FRESH CALAMITIES . . 113 XXV NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT . . 117 vi CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE XXVI A REFORMATION IN THE JAIL-TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, THEY SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS PUNISH. 121 XXVII THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED . 125 XXVIII HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE THAN OF VIRTUE IN THIS LIFE; TEM- PORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING REGARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRI- FLING AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRI- BUTION. . . 129 XXIX THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMON- STRATED, 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 SUF- FERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER 138 Xxx HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR-LET US BE INFLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOR . . 142 XXXI FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEX- PECTED INTEREST 149 XXXII THE CONCLUSION 162 vü LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Frontispiece FACING PAGE 38 YOUNG THORNHILL'S FIRST INTERVIEW After the painting by Thomas Stothard. THE FORTUNE-TELLING GIPSY From an engraving by Revel after T. Johannot. MOSES SETTING OUT FOR THE FAIR From an engraving by Revel after T. Johannot. OLIVIA'S RETURN TO HER FATHER After the painting by Thomas Stothard. THE DEPARTURE FOR PRISON From an engraving by Revel after T. Johannot. 48 108 118 . ADVERTISEMENT THERE are an hundred faults in this thing, and an hundred things might be said to prove them beauties. But it is need- less. A book may be amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest characters upon earth: he is a priest, an husbandman, and the father of a family. He is drawn as ready to teach and ready to obey, as simple in affluence, and majestic in adversity. In this age of opulence and refinement, whom can such a character please ? Such as are fond of high life will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his country fireside. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour will find no wit in his harmless conver- sation; and such as have been taught to deride religion will laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER I THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS AS OF PER- SONS. I WAS ever of opinion that the honest man who married and brought up a large family did more service than he who continued single and only talked of population. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her wedding-gown, not for a fine, glossy surface, but such qualities as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured, notable woman; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could show more. She could read any English book without much spelling; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeeping; though I could never find that we grew richer with all her con- trivances. However, we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in fact, nothing that could make us angry with the world or each other. We had elegant house, situated in a fine country and a good neigh- borhood. The year was spent in a moral or rural amusement, in visiting our rich neighbors, and relieving such as were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown. As we lived near the road, we often had the traveler or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we 3 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD had great reputation; and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help from the herald's office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great honor 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 colors of a tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces. However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of a very bad character, a trouble- some guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes an horse of small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By this the house was cleared of such as we did not like; but never was the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveler or the poor dependent out of doors. Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that we sometimes had those little rubs which Provi- dence sends to enhance the value of its favors. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my wife's custards plun- dered by the cats or the children. The Squire would some- times fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in three or four days we began to won- der how they vexed us. My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were edu- cated without softness, so they were at once well formed and healthy—my sons hardy and active, my daughters dutiful and blooming. When I stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry II's progress through Germany, while other courtiers 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children, and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a very valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who during her preg- nancy had been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less than another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined that Grissel should be her name; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand god- mother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia, so that we had two romantic names in the family; but I solemnly protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years we had two sons more. It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. When our visitors would say, "Well, upon my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country," " Aye, neighbor," she would answer," they are as Heaven made them, hand- some enough, if they be good enough; for handsome is that handsome does." And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads, who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance with me that I should scarce have remembered to mention it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country. Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe-open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features were not so striking at first, but often did more certain execution, for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated. The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features; at least, it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great a desire to please. Sophia even repressed excellence from her fears to offend. The one enter- tained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with 5 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them ex- change characters for a whole day together. A suit of mourn- ing has transformed my coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribbons has given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. My eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I in- tended him for one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I designed for business, received a sort of a miscellaneous education at home. But it would be needless to attempt describing the particular characters of young peo- ple that had seen but very little of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed through all, and, properly speaking, they had but one character, that of being all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. CHAPTER II FAMILY MISFORTUNES—THE LOSS OF FORTUNE ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE WORTHY. T HE temporal concerns of our family were chiefly com- mitted to my wife's management; as to the spiritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our diocese; for, having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was care- less of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to temperance and the bachelors to matrimony; so that in a few years it was a common saying that there were three strange wants at Wakefield-a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses wanting customers. Matrimony was always one of my favorite 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 main- tained, with Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the Church of England, after the death of his first wife, to take 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 are read only by the happy Few. Some of my friends called this my weak side; but, alas! they had not, like me, made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the more im- portant it appeared. I even went a step beyond Whiston in displaying my principles. As he had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston, so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obedience till death; and having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimneypiece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It admonished my wife of her duty to me and my fidelity to her; it inspired her with a passion for faine, and constantly put her in mind of her end. It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often rec- ommended that my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a neighboring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the Church, and in circumstances to give her a large fortune; but fortune was her smallest accom- plishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, and innocence were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and such an happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so both families lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an ex- pected alliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of courtship are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the period; and the various amusements which the young couple every day shared in each other's com- pany seemed to increase their passion. We were generally awakened in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a-hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study: they usually read a page, and then 7 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD gazed at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my wiſe took the lead; for as she always insisted upon carving everything herself, it being her mother's way, she gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I generally or- dered 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 for- feits shortened the rest of the day, without the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gambling, except backgammon, at which my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance that hap- pened the last time we played together: I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce-ace five tiines running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the prepara- tions for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters. In fact, my attention was fixed on another object, the completing a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defense of my favorite principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, both for argument and style, I could not, in the pride of my heart, avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiving his approbation; but not till too late I dis- covered that he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason, for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This, as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance; but on the day before that appointed for the ceremony we agreed to discuss the subject at large. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides : he asserted that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge; he replied, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the 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 8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 be an husband, already driven to the very verge of absurdity! You might as well advise me to give up my fortune as my argument." “Your fortune," returned my friend, "I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town in whose hands your money was lodged has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to shock you in the family with the account till after the wedding; but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the argument, for, I suppose, your own prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, at least till your son has the young lady's fortune secure.” “Well," returned I, “if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the company of my circumstances; and as for the argument, I even here retract my former concessions in the old gentle- man's favor, nor will I allow him now to be an husband in any sense of the expression.” It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both families when I divulged the news of our misfortune; but what others felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by this blow soon determined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. CHAPTER III A MIGRATION-THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR OWN PROCUR- ING HE only hope of our family now was that the report of our misfortunes might be malicious or premature; but a letter from my agent in town soon came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune to myself alone would have been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was for my 9. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ! family, who were to be humble without an education to render them callous to contempt. Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their affliction; for premature consolation is but the remem- brancer of sorrow. During this interval my thoughts were employed on some future means of supporting them; and at last a small cure of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant neighborhood, 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 farin. Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get to- gether the wrecks of my fortune; and, all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds we had but four hun- dred remaining. My chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down the pride of my family to their circumstances, for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. “ You cannot be ignorant, my children,” cried I, " that no prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without repining, give up those splendors with which numbers are wretched, and seek in humbler circumstances that peace with which all may be hap- py. The poor live pleasantly without our help; why, then, should not we learn to live without theirs ? No, my children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions to gentility. We have still enough left for happiness, if we are wise; and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of fortune." As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him to town, where his abilities might contribute to our sup- port and his own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most distressful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on which we were to dis- perse for the first time. My son, after taking leave of his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses, de came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony bez I had now to bestow. “You are going, my boy,” cried I, “ to London on foot, in ES OM IO THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD his Chil four hw as now 11 Kances, f on foot, # While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered to rend: the nianner Hooker, your great ancestor, traveled there before you. Take from me the same horse that was given hin by O restran the good Bishop Jewel, this staff; and take this book, too. It will be comfort on the way. These two lines in it are e reme your ghts we worth a million : I have been young, and now am old; yet m; and a never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging ed me in their bread. Let this be your consolation as you travel on. principle Go, my boy; whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a ly closi year; still keep a good heart, and farewell.”. As he was pos- ng a liv sessed of integrity and honor, I was under no apprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheater of life, for I knew he would act a good part whether vanquished or vic- to get it torious. lected a His departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few days afterward. The leaving a neighborhood in which we had enjoyed so many hours of tranquillity was not without a tear, which scarce fortitude itself could sup- itself. i that a press. Besides, a journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with Fects. We 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 land- lord, in my usual way, to let us have his company, with which he complied, as what he drank would increase the bill next Szentle morning. He knew, however, the whole neighborhood to was to be my landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures, being partic- ularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarce a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but what had found him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph; nor was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue. 65 nisfortune conform ti ng, give w and seek i ay be hap why, ther y children wise; 21: ine." ned to ser o our sur families : 5 attendas ere to do cave of heir kisse n from I. patrime II THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD the room to inform her husband that the strange gentleman who had been two days in the house wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning. Want money!” replied the host. “That must be im- possible, for it was no later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for dog-stealing.” The hostess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be satis- fied one way or another, when I begged the landlord to intro- duce me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he complied, showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face marked with the lines of thinking. He had something short and dry in his address, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy the present demand. “ I take it with all my heart, sir,” replied he, “and am glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had about me has 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 lucky than I hoped for, as I am going the same way myself, having been detained here two days by the floods, which I hope by to-morrow will be found passable.” I testified the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a con- tinuance of it; but it was now high time to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day. The next morning we all set forward together-my family 12 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by the roadside, observing, with a smile, that, as we were ill mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet sub- sided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. But what surprised me most was that, though he was a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we traveled the road. "That," cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at some distance," belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman who, content with a little himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.” " What!” cried I,“ is my young landlord, then, the nephew of a man whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known? I have heard Sir William Thornhill rep- resented as one of the most generous yet whimsical men in the kingdom, a man of consummate benevolence" “Something, perhaps, too much so," replied Mr. Burchell; “ at least, he carried benevolence to an excess when young, for his passions were then strong, and as they all were upon the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier and the scholar; was soon distinguished in the army, and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the ambitious, for such alone receive most pleasure from flat- tery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed him only one side of their character, so that he began to lose a regard for private interest in universal sympathy. He loved all man- kind, for fortune prevented him from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible that the slightest touch gives pain; what some have thus suffered in their persons, this gen- tleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul labored .13 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD under a sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will be easily conjectured he found num- bers disposed to solicit: his profusions began to impair his for- tune, but not his good nature; that, indeed, was seen to in- crease as the other seemed to decay; he grew improvident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this means he drew round him crowds of dependents, whom he was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in pro- portion as he became contemptible to others, he became des- picable to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adula- tion, and that support taken away, he could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never learned to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple appro- bation. Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when rejected produced their reproaches. He now, therefore, found that such friends as benefits had gathered round him were little estimable: he now found that a man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. I now found that-that-I forgot what I was going to ob- serve: in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he traveled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent than ever. At present, therefore, his bounties are more rational and moderate than before; but still he preserves the character of an humorist, and finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues." My attention was so much taken up by Mr. Burchell's ac- count that I scarce looked forward as we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of my family, when, turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with the tor- rent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to dis- 14 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD engage myself in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent to permit my attempting her rescue; she must liave certainly perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the family got safely over, where we had an opportunity of joining our ac- knowledgments 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 assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a different part of the country, he took leave, and we pursued our jour- ney. My wife observing, as we went, that she liked him ex- tremely, and protesting that if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family as ours, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain; but I was never much displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy. CHAPTER IV A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT HAPPINESS, WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCE, BUT CONSTITUTION. THE HE place of our retreat was in a little neighborhood con- sisting of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. As they had alınost all the conveniences of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of superfluity. Re- note from the polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity of manners, and, frugal by habit, they scarce knew that tem- perance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labor, but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true- love knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide, 15 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD showed their wit on the ist of April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came out to meet their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor. A feast, also, was provided for our 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 prat- tling river before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound for my predecessor's good will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little in- closures, the elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpressi- ble beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for parlor and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other apartments—one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children. The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the following manner: By sunrise we all assembled in our common apartment, the fire being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other with proper cere- mony,-for I always thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys friendship,-we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner, which time was taken up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical arguments between my son and me. 16 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors after it was gone down, but returned home to the expecting family, where smiling looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire were prepared for our reception. Nor were we without guests; soinetimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neigh- bor, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had several ways of being good company. While one played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Arm- strong's last good night, or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day; and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best was to have an halfpenny on Sunday to put in the poor's box. When Sunday came it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached to all their former finery; they still loved laces, ribbons, bugles, and catgut; my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her. The first Sunday, in particular, their behavior served to mortify me. I had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next day, for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the congregation. They punc- tually obeyed my directions; but when we were to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daugh- ters, dressed out in all their former splendor—their hair plastered up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up into an heap behind, and rustling at every niotion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly hat of my wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were ainazed at the command; but I repeated it with more solem- nity 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; 17 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD for if we walk to church in this trini, the very children in the parish will hoot after us." Indeed,” replied my wife, “I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and handsome about him.” “You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, " and I shall love you the better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings and pinkings and patchings will only make us hated by all the wives of all our neighbors. No, my children," continued I, more gravely," those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the indigent world may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain." This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure, that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones; and what was still inore satisfactory, the gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. CHAPTER V A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED WHAT WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY PROVES MOST FATAL. AT T a small distance from the house, my predecessor had made a seat, overshaded by an hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the weather was fine and our labor soon finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy an extensive landscape in the calm of the evening. Here, too, we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet; and as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these occasions our two little ones always read for us, and they were regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the 18 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD guitar; and while they thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished with bluebells and centaury, talk of our children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony. In this manner we began to find that every situation in life inight bring its own peculiar pleasures: every morning waked us to a repetition of toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. It was about the beginning of the autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from labor,—that I had drawn out my family to our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its pant- ing it seemed pressed by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it had taken. I was in- stantly for returning in with my family; but either curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and daughters to their seats. The huntsman who rode foremost passed us with great swiftness, followed by four or five per- sons more, who seemed in equal haste. At last a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance than the rest came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of pursuing the chase, stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant who attended, approached us with a careless, superior air. He seemed to want no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters, as one certain of a kind reception; but they had early learned the lesson of looking presumption out of coun- tenance. Upon which he let us know that his name was Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate that lay for soine extent round us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part of the family, and such was the power of fortune and fine clothes that he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy, we soon became more familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying near, he begged to be favored with a song. As I did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintance, I winked upon my daugh- ters in order to prevent their compliance; but my hint was 19 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD counteracted by one from their mother; so that, with a cheerful air, they gave us a favorite song of Dryden's. Mr. Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their performance and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very in- differently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a courtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his understanding; an age could not have made them better acquainted; while the fond mother, too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's stepping in and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family seemned 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 endeavors could scarce keep their dirty fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes to see what was there. At the approach of evening he took leave, but not till he had requested permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed to. As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion that it was a most fortunate hit, for that she had known even stranger things than that brought to bear. She hoped again to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of them; and concluded, she protested, she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children get As this last argument was directed to me, I pro- tested I could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr. Simp- kins got the ten-thousand-pound prize in the lottery, and we sat down with a blank. “I protest, Charles,” cried my wife, “this is the way you always damp my girls and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think of our new visitor ? Don't you think he seemed to be good-natured?” "Immensely so, indeed, mama," replied she. “I think he e. 20 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD has a great deal to say upon everything, and is never at a loss; and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.” “Yes," cried Olivia," he is well enough for a man; but, for my part, I don't much like him, he is so extremely impudent and familiar; but on the guitar he is shocking." These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found by this that Sophia internally despised as much as Olivia secretly admired him. “ Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children," cried I, “ to confess a truth, he has not prepossessed me in his favor. Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust; and I thought, notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to companions of our own rank. There is no character more contemptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter; and I can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be con- teinptible, too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his views are honorable; but if they be otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that! It is true, I have no apprehen- sions from the conduct of my children, but I think there are some from his character.” I would have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his favor than anything I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with just hav- ing pointed out danger, and leaving it to their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever guarded is scarce worth the sentinel. CHAPTER VI THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. AS S we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order to accommodate matters it was uni- versally agreed that we should have a part of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task with alacrity. "I am sorry," cried I, “ that we have no neighbor or 21 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 99 stranger to take part in this good cheer: feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from hospitality.” Bless me,” cried my wife,“ here comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argument." Confute me in 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'll leave argument to me.” As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously reached him a chair. I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons: because I knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. He was known in our neighborhood by the character of the poor Gentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense; but, in general, he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads and telling them stories, and seldom went out without something in his pockets for them-a piece of gingerbread or an halfpenny whistle. He generally came for a few days into our neighborhood once a year, and lived upon the neighbors' hospitality. He sat down to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went round; he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the “Buck of Beverland," with the history of " Patient Grissel," the adventures of Catskin, and then “Fair Rosamond's Bower." Our cock, which always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for repose; but an un- foreseen difficulty started about lodging the stranger-all our beds were already taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next alehouse. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with him. “And I,” cried Bill,“ will give Mr. Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs." “ Well done, my good children!” cried I. “Hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. The beast retires to its shel- 22 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ter, and the bird flies to its nest; but helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world was He that came to save it. He never had an house, as if willing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear,” cried I to my wife, " give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest because he spoke first." In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving an aftergrowth of hay, and our guest offering his assistance, he was accepted among the number. Our labors went on lightly; we turned the swath to the wind; I went foremost, and the rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished his own, he would join in hers, and enter into a close conversation : but I had too good an opinion of So- phia's understanding, and was too well convinced of her ambi- tion, to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as on the night before; but he refused, as he was to lie that night at a neighbor's, to whose child he was carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late unfortunate guest. What a strong instance,” said I, “is that poor man of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance! He by no means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor, forlorn creature, where are now the revel- ers, the flatterers, that he could once inspire and command? Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and now they applaud the pander; their former raptures at his wit are now converted into sarcasms at his folly. He is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be useful." Prompted, perhaps, by some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. “Whatsoever his former conduct may be, papa, his circum- stances should exempt him from censure now. indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly; and I have heard my papa himself say that we should never strike His present 23 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD our unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Providence holds the scourge of its resentment.” " You are right, Sophy," cried my son Moses," and one of the ancients finely represents so malicious a conduct by the attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly 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 habi- tation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess a truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station, for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you." This was said without the least design; however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh, assur- ing him that she scarce took any notice of what he said to her, but that she believed he might once have been a very fine gen- tleman. The readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally approve; but I repressed my suspicions. As we expected our landlord the next day, 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 mending the com- plexion, they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole compo- sition, and it was too late to begin another. 24 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER VII A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. WHEN the morning arrived on which we were to enter- tain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were exhausted to make an appearance. It may also be conjectured that my wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The sery- ants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next ale- house; but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all, for which, by the by, our family was pinched for three weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us the day before that he was making some proposals of 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 embarrassment, for one of the company happening to mention her name, Mr. Thornhill ob- served with an oath that he never knew anything more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty. “For strike me ugly,” continued he, “ if I should not find as much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the clock of St. Dunstan's.” At this he laughed, and so did we: the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia, too, could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humor. After dinner I began with my usual toast, the Church. For this I was thanked by the chaplain, as he said the Church was the only mistress of his affections. “Come, tell us honestly, Frank," said the Squire, with his usual archness, "suppose the Church, your present mistress, dressed in lawn sleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on the other, which would you be for?” “For both, to be sure," cried the chaplain. “Right, Frank,” cried the Squire, " for may this glass suf- focate me, but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the crea- For what are tithes and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded imposture ?-and I can prove it." 25 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 “I wish you would,” cried my son Moses; "and I think," continued he, “that I should be able to answer you.” “Very well, sir," cried the Squire, who immediately smoked him, and winking on the rest of the company to prepare us for the sport, “ if you are for a cool argument upon that sub- ject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether you are for managing it analogically or dialogically?” "I am for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. Good again,” cried the Squire, “ and firstly, of the first: I hope you'll not deny that whatever is, is. If you don't grant me that I can go no further." " Why,” returned Moses, “I think I may grant that, and make the best of it." " I hope, too,” returned the other, "you'll grant that a part is less than the whole." “I grant that, too,” cried Moses; “it is but just and reason- able. " I hope,” cried the Squire, “ you will not deny that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones.” Nothing can be plainer,” returned tother, and looked round with his usual importance. Very well,” cried the Squire, speaking very quick; "the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe that the con- catenation of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal dupli- cate ratio, naturally produce a problematical dialogism, which in some measure proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to the second predicable.” "Hold, hold !" cried the other. "I deny that. Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines?" “What," replied the Squire, as if in a passion, "not submit! Answer me one plain question : Do you think Aristotle right when he says that relatives are related ?" "Undoubtedly," replied the other. “If so, then," cried the Squire, "answer me directly to what I propose: Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first part of my enthymeme 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 26 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD force of your reasoning; but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have an answer.” Oh, sir,” cried the Squire, “ I am your most humble serv- ant. I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, sir, there. I protest you are too hard for me.' This effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces; nor did he offer a single syllable more during the whole entertainment. But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very differ- ent effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for humor, though but a mere act of the memory. She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman; and such as consider what powerful ingredi- ents a good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that charac- ter will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising, then, that such talents should win the affections of a girl who by education was taught to value an appearance in herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in another. Upon his departure we again entered into a debate upon the merits of our young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her daugh- ter's victory as if it were her own. “And now, my dear," cried she to me, “I'll fairly own that it was I that instructed my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and you now see that I was right; for who knows how this may end ?' Aye, who knows that, indeed!” answered I, with a groan. “For my part, I don't much like it; and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor and honest than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infidelity, for, depend on 't, if he be what I suspect him, no free-thinker shall ever have a child of mine." Sure, father," cried Moses," you are too severe in this; for Heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for 27 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion may be involuntary with this gentleman; so that, allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet, as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for his errors than the governor of a city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy.' " True, my son,” cried I; “but if the governor invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they see, but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that though our erroneous opin- ions be involuntary when formed, yet, as we have been wilfully corrupt or very negligent in forming them, we deserve punish- ment for our vice, or contempt for our folly." My wife now kept up the conversation, though not the argu- ment. She observed that several very prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very good hus- bands; 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 Square; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage; and I am now em- ployed 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 pie.” 28 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER VIII T and yet AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. HE next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return; but I could not refuse him my company and fireside. It is true, his labor more than re- quited his entertainment, for he wrought among us with vigor, and either in the meadow or at the hayrick put himself fore- most. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the way, so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an attachment he discovered to my daughter. He would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of ribbons, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs of wisdom. Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two blackbirds answered each other from oppo- site hedges, the familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tran- quillity. “I hever sit thus," says Sophia, “but I think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description that I have read it an hundred times with new rapture.” “In my opinion,” cried my son, “the finest strokes in that description are much below those in the · Acis and Galatea' of Ovid. The Roman poet understands the use of contrast bet- ter; and upon that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic depends.” " It is remarkable," cried Mr. Burchell," that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all their lines with 29 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant images, without plot or connection—a string of epithets that improve the sound without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and, indeed, I have made this remark only to have an oppor- tunity of introducing to the company a ballad which, whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have mentioned.” A BALLAD 66 “ TURN, gentle Hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray. For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.” “Forbear, my son,” the Hermit cries, “To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom. “ Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. “ Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows: My rushy couch and frugal fare, · My blessing and repose. “No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them: “But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied, And water from the spring. 30 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong; Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long." Soft as the dew from Heaven descends, His gentle accents fell; The modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay, A refuge to the neighb'ring poor And strangers led astray. No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care; The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair. 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 lingering hours beguil'd. Around, in sympathetic mirth, Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket chirrups in the hearth, The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the Hermit spied, With answering care opprest. "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, “The sorrows of thy breast? “ From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove? Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love? 31 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trilling, and decay; And those who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they. And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep? “ And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest; On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. “For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex," he said; But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view, Like colors 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 intrude Where Heaven and you reside. “But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. “My fatier liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me. “ To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came, Who prais'd me for imputed charms, And felt or feign'd a flame. 32 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “ Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. "In humble, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and worth were all he had, But these were all to me. “The blossom opening to the day, The dews of Heaven refin'd, Could naught of purity display To emulate his mind. “The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, woe to me! Their constancy was mine. “For still I try'd each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain: “ Till, quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride, And sought a solitude forlorn, In secret, where he died. “But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. “And there forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die: 'T was so for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.” “Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast. The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide- 'T was Edwin's self that prest. "Turn, Angelina, ever dear! My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee. 33 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “ Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign; And shall we never, never part, My life--my all that's mine. “No, never from this hour to part, We 'll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too." przej While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This sportsman was the Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my daughters, and I could perceive that Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for pro- tection. The gentleman came up and asked pardon for having dis- turbed us, affirming that he was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down by my youngest daughter, and, sports- man-like, offered her what he had killed that morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper, observing that Sophy had made a con- quest of the chaplain as well as her sister had of the Squire. I suspected, however, with more probability, that her affections were placed upon a different object. The chaplain's errand was to inform us that Mr. Thornhill had provided music and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grass-plot before our door. “Nor can I deny,” continued he, “but I have an interest in being first to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be honored 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 honor. “ But here," continued she, “is a gentleman ”-looking at Mr. Burchell—" who has been my companion in the task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements." 34 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Mr. Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions, but resigned her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five miles, being invited to an harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary; nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual in- spection. CHAPTER IX TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED-SUPERIOR FINERY SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING. TR. BURCHELL had scarce taken leave, and Sophia con- MR: , came running out to tell us that the Squire was come with a crowd of company. Upon our return we found our landlord, with a couple of under-gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, whom he introduced as women of very great distinc- tion and fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs enough for the whole company; but Mr. Thornhill immedi- ately proposed that every gentleman should sit in a lady's lap. This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a look of dis- approbation from my wife. Moses was therefore despatched to borrow a couple of chairs; and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set at country dances, the two gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of partners. Chairs and part- ners were soon provided. The gentlemen returned with my neighbor Flamborough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red topknots. But an unlucky circumstance was not adverted to: though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and the round- about to perfection, yet they were totally unacquainted with country dances. This at first discomposed us; however, after a little shoving and dragging, they at last went merrily on. 33 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Our music consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright. Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daugh- ter led up the ball, to the great delight of the spectators; for the neighbors, hearing what was going forward, came flocking about us. My girl moved with so much grace and vivacity that my wife could not avoid discovering the pride of her heart, by assuring me that though the little chit did it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, but without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, and frisked; but all would not do. The gazers indeed owned that it was fine; but neighbor 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, ex- pressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed that, by the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat. Upon our return to the house, we found a very elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. The conversation at this time was more reserved than before. The two ladies threw my girls quite into the shade; for they would talk of nothing but high life and high-lived company, with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakspere, and the musical glasses. 'T is true they once or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an oath; but that appeared to me as the surest symptom of their distinction- though I am since informed swearing is perfectly unfashion- able. Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplish- ments with envy, and what appeared amiss was ascribed to tiptop quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies was still superior to their other accomplishments. One of them observed that had Miss Olivia seen a little more of the world, it would greatly improve her. To which the other added that a single winter in town would make her little So- phia quite another thing. My wife warmly assented to both, adding that there was nothing she more ardently wished than to give her girls a single winter's polishing. To this I could 36. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD not help replying that their breeding was already superior to their fortune, and that greater refinement would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for pleas- ures 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 be- stow? As for my part," continued he, “my fortune is pretty large; love, liberty, and pleasure are my maxims; but curse me, if a settlement of half my estate could give my charming Olivia pleasure, it should be hers; and the only favor I would ask in return would be to add myself to the benefit.” I was not such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to disguise the insolence of the basest proposal; but I made an effort to suppress my resent- ment. Sir,” cried I, “ the family which you now condescend to favor with your company has been bred with as nice a sense of honor as you. Any attempts to injure that may be attended with very dangerous consequences. Honor, sir, is our only possession at present, and of that last treasure we must be particularly careful." I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he commended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. “As to your present hint," continued he, “I protest nothing was farther from my heart than such a thought. No, by all that's tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular siege was never to my taste, for all my amours are carried by a coup de main.” The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the rest, seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and serious dialogue upon virtue. In this my wife, the chaplain, and I soon joined; and the Squire himself was at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. We talked of the pleasures of temper- ance, and of the sunshine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up beyond the usual time, to be edified by so much good conversation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the 37 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD proposal, and in this manner the night was passed in a most comfortable way, till at last the company began to think of returning. The ladies seemed very unwilling to part with my daughters, for whom they had conceived a particular affec- tion, and joined in a request to have the pleasure of their com- pany 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 noth- ing but sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing. CHAPTER X THE FAMILY ENDEAVOR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS THE MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUMSTANCES. I NOW began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and contentment were en- tirely disregarded. The distinctions lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed. Our windows again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion within. My wife observed that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, that working after dinner would redden their noses, and she convinced me that the hands never looked so white as when they did nothing. Instead, therefore, of finishing George's shirts, we now had them new- modeling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life and high-lived company, with pictures, tastė, Shakspere, 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 apiece to cross her hand with silver. To say the 38 The Fortune-telling Gipsy THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 honor of the family, it must be observed that they never went without money themselves, as my wife always generously let them have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets, but with strict injunc- tions never to change it. After they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning, that they had been promised something great. “Well, my girls, how have you sped? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given thee a pennyworth? ” “I protest, papa,” says the girl, “ I believe she deals with somebody that's not right, for she positively declared that I am to be married to a squire in less than a twelvemonth!” Well, now, Sophy, my child,” said I, “and what sort of a husband are you to have?” “Sir," replied she, “ I am to have a lord soon after my sister has married the squire." “How," cried I,“ is that all you are to have for your two shillings? Only a lord and a squire for two shillings! You fools! I could have promised you a prince and a nabob for half the money." This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very serious effects: we now began to think ourselves designed by the stars to something exalted, and already anticipated our future grandeur. It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in view are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In the first case we cook the dish to our own appetite; in the latter nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising; and as the whole parish asserted that the Squire was in love with my daughter, she was actually so with him, for they persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable interval my wife had the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took care to tell us every morning with great solemnity and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of an approach- 39 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ing wedding; at another time she imagined her daughter's pockets filled with farthings, a certain sign that they would shortly be stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They felt strange kisses on their lips; they saw rings in the candle; purses bounced from the fire; and true-love knots lurked in the bottom of every tea-cup. Toward the end of the week we received a card from the town ladies, in which, with their compliments, they hoped to see all our family at church the Sunday following. All Satur- day morning I could perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close conference together, and now and then glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some absurd proposal was preparing for appearing with splendor the next day. In the evening they began their operations in a very regular manner, and my wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began thus: "I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good company at our church to-morrow." Perhaps we may, my dear," returned I, “though you need be under no uneasiness about that; you shall have a sermon whether there be or not.” “ That is what I expect," returned she; “but I think, my dear, we ought to appear there as decently as possible, for who knows what may happen?" “Your precautions," replied I, "are highly commendable. A decent behavior and appearance in church is what charms 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," returned I, “and I was going to make the very same proposal. The proper manner of going is to go there as early as possible, to have time for meditation before the service begins.” “ Phoo! Charles,” interrupted she, “ all that is very true, but not what I would be at. I mean we should go there genteelly. You know the church is two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed me. 40 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD and red with walking, and looking for all the world as if they had been winners at a smock-race. Now, my dear, my pro- posal is this: there are our two plow-horses—the Colt that has been in our family these nine years, and his companion, Blackberry, that has scarce done an earthly thing for this month past. They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should they not do something as well as we? And let me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a very tolerable figure." To this proposal I objected that walking would be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry conveyance, as Black- berry was wall-eyed, and the Colt wanted a tail; that they had never been broke to the rein, but had an hundred vicious tricks; and that we had but one saddle and pillion in the whole house. All these objections, however, were overruled, so that I was obliged to comply. The next morning I perceived them not a little busy in col- lecting such materials as might be necessary for the expedi- tion; but, as I found it would be a business of time, I walked on to the church before, and they promised speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the reading-desk for their arrival, but not finding them come as expected, I was obliged to begin, and went through the service, not without some uneasiness at find- ing them absent. This was increased when all was finished and no appearance of the family. I therefore walked back by the horseway, which was five miles round, though the footway was but two, and when got about half-way home perceived the procession marching slowly forward toward the church--my son, my wife, and the two little ones exalted upon one horse, and my two daughters upon the other. I demanded the cause of their delay; but I soon found by their looks that they had met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of my wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop to repair them be- fore they could proceed. After that, one of the horses took it into his head to stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could prevail with him to proceed. It was just recovering from this dismal situation that I found them; but perceiving 41 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD everything safe, I own their present mortification did not much displease me, as it would give me many opportunities of future triumph, and teach my daughters more humility. CHAPTER XI THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS. MICHAI ICHAELMAS EVE happening on the next day, we were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbor Flamborough's. Our late mortifications had humbled us a little, or it is probable we might have rejected such an invita- tion with contempt. However, we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbor's goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb's wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a connoisseur, was excellent. It is true his manner of telling stories was not quite so well. They were very long and very dull, and all about himself, and we had laughed at them ten times before; however, we were kind enough to laugh at them once more. Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always fond of seeing some innocent amusement going forward, and set the boys and girls to blindman's-buff. My wife, too, was per- suaded to join in the diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In the meantime my neighbor and I looked on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dexterity when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded next, questions and commands followed that, and last of all they sat down to hunt the slipper. As every person may not be acquainted with this primeval pastime, it may be necessary to observe that the company at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all except one, who stands in the middle, whose busi- ness it is to catch a shoe which the company shove about under their hams from one to another, something like a weaver's shuttle. As it is impossible, in this case, for the lady who is up to face all the company at once, the great beauty of the play lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe on that side least capable of making a defense. It was in this manner that my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped about, all 42 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 ac- quaintances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina Wil- helmina Amelia Skeggs! Description would but beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to describe this new mortification. Death! To be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar attitudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's proposing. We seemed stuck to the ground for some time, as if actually petrified with amazement. The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and finding us from home, came after us hither, as they were uneasy to know what accident could have kept us from church the day before. Olivia undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the whole in a summary way, only saying, “ We were thrown from our horses.” At which account the ladies were greatly concerned; but being told the family received no hurt, they were extremely glad; but being informed that we were almost killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry; but hearing that we had a very good night, they were extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their complaisance to my daughters; their professions the last evening were warm, but now they were ardent. They protested a desire of having a more last- ing acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached to Olivia; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs—I love to give the whole name—took a greater fancy to her sister. They supported the conversation between themselves, while my daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breeding. But as every reader, however beggarly himself, is fond of high- lived dialogues, with anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of the present conversation. "All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs, "is this, that it may be true or it may not be true; but this I can assure your Ladyship, that the whole rout was in amaze. His Lordship turned all manner of colors, 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 43 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I believe her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. But this you may depend upon as fact, that the next morning my Lord Duke cried out three times to his valet de chambre, ' Jernigan, Jernigan, Jernigan, bring me my garters!'” But previously I should have mentioned the very impolite behavior of Mr. Burchell, who, during this discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, and at the conclusion of every sen- tence would cry out fudge, an expression which displeased us all, and in some measure damped the rising spirit of the conversation. “Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress," there is nothing of this in the copy of verses that Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion."-Fudge! “I am surprised at that,” cried Miss Skeggs, “ for he sel- dom leaves anything out, as he writes only for his own amuse- ment. But can your Ladyship favor me with a sight of them?"-Fudge! “My dear creature,” replied our Peeress,“ do you think I carry such things about me? Though they are very fine, to be sure, and I think myself something of a judge; at least, I know what pleases myself. Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr. Burdock's little pieces; for, except what he does, and our dear Countess at Hanover Square, there's nothing comes out but the most lowest stuff in nature; not a bit of high life among them.”—Fudge! “Your Ladyship should except,” says t other, "your own things in the 'Lady's Magazine.' I hope you'll say there's nothing low-lived there? But I suppose we are to have no more from that quarter?”—Fudge! “Why, my dear,” says the Lady, "you know my reader and companion has left me, to be married to Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer me to write myself, I have been for some time looking out for another. A proper person is no easy matter to find, and, to be sure, thirty pounds a year is a small stipend for a well-bred girl of character that can read, write, and behave in company. As for the chits about town, there is no bearing them about one."-Fudge! “That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, " by experience. For of the three companions I had this last half-year one of them 44 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD refused to do plain work an hour in the day; another thought twenty-five guineas a year too small a salary; and I was obliged to send away the third because I suspected an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue is worth any price; but where is that to be found ? "-Fudge! My wife had been for a long time all attention to this dis- course, but was particularly struck with the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty-five guineas a year make fifty-six pounds five shillings English money, all which was in a manner going a-begging, and might easily be secured in the family. She for a moment studied my looks for approbation; and, to own a truth, I was of opinion that two such places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the Squire had any real affection for my eldest daughter, this would be the way to make her every way qualified for her fortune. My wife, therefore, was resolved that we should not be deprived of such advantages for want of assurance, and undertook to harangue for the family. “I hope,” cried she, “ your Ladyships will pardon my pres- ent presumption. It is true we have no right to pretend to such favors, but yet it is natural for me to wish putting my children forward in the world. And I will be bold to say my two girls have had a pretty good education and capacity; at least, the country can't show better. They can read, write, and cast accounts; they understand their needle, bread-stitch, cross and change, and all manner of plain work; they can pink, point, and frill, and know something of music; they can do up small clothes; work upon catgut. My eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty manner of telling fortunes upon the cards."-Fudge! When she had delivered this pretty piece of eloquence, the two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and importance. At last Miss Carolina Wil- helmina Amelia Skeggs condescended to observe that the young ladies, from the opinion she could form of them from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employ- ments. “But a thing of this kind, madam," cried she, addressing my spouse,“ requires a thorough examination into characters and a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, madam," 45 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD continued she," that I in the least suspect the young ladies' virtue, prudence, and discretion; but there is a form in these things, madam, there is a form." My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing that she was very apt to be suspicious herself, but referred her to all the neighbors for a character. But this our Peeress de- clined as unnecessary, alleging that our cousin Thornhill's rec- ommendation would be sufficient, and upon this we rested our petition. CHAPTER XII FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF WAKE- FIELD-MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES. WHEN CHEN we were returned home, the night was dedicated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the two girls was likely to have the best place and most opportunities of seeing good company. The only obstacle to our preferment was in obtain- ing the Squire's recommendation, but he had already shown us too many instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. Even in bed my wife kept up the usual theme: “Well, faith, my dear Charles, between ourselves, I think we have made an excellent day's work of it." Pretty well,” cried I, not knowing what to say. What! only pretty well?” returned she. “I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come to make acquaint- ances of taste in town! This I an assured of, that London is the only place in the world for all manner of husbands. Be- sides, my dear, stranger things happen every day; and as ladies of quality are so taken with my daughters, what will not men of quality be? Entre nous, I protest I like my Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. However, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Skeggs has my warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk of places in town, you saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my dear, don't you think I did for my children there?” Aye," returned I, not knowing well what to think of the 46 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD matter. “Heaven grant they may be both the better for it this day three months !” This was one of those observations I usually made to impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity; for if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled; but if anything unfortunate ensued, then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. All this conversation, however, was only preparatory to another scheme; and indeed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less than that, as we were now to hold our heads a little higher in the world, it would be proper to sell the Colt, which was grown old, at a neighboring fair, and buy us an horse that would carry single or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance at church or upon a visit. This at first I opposed stoutly, but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I weakened, my antagonists gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part with him. As the fair happened on the following day, I had intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon her to permit me from home. “No, my dear," said she; our son Moses is a dis- creet 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 intrust him with this commission; and the next morning I perceived his sisters mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair-trimming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his hat with pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the Colt, with a deal box before him to bring home gro- ceries in. He had on a coat inade of that cloth they call thunder and lightning, which, though grown too short, was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling-green, and his sisters had tied his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all followed him several paces from the door, bawling after him, “Good luck! Good luck!" till we could see him no longer. He was scarce gone when Mr. Thornhill's butler came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, saying that he over- 47 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD heard his young master mention our names with great com- mendation. Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. Another footman from the same family followed, with a card for my daughters, importing that the two ladies had received such pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill of us all that, after a few previous inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. Aye,” cried my wife, I now see it is no easy matter to get into the families of the great; but when one once gets in, then, as Moses says, one may go sleep.” To this piece of humor- for she intended it for wit-my daughters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satisfaction at this message that she actually put her hand in her pocket and gave the messenger sevenpence halfpenny. This was to be our visiting-day. The next that came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. He brought my little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which my wife under- took to keep for them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or even money, when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky; but this by the by. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behavior was in some measure displeasing. Nor could we now avoid com- municating our happiness to him and asking his advice: al- though we seldom followed advice, we were all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note from the two ladies, he shook his head, and observed that an affair of this sort de- manded the utmost circumspection. This air of diffidence highly displeased my wife. “I never doubted, sir,” cried she, “your readiness to be against my daughters and me. You have more circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy when we come to ask advice, we shall apply to persons who seem to have made use of it then selves." “Whatever my own conduct may have been, madam,” re- plied 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." 48 Moses Setting out for the Fair THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on a repar- tee, making up by abuse what it wanted in wit, I changed the subject by seeming to wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as it was now almost nightfall. “Never mind our son,” cried my wife; “ depend upon it he knows what he is about. I 'll warrant we 'll never see him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as would amaze one. I 'll tell you a good story about that, that will make you split your sides with laughing. But, as I live, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, and the box at his back.” As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and sweating under the deal box, which he had strapped round his shoulders like a peddler. “Welcome, welcome, Moses! Well, my boy, what have you brought us from the fair? ” I have brought you myself,” cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on the dresser. “Aye, Moses," cried my wife, “ that we know; but where is the horse? “I have sold him," cried Moses," for three pounds five shillings and twopence." “ Well done, my good boy,” returned she. “I knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad day's work. Come, let us have it, then.” “I have brought back no money," cried Moses again. "I have laid it all out on 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 bought them. The silver rims alone will sell for double the money." "A fig for the silver rims,” cried my wife, in a passion. “I dare swear they won't sell for above half the money at the rate of broken silver, five shillings an ounce." +6 49 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD • You need be under no uneasiness," cried I," about selling the rims, for they are both worth sixpence; for I perceive they are only copper varnished over.” “What," cried my wife, “not silver !—the rims not silver!” “No,” cried I, “ no more silver than your saucepan." “ And so," returned she, "we have parted with the Colt, and have only got a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases. 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 stuff. If I had them I would throw them in the fire.” “There again you are wrong, my dear," cried I; “for, though they be copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are better than nothing." By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived. He now saw that he had indeed been imposed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the circumstances of his decep- tion. He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend-looking man brought him to a tent, under a pretense of having one to sell. “Here,” con- tinued Moses, we met another man, very well dressed, who desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he wanted money and would dispose of them for a third of the value. The first gentleman, who pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and 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." 50 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER XIII MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY, FOR HE HAS THE CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE. OUR family had now made several attempts to be fine, but some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon as projected. I endeavored to take the advantage of every dis- appointment to improve their good sense in proportion as they were frustrated in ambition. You see, my children,” cried I, " how little is to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will asso- ciate with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and despised by those they follow. Unequal combinations are always disadvantageous to the weaker side, the rich having the pleasure, and the poor the inconveniences that result from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and repeat the fable 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 inost angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little injury, who, lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor dwarf's arın. He was now in a woeful plight; but the giant, coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two Saracens dead on the plain, and the dwarf cut off the dead man's head out of spite. They then traveled on to another adventure. This was against three bloody-minded satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in distress. The dwarf was not quite so fierce now as before, but, for all that, struck the first blow, which was returned by another that knocked out his eye; but the giant was soon up with them, and, had they not fled, would certain- ly have killed them every one. They were all very joyful for this victory; and the danısel who was relieved fell in love with the giant, and married him. They now traveled far, and far- ther 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. Wher- 51 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ever the giant came, all fell before him; but the dwarf had like to have been killed more than once. At last the victory de- clared for the two adventurers; but the dwarf lost his leg. The dwarf had now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the giant was without a single wound. Upon which he cried out to his little companion : “My little hero, this is glorious sport. Let us get one victory more, and then we shall have honor forever.' 'No,' cries the dwarf, who was by this time grown wiser, .no; I declare off. I 'll fight no more; for I find in every battle that you get all the honor and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me.' I was going to moralize this fable, when our attention was called off to a warm dispute between my wife and Mr. Bur- chell upon my daughters' intended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted upon the advantages that would result from it. Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with great ardor, and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions seemed but the second part of those which were received with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew high, while poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamor. The conclusion of her harangue, however, was highly dis- pleasing to us all. She knew, she said, of some who had their own secret reasons for what they advised; but, for her part, she wished such to stay away from her house for the future. Madain," cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which tended to inflame her the more, as for secret reasons, you are right. I have secret reasons, which I forbear to men- tion, because you are not able to answer those of which I make 110 secret : but I find my visits here are become troublesome. I'll take my leave, therefore, now, and perhaps come once more to take a final farewell when I am quitting the country.” Thus saying, he took up his hat; nor could the attempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipitancy, pre- vent his going When gone, we all regarded each other for some minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself to be the cause, strove to hide her concern with a forced smile and an air of assurance, which I was willing to reprove. “How, woman, ” cried I to her, "is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus we 52 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . return their kindness? Be assured, my dear, that these were the harshest words, and to me the most unpleasing, that ever escaped your lips !” “Why would he provoke me, then ? " replied she. “But I know the motives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent my girls from going to town that he may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter's company here at home. But, whatever happens, she shall choose better company than such low-lived fellows as he.” “ Low-lived, my dear, do you call him?” cried I. "It is very possible we may mistake this man's character; for he seems, upon some occasions, the most finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his attachment?” “His conversation with me, sir," replied my daughter, “has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing; as to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have heard him say he never knew a woman who could find merit in a man that seemed poor." “ Such, my dear,” cried I, “is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it would be even mad- ness to expect happiness from one who has been so very bad an economist of his own. Your mother and I have now better prospects for you. The next winter, which you will probably spend in town, will give you opportunities of making a more prudent choice.” What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion, I cannot pretend to determine; but I was not displeased at the bottom that we were rid of a guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went to my conscience a little; but I quickly silenced that monitor by two or three specious rea- sons, which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The pain which conscience gives the man who has already done wrong is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not strength enough to prevent it seldom has justice enough to accuse. 53 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER XIV FRESH MORTIFICATIONS; OR, A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEM- ING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS. ΤΗ HE journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly promised to in- spect their conduct himself, and inform us by letter of their behavior. But it was thought indispensably necessary that their appearance should equal the greatness of their expecta- tions, which could not be done without expense. We debated, therefore, in full council, what were the easiest methods of raising money, or, more properly speaking, what we could most conveniently sell. The deliberation was soon finished. It was found that our remaining horse was utterly useless for the plow without his companion, and equally unfit for the road, as wanting an eye. It was therefore determined that we should dispose of him, for the purposes above mentioned, at the neighboring fair, and, to prevent imposition, that I should go with him myself. Though this was one of the first mer- cantile transactions of my life, yet I had no doubt about ac- quitting 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 unfavorable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife, however, next morning, at parting, after I had got some paces from the door, called me back to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes about me. I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my horse through all his paces, but for some time had no bidders. At last a chapman approached, and, after he had for a good while examined the horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say to him. A second came up, but, observing he had a spavin, declared he would not take him for the driving home. A third perceived he had a wind-gall, and would bid no money. A fourth knew by his eye that he had the bots. A fifth wondered what a plague I could do at the fair with the blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a most hearty contempt for the poor animal myself, and 54 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 pre- sumption they were right; and St. Gregory upon good works professes himself to be of the same opinion. I was in this mortifying situation when a brother clergyman, an old acquaintance, who had also business to the fair, came up, and, shaking me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public house and taking a glass of whatever we could get. I readily closed with the offer; and, entering an alehouse, we were shown into a little back room, where there was only a venerable old man who sat wholly intent over a large book which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure that prepossessed me more favorably. His locks of silver-gray venerably shaded his temples, and his green old age seemed to be the result of health and benevolence. However, his presence did not interrupt our conversation. My friend and I discoursed on the various turns of fortune we had met; the Whistonian controversy; my last pamphlet; the archdeacon's reply; and the hard measure that was dealt me. But our attention was in short time taken off by the appearance of a youth, who, entering the room, respectfully said something softly to the old stranger. “Make no apologies, my child,” said the old man; to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow-creatures. Take this; I wish it were more; but five pounds will relieve your distress, and you are welcome.” The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. I could have hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He con- tinued 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 gentlenian, hearing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention for some time, and, when my friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was any way related to the great Primrose, that courageous monogam- ist, who had been the bulwark of the Church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that moment. "Sir," cried I, “the applause of so good a man, as I am sure you 55 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD are, adds to that happiness in my breast which your benevo- lence has already excited. You behold before you, sir, that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to say successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age.” Sir,” cried the stranger, struck with awe, “I fear I have been too familiar; but you 'll forgive my curiosity, sir. I beg pardon.” Sir,” cried I, grasping his hand,“ you are so far from dis- pleasing me by your familiarity that I must beg you 'll accept my friendship, as you already have my esteem.” " Then with gratitude I accept the offer,” cried he, squeez- ing me by the hand, “thou glorious pillar of unshaken ortho- doxy; and do I behold" I here interrupted what he was going to say, for though as an author I could digest no small share of flattery, yet now my modesty would permit no more. However, no lovers in ro- mance ever cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several subjects. At first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and began to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no way lessened him in my esteem, for I had for some time begun privately to harbor such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to observe that the world in general began to be blamably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too much. “Aye, sir," replied he, as if he had reserved all his learning to that moment, “aye, sir, the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony, or creation of the world, has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the world! Sanconia- thon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all at- tempted it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which imply that all things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho, also, who lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser, Asser being a Syriac word, usually applied as a surname to the kings of that country, as Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser, he, I say, formed a conjecture equally absurd; for, as we usually say, ek to biblion kubernetes, which implies that books will never teach the world, so he 56 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD go and attempted to investigate - But, sir, I ask pardon; I am stray- ing from the question.” That he actually was; nor could I, for my life, see how the creation of the world had anything to do with the business I was talking of; but it was sufficient to show me that he was a man of letters, and I now reverenced him the more. I was resolved, therefore, to bring him to the touchstone; but he was too mild and too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I made any observation that looked like a challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake his head, and say nothing, by which I understood he could say much if he thought proper. The subject, therefore, insensibly changed from the business of antiquity to that which brought us both to the fair. Mine, I told him, was to sell an horse, and, very luckily indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants. My horse was soon produced, and, in fine, we struck a bargain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly pulled out a thirty-pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in a capacity of complying with his demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. “Here, Abraham," cried he, get gold for this. You 'll do it at neighbor Jackson's, or any- where.” While the fellow was gone, he entertained me with a pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I lindertook to iinprove by deploring also the great scarcity of gold; so that by the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money was never so hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned to inform us that he had been over the whole fair, and could not get change, though he had offered half a crown for doing it. This was a very great disappoint- ment to us all; but the old gentleman, having paused a little, asked me if I knew one Solomon Flamborough in my part of the country. Upon replying that he was my next-door neigh- bor, “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 jumps; but he could hop upon one leg farther than I.” A draft upon my neighbor was to me the same as money, for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability. The draft was 57 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD signed and put into my hands, and Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off, very well pleased with each other. After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began to recollect that I had done wrong in taking a draft from a stranger, and so prudently resolved upon following the pur- chaser, and having back my horse. But this was now too late. I therefore made directly homeward, resolving to get the draft changed into money at my friend's as fast as possible. I found my honest neighbor smoking his pipe at his own door, and informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he read it twice over. "You can read the name, I suppose," cried I; “Ephraim Jenkinson." “Yes," returned he," the name is written plain enough; and I know the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a venerable-looking man, with gray hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes? And did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek, and cosmogony, and the world?” To this I replied with a groan. “Aye," continued he," he has but that one piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it away whenever he finds a scholar in company; but I know the rogue, and will catch him yet.” Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my greatest struggle was to come in facing my wife and daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to behold the master's visage, than I was of going home. I was determined, however, to anticipate their fury by first falling into a passion myself. But, alas! upon entering, I found the family in no way dis- posed for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that day to inform them that their journey to town was entirely over. The two ladies, having heard reports of us from some malicious person about us, were that day set out for London. He could neither discover the tendency nor the author of these; but whatever they might be, or whoever might have broached them, he continued to assure our family of his friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that they bore my disappointment with great resig- ,58 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD nation, as it was eclipsed in the greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most was to think who could be so base as to asperse the character of a family so harmless as ours, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust. CHAPTER XV T! ALL MR. BURCHELL'S VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED THE FOLLY OF BEING OVERWISE. HAT evening, and part of the following day, was em- ployed in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies. Scarce a family in the neighborhood but incurred our sus- picions, and each of us had reasons for our opinion best known to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which he found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr. Burchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon ex- amination, contained some hints upon different subjects. But what particularly engaged our attention was a sealed note, superscribed “The copy of a letter to be sent to the ladies at Thornhill castle." It instantly occurred that he was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note should not be broken open. I was against it; but Sophia, who said she was sure that of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the family; and, at their joint solicita- tion, 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 dy to prevent its being seduced. I ain informed for a truth that you have some intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as my opinion that the impropriety of such a step will be attended with dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous or the lewd with severity; nor should I now have taken this method of explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take, therefore, the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on the consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace and innocence have hitherto resided.” 59 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed, indeed, something applicable to both sides in this letter, and its cen- sures might as well be referred to those to whom it was written as to us; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. My wife had scarce patience to hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with unrestrained resent- ment. Olivia was equally severe; and Sophia seemed perfect- ly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I had met with. Nor could I account for it in any other manner than by imputing it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to have the more frequent opportuni- ties of an interview. In this manner we all sate ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little boy came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though our intentions were only to upbraid him with his in- gratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual smiles, to chat, in the beginning, with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little, and then, in the midst of the flattering calm, to burst upon him like an earth- quake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own baseness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself, as she really had some talents for such an undertaking. We saw him approach. He entered, drew a chair, and 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 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 read- 60 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ing a jest-book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit; and yet, madam, I had rather see half an ounce of understanding.” “I believe you might,” cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against her;“and yet I have seen some men pretend to understanding that have very little.” “And no doubt," replied her antagonist,“ you have known ladies set up for wit that had none.” I quickly began to find that my wife was likely to gain but little at this business, so I resolved to treat him in a 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 an heart? An nonest inan is the noblest work of God!” “I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope," returned Mr. Burchell, “as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority. As the reputation of books is raised, not by their freedom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties, so should that of men be prized, not for their exemption from fault, but the size of those virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity; but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through life, without censure or applause? We might as well prefer the tame, correct paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous but sublime animations of the Roman pencil.” Sir,” replied I, “your present observation is just, when there are shining virtues and minute defects; but when it appears that great vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a character deserves contempt.” “ Perhaps," cried he, “there may be some such monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues. Yet, in my progress through life, I never yet found one instance of their existence. On the contrary, I have ever perceived that where the mind was capacious the affections were good. And indeed Providence seems kindly our friend in this particular thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is cor- rupt, and diminish the power where there is the will to do 66 61 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD yet it mischief. This rule seems to extend even to other animals. The little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and cow- ardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are gen- erous, brave, and gentle." “These observations sound well,” returned I; and would be easy this moment to point out a man ”—and I fixed my eye steadfastly upon him-“ whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Aye, 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 assur- ance. “That pocket-hook is mine, and I am glad you have found it." And do you know,” cried I, “this letter? Nay, never falter, man, but look me full in the face. I say, do you know this letter?” “ That letter!” replied 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 ? And all that I have to do is to swear at the next justice's that you have been guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you all up at his door." This piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a pitch that I could scarce govern my passion. “Ungrateful wretch, begone, and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness. Begone, and never let me see thee again. Go from my doors; and the only punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor!” So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a smile, and, shutting the clasps, with the utmost composure, left us quite astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of his villainies. “My dear, cried I, willing to calm those passions, that had been raised too high among us, we are not to be surprised that bad men 62 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 com- panions, and in the beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. But their union was soon found to be disagree- able 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 forever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an execu- tioner; but Shame, being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company with Virtue, which, in the beginning of their journey, they had left behind. Thus, my children, after men have traveled through a few stages in vice, shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few virtues they have still remaining." CHAPTER XVI THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH STILL GREATER. WHATEVER might have been Sophia's sensations, the chell'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 amusement of the town, as he designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them with those little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usually came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describing the town, with every part of which he was particularly acquainted. He could repeat all the observations that were retailed in the at- mosphere of the playhouses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rote long before they made way into the jest- books. The intervals between conversation were employed in teaching my daughters piquet, or something in setting my little ones to box, to make them sharp, as he called it. But the hopes of having him for a son-in-law in some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned 63 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him, or, to speak it more tenderly, used every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea ate short and crisp, they were made by Olivia; if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering; it was her fingers which gave the pickles their peculiar green; and in the com- position of a pudding, it was her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes tell the Squire that she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see which was the tallest. These instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet which everybody saw through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs of his pas- sion, which, though they had not arisen to proposals of mar- riage, yet, we thought, fell but little short of it; and his slow- ness was attributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and sometinies to his fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, however, which happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed to become one of our family. My wife even regarded it as an absolute promise. My wife and daughters, happening to return a visit to neighbor Flamborough's, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn by a limner, who traveled the country and took likenesses for fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, and, notwith- standing all I could say, and I said much, it was resolved that we should have our pictures done too. Having therefore en- gaged the limner,—for what could I do?-our next delibera- tion was to show the superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbor's family, there were seven of them; and they were drawn with seven oranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world. We desired to have something in a brighter style, and after many debates at length came to a unanimous resolution of being drawn together, in one large historical family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more genteel; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the same manner. As we did not im- mediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were در بر 64 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD contented each with being drawn as independent historical figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side; while I, in my gown and band, was to present her with my books on the Whistonian controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the painter could put in for nothing; and Moses was to be dressed out with an hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the Squire that he insisted on being put in as one of the family, in the character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was considered by us all as an indication of his desire to be introduced into the family; nor could we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work; and as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole was completed. The piece was large, and, it must be owned, he did not spare his colors, for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We were all per- fectly satisfied with his performance; but an unfortunate cir- cumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is inconceivable; but certain it is we had been all greatly remiss. The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a most mortify- ing manner, against the kitchen wall, where the canvas was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through any of the doors, and the jest of all our neighbors. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe's long boat, too large to be removed ; another thought it more resembled a reel in a bottle; some wondered how it could be got out, but still more were amazed how it ever got in. But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more malicious suggestions in many. The Squire's portrait being found united with ours was an honor 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 65 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD enemies. These reports we always resented with becoming spirit; but scandal ever improves by opposition. We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had too much cunning to give me entire sat- isfaction. It was this: As our principal object was to dis- cover the honor of Mr. Thornhill's addresses, my wife under- took to sound him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of an husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she would marry the person pro- vided to rival him upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. Such was the scheme laid, which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not entirely ap- prove. The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in order to give their mama an opportunity of putting her scheme in execution; but they only retired to the next room, from whence they could overhear the whole conversation. My wife artfully introduced it by observing that one of the Miss Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands. “But Heaven help,” continued she, “ the girls that have none. What signifies beauty, Mr. Thornhill? or what signifies all the virtue and all the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest? It is not what is she? but what has she? is all the cry." “Madam," returned he, “I highly approve the justice as well as the novelty of your remarks, and if I were a king it should be otherwise. It should then, indeed, be fine times for the girls without fortunes. Our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide.” “Ah, sir," returned my wife, “ you are pleased to be face- tious. But I wish I were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter should look for an husband. But now that you have put it into my head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, 66 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD can't you recommend me a proper husband for her? She is now nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble opinion, does not want for parts." “Madam," replied he, “if I were to choose, I would find out a person possessed of every accomplishment that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and sin- cerity, such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband." “ Aye, sir," said she, “but do you know of any such per- son?" No, madam," returned he, “it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be her husband. She 's too great a treasure for one man's possession. She is a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think; she 's an angel." Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl. But we have been thinking of marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants a manager. You know whom I mean, Farmer Williams—a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her good bread, and who has several times made her proposals,"—which was actually the case,- “but, sir," concluded she, “I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice.” • How, madam,” replied he,“ my approbation-my appro- bation of such a choice ! Never. What! sacrifice so much beauty and sense and goodness to a creature insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of injustice. And I have my reasons!” “Indeed, sir," cried Deborah, “if you have your reasons that 's another affair; but I should be glad to know those reasons." “Excuse me, madam,” returned he; “they lie too deep for discovery"-laying his hand upon his bosom.“ They remain buried, 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 passions; but I was not quite so sanguine. It seemed to me pretty plain that they had more of love than matrimony in them; yet, whatever they 67 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme of Farmer Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses. CHAPTER XVII SCARCE ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION. A S I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circum- stances, prudent, and sincere. It required but very little en- couragement to revive his former passion, so that, in an even- ing or two, he and Mr. Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each other for some time with looks of anger; but Williams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the coquette to perfec- tion, if that might be called acting which was her real char- acter, pretending to lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave; though I own it puzzled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he had it in his power so easily to remove the cause by declaring an honorable passion. But what ver uneasiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia's anguish was still greater. After any of these interviews between her lovers, of which there were several, she usually retired to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was in such a situation I found her one evening, after she had been for some time sup- porting a fictitious gaiety. “You now see, my child,” said I, “ that your confidence in Mr. Thornhill's passion was all a dream. He permits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a candid declara- tion." Yes, papa," returned she, “but he has his reasons for this delay. I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words convinces me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will 68 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD discover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him has been more just than yours.” "Olivia, my darling," returned I, “ every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him to a declaration has been proposed and planned by yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have constrained you. But you must not suppose, my dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you require to bring your fancied admirer to an explana- tion shall be granted; but, at the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I have hitherto supported in life demands this from me, and my tenderness as a parent shall never influence my integrity as a man. Name then your day, let it be as distant as you think proper, and, in the meantime, take care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which I design de- livering you up to another. If he really loves you, his own good sense will readily suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent his losing you forever.” This proposal, which she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed her most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams in case of the other's insensibility; and at the next opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. Such vigorous proceedingssseemed to redouble Mr. Thorn- hill's anxiety; but what Olivia really felt gave me some un- easiness. In this struggle between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed away; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week he was still assiduous, but not more open. On the third he discontinued his visits entirely, and, instead of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to be secured in a con- tinuance of competence and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution in preferring happiness to ostentation. It was within about four days of her intended nuptials that 69 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD my little family, at night, were gathered around a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and laying schemes for the future. Busied in forming a thousand projects, and laugh- ing at whatever folly came uppermost, Well, Moses," cried I, we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family. What is your opinion of matters and things in general ? " "My opinion, father, is that all things go on very well; and I was just now thinking that when sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams we shall then have the loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing." “That we shall, Moses,” cried I; "and he will sing us 'Death and the Lady,' to raise our spirits, into the bargain." “ He has taught that song to our Dick,” cried Moses; “ and I think he goes through it very prettily.” “ Does he so?” cried J. Then let us have it. Where 's little Dick? Let him up with it boldly.” “My brother Dick,” cried Bill, my youngest,“ is just gone out with sister Livy; but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I 'll sing them for you, papa. Which song do you choose, 'The Dying Swan,' or the ‘Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog'?” “The 'Elegy,' child, by all means," said I. "I never heard that yet; and Deborah, my life, grief you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the best gooseberry wine to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the little boy a little." AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Isling town there was a man Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. 70 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around, from all the neighboring streets, The wondering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That 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 our country that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look straight before them, nor the Huginsons hlow out a candle; that there were none of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a story." “However that be," cried I, “the most vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and things that petrify us in a single stanza-productions that we at once detest and praise. Put the glass to your 71 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD brother, Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is that they are in despair for griefs that give the sensible part of man- kind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to versify the dis- aster.” “ That may be the mode,” cried Moses, “in sublimer com- positions; but the Ranelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast in the same mold. Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together. He gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay; and then they go together to church, where they give good advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can." "And very good advice too,” cried I, “and I am told there is not a place in the world where advice can be given with so much propriety as there; for, as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife; and surely that must be an ex- cellent market, my boy, where we are told what we want, and supplied with it when wanting.” 'Yes, sir,” returned Moses ; " and I know but of two such markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fon- tarabia in Spain. The Spanish market is open once a year, but our English wives are salable every night.” “You are right, my boy," cried his mother. “Old England is the only place in the world for husbands to get wives." “And for wives to manage their husbands,” interrupted I. “ It is a proverb abroad that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the continent would come over to take pattern from ours, for there are no such wives in Europe as our own. “But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life; and, Moses, give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and compe- tence. I think myself happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such fireside, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old, but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live they will be our support and our pleasure here, and when we die 72 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 6 they will transınit our honor untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song; let us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia ? That little cherub's voice is always sweetest in the concert." Just as I spoke Dick came running in. “Oh, papa, papa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us,-my sister Livy is gone from us forever.” Gone, child!" “Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in a postchaise, and one of them kissed her; and said he would die for her; and she cried very much, and was for coming back; but he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise, and said, Oh, what will my poor papa do when he knows I am un- done!'" “Now, then," cried I,“ my children, go and be miserable, for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And, oh, may Heaven's everlasting fury light upon him and his! Thus to rob me of my child! And sure it will for taking back my sweet innocent that I was leading up to heaven. Such sincerity as my child was possessed of! But all our earthly happiness is now over! Go, my children, go and be miserable and infa- mous; for my heart is broken within me!” “Father," cried my son, " is this your fortitude?” "Fortitude, child! Yes, he shall see I have fortitude! Bring me my pistols. I 'll pursue the traitor. While he is on earth I 'll pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet. The villain ! the perfidious villain !" I had by this time reached down my pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong as mine, caught me in her arms. “My dearest, dearest husband," cried she, “the Bible is the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived us." “Indeed, sir,” resumed my son, after a pause," your rage is too violent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character thus to curse your greatest enemy. You should not have cursed him, villain as he is.” “I did not curse him, child, did I?" “ Indeed, sir, you did; you cursed him twice." 73 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “Then may Heaven forgive me and him if I did. And now, my son, I see it was more than human benevolence that first taught us to bless our enemies! Blest be his holy name for all the good he hath given, and for all that he hath taken away. But it is not, it is not a small distress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many years. My child! To undo my darling! May confusion seize !-Heaven forgive me, what am I about to say? You may remember, my love, how good she was, and how charm- ing. Till this vile moment, all her care was to make us happy. Had she but died ! But she is gone, the honor of our family contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw them go off; per- haps he forced her away? If he forced her, she may yet be innocent." “Ah, no, sir,” cried the child," he only kissed her and called her his angel; and she wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very fast.” “She's an ungrateful creature," cried my wife, who could scarce speak for weeping, “ to use us thus. She never had the least constraint put upon her affections. The vile strum- pet has hasely deserted her parents without any provocation, thus to bring your gray hairs to the grave, and I must shortly follow.” In this manner, that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint and ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. “Never," cried she, "shall that vilest stain of our family again darken those harmless doors. I will never call her daughter more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile se- ducer. She may bring us to shame, but she shall never more deceive us." “Wife," said I,“ do not talk thus hardly. My detestation of her guilt is as great as yours; but ever shall this house and this heart be open to a poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns from her transgression, the more welcome 74 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD shall she be to me. For the first time, the very best may err. Art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity, but every other the off- spring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, though stained with ten thousand vi will I hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my Bible and my staff. I will pursue her wherever she is, and, though I cannot save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity. CHAPTER XVIII THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO VIRTUE. HOUGH the child could not describe the gentleman's person who handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our young landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well known. I there- fore directed my steps toward Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter. But, before I reached his seat, I was met by one of my par- ishioners, who said he saw a young lady resembling my daugh- ter in a post-chaise with a gentleman, whom, by the descrip- tion, I could only guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This information, however, did by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young Squire's, and, though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately. He soon appeared, with the most open, familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter's elopement, protesting, upon his honor, that he was quite a stranger to it. I now, therefore, condemned my former suspicions, and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, had of late several private conferences with her. But the appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt of his villainy, who averred that he and my daughter were actually gone toward the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that state of mind in which we are more ready 75 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD I now to act precipitately than to reason right, I never debated with myself whether these accounts might not have been given by persons purposely placed in my way, to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked along with earnestness, and inquired of several by the way; but received no accounts, till, entering the town, I was met by a person on horseback, whom I remem- bered to have seen at the Squire's, and he assured me that if 1 followed them to the races, which were but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them; for he had seen them dance there the night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed with my daughter's performance. Early the next day I walked forward to the races, and about four in the after- noon I came upon the course. The company made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in one pursuit, that of pleasure. How different from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue! I thought I perceived Mr. Burchell at some distance from me; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no more. reflected that it would be to no purpose to continue my pur- suit farther, and resolved to return home to an innocent family, who wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me in a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the course. This was another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant from home. However, I retired to a little ale-house by the roadside, and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished here for near three weeks; but at last my constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is possible the anxiety from this last cir- cumstance alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a traveler who stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This person was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in St. Paul's Churchyard, who has written so many little books for children. He called himself their friend; but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone, for he was ever on business of 5. 76 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD the utmost importance, and was at that time actually compil- ing materials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I im- mediately recollected this good-natured man's red pimpled face, for he had published for me against the deuterogamists of the age, and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved to return home by easy journeys of ten miles a day. My health and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now condemned that pride which had made me refrac- tory to the hand of correction. Man little knows what calami- ties are beyond his patience to bear till he tries them. As in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from below, every step we rise shows us some new and gloomy pros- pect of hidden disappointment, so in our descent from the sum- mits 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 ap- pear 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 wagon, which I was resolved to overtake; but when I came up with it I found it to be a strolling company's cart that was carrying their scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next village, where they were to exhibit. The cart was attended only by the person who drove it and one of the company, as the rest of the players were to follow the ensuing day. “Good company upon the road,” says the proverb, “is the shortest cut." I therefore entered into conversation with the poor player, and, as I once had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics with my usual freedom; but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the present state of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the Drydens and Otways of the day. “I fancy, sir,” cried the player, “ few of our modern dram- atists would think themselves much honored by being com- pared to the writers you mention. Dryden and Rowe's man- ner, sir, are quite out of fashion; our taste has gone back a 77 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD whole century. Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shakspere are the only things that go down." “How,” cried I, "is it possible the present age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete humor, those over-charged characters, which abound in the works you men- tion ? " Sir,” returned my companion, “ the public think nothing about dialect or humor or character, for that is none of their business. They only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a pantomime under the sanction of Jonson's or Shakspere's name." "So then, I suppose," cried I," that our modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shakspere than of nature.” “To say the truth,” returned my companion, “I don't know that they imitate anything at all; nor, indeed, does the public require it of them. It is not the composition of the piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced into it that elicits applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest in the whole, shrugged into popularity; and another saved by the poet's throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present taste; our modern dialect is much more nat- ural.” 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 com- panion observed that strollers always have more spectators without doors than within. I did not consider the impropriety of my being in such company till I saw a mob gather about 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 demanded whether I was the real chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be my masquerade character in the play. Upon informing him of the truth, and that I did not belong in any sort to the company, he was condescending enough to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which he discussed modern politics with great earnestness and inter- est. I set him down in my own mind for nothing less than a Parliament-man at least; but was almost confirmed in my con- me. ; 78 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD jectures when, upon asking what there was in the house for supper, he insisted that the player and I should sup with him at his house, with which request, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on to comply. CHAPTER XIX THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES. T HE house where we were to be entertained lying at a small distance from the village, our inviter observed that, as the coach was not ready, he would conduct us on foot; and we soon arrived at one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the country. The apartment into which we were 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 an easy dishabille, were introduced, and the conver- sation 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,” returned I. “That's strange, very strange,” replied my entertainer. Now, I read all the politics that come out—the ‘ Daily,' the 'Public,' the 'Ledger,' the Chronicle,' the ‘ London Evening,' the 'Whitehall Evening,' the seventeen magazines, and the two reviews; and though they hate each other, I love them all. Liberty, sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by all my coal- mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians." Then it is to be hoped,” cried I,“ you reverence the king.” " Yes,” returned my entertainer, “when he does what we would have him; but if he goes on as he has done of late, I'll never trouble myself more with his matters. I say nothing; 79 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD I think only. I could have directed some things better. I don't think there has been a sufficient number of advisers. He should advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should have things done in 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 con- tinue the cry of liberty, and, if they have any weight, basely throw it into the subsiding scale." How,” cried one of the ladies,“ do I live to see one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons !” “Can it be possible,” cried our entertainer, " that there should be any found at present advocates for slavery? Any who are for meanly giving up the privileges of Britons? Can any, sir, be so abject?” “No, sir," replied I; “I am for liberty, that attribute of God's! Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. I would have all men kings. I would be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal right to the throne. We are all originally equal. This is my opinion, and was once the opin- ion of a set of honest men who were called Levelers. They tried to erect themselves into a community where all should be equally free. But, alas! it would never answer: for there were some among them stronger, and some more cunning than others, and these became masters of the rest; for as sure as your groom rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger or stronger than he sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, then, it is entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to command, and others to obey, the question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the same house with us, or in the same village, or still farther off in the metropolis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from me, the better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are 80 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD of my way of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, whose election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the greatest number of people. Now, the great, who were tyrants them- selves before the election of one tyrant, are naturally averse to a power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible, because whatever they take from that is naturally restored to themselves; and all they have to do in the state is, to under- mine the single tyrant, by which they resume their primeval authority. Now, the state may be so circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state be such as to favor the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent still more rich, this will increase their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however, must necessarily be the consequence when, as at present, more riches flow in from ex- ternal commerce than arise from internal industry, for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by the rich, and they have also, at the same time, all the emoluments arising from internal industry; so that the rich, with us, have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this reason wealth, in all commercial states, is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto in time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of this country may contribute to the accumulation of wealth, as when, by their means, the natural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and it is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich; or when the learned are held unqualified to serve their country as coun- selors, merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of a wise man's ambition. By these means, I say, and such means as these, riches will accumulate. Now, the possessor of accumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other method to em- ploy the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power- that is, differently speaking, in making dependents, by pur- chasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the mortification of contiguous tyranny for 6 81 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD bread. Thus each very opulent man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the people; and the polity abounding in accumulated wealth may be compared to a Carte- sian system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, how- ever, who are willing to move in a great man's vortex are only such as must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are adapted to servitude, and who know noth- ing of liberty except the name. But there must still be a large number of the people without the sphere of the opulent man's influence, namely, that order of men which subsists between the very rich and the very rabble; those men who are pos- sessed of too large fortunes to submit to the neighboring man in power, and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny them- selves. In this middle order of mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. This order alone is known to be the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the people. Now, it may happen that this middle order of mankind may lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that of the rabble; for, if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs be ten times less than was judged suffi- cient upon forming the constitution, it is evident that great numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced into the political system, and they, ever moving in the vortex of the great, will follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all that the middle order has left is to preserve the prerogative and privileges of the one principal governor with the most sacred circumspection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off the great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order placed beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town, of which the opulent are forming the siege, and which the governor from without is hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious terms; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges. But if they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will be but a small defense to its inhabit- ants. What they may then expect may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am, then, for, and would 82 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 die for, monarchy, sacred monarchy, for if there is 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 sounds of liberty, patriotism, and Britons have already done much; it is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more. I have known many of those pretended champions for liberty in my time, yet I do not re- member one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant." My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules of good breeding; but the impatience of my enter- tainer, who often strove to interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. “What!” cried he. . Then I have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's clothes; but, by all the coal- mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack if my name be Wilkin- son.” I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for the warmth with which I had spoken. “Pardon!” returned he in a fury. “I think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What, give up liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer' says, lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house immediately to prevent worse consequences. Sir, I insist upon it.” I was going to repeat my remonstrances; but just then we heard a footman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, “As sure as death there is our master and mistress come home.” It seems my entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a figure and be for a while the gentleman himself; and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most country gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon seeing the gen- tleman and his lady enter, nor was their surprise at finding such company and good cheer less than ours. Gentlemen,” cried the real master of the house to me and my companion, “my wife and I are your most humble serv- ants; but I protest this is so unexpected a favor that we almost sink under the obligation.” However unexpected our com- pany might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more so to 83 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD us, and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when whom should I next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be married to my son George, but whose match was broken off, as already related. As soon as she saw me she flew to my arms with the utmost joy. “My dear sir,” cried she, “ to what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit? I am sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have the good Doctor Primrose for their guest.” Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady very politely stepped up, and welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling upon being informed of the nature of my present visit. But the unfortunate butler, whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was, at my intercession, forgiven. Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for some days; and as their niece, my charming pupil, whose mind in some measure had been formed under my own instruction, joined in their entreaties, I complied. That night I was shown to a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early Miss Wilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the modern manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of the place, she inquired, with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from my son George. Alas, madam!” cried I,“ he has now been near three years absent, without ever writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know not. Perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear madam, we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our 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 possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail of our sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me to find that time had made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected several matches that had been made her since our leaving her part of the country. She led me round all the extensive improvements of the place, pointing to the several walks and arbors, and at the same time catching 84 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD from every object a hint for some new question relative to my son. In this manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell sum- moned us in to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling company, that I mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the “ Fair Penitent,” which was to be acted that evening—the part of Horatio by a young gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praises of the new performer, and averred that he never saw any who bid so fair for excellence. “ Acting,” he observed, “was not learned in a day; but this gentleman,” continued he, seenis born to tread the stage. His voice, his figure and attitudes, are all admirable. We caught him up accidentally in our journey down." This account in some measure excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to the play- house, which was no other than a barn. As the company with which I went was incontestably the chief of the place, we were received with the greatest respect and placed in the front seat of the theater, where we sate for some time with no small im- patience to see Horatio make his appearance. The new per- former advanced at last; and let parents think of my sensa- tions by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. He was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audi- ence, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and immovable. The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encour- age him; but, instead of going on, he burst into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don't know what were my feelings on this occasion, for they succeeded with too much rapidity for description; but I was soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, pale, and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct her back to her uncle's. When we got home, Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordinary behavior, being informed that the new per- former was my son, sent his coach and an invitation for him, and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the stage, the players put another in his place, and we soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and I received him with my usual transport, for I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was 85 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 conscious- ness of unresisting beauty, and often would ask questions without giving any manner of attention to the answers. CHAPTER XX THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING NOV- ELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT. Α' FTER 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 movable things upon this earth that he could boast of. Why, aye, my son,” cried I, “ you left me but poor, and poor I find you are come back; and yet I make no doubt, you have seen a great deal of the world." “Yes, sir," replied my son; "but traveling after Fortune is not the way to secure her. And, indeed, of late I have de- sisted from the pursuit.” I fancy, sir,” cried Mrs. Arnold,“ that the account of your adventures would be amusing. The first part of them I have often heard from my niece; but could the company prevail for the rest, it would be an additional obligation." “Madam," replied my son, “I promise you, the pleasure you have in hearing will not be half so great as my vanity in repeating them; and yet, in the whole narrative, I can scarce promise you one adventure, as my account is rather of what I saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all know, was great, but though it distressed, it could not sink me. No person ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I found Fortune at one time, the more I expected from her another; and being now at the bottom of her wheel, 86 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD every new revolution might lift, but could not depress me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London, in a fine morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that caroled by the road, and comforted myself with reflecting that London was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and reward. “Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was to deliver your letter of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little better circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, sir, was to be usher at an academy, and I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true sardonic grin. 'Aye,' cried he, this is indeed a very pretty career that has been chalked out for you. I have been an usher at a boarding-school myself; and may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turnkey in Newgate. I was up early and late; I was browbeat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir out to meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school? 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 smallpox? No. Then you won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed ? No. Then you will never do for a school. Have you got a good stomach? Yes. Then you will by no means do for a school. No, sir, if you are for a genteel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a cutler's wheel, but avoid a school by any means. Yet come, continued he, ‘I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of commencing author, like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the trade. At present I'll show you forty very dull fellows about town that live by it in opulence. All honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and duly, and write history and politics, and are praised : men, sir, who, had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives have only mended shoes, but never made them.' “Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal ; and, having the highest respect for literature, hailed the 87 THE ICAR OF WAKEFIELD antiqua mater of Grub Street with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess of this region as the parent of excellence; and, however an intercourse with the world might give us good sense, the poverty she granted I supposed to be the nurse of genius! Big with these reflections, I sate down, and finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some in- genuity. They were false, indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by others that nothing was left for me to import but some splendid things that, at a distance, looked every bit as well. Witness, you powers, what fancied importance 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 porcu- pine, I sate self-collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer.” Well said, my boy,” cried I. “ And what subject did you treat upon? I hope you did not pass over the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt. Go on. You published your paradoxes. Well, and what did the learned world say to your paradoxes?” “Sir," replied my son, “the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes, nothing at all, sir. Every man of them was employed in praising his friends and himself, or condemning his enemies, and, unfortunately, as I had neither, I suffered the cruelest mortification, neglect. “As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man, happening to enter the room, placed himself in the box before me, and, after some prelimin- ary discourse, finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was going to give the world of Propertius, with notes. This de- mand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and that concession led him to inquire into the nature of my expec- tations. Finding that my expectations were just as great as my purse, 'I see,' cried he, you are unacquainted with the town. I'll teach you a part of it. Look at these proposals. 88 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Upon these very proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns from his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her country-seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more for engraving their coat of arms at the top. Thus,' continued he, ' I live by vanity, and laugh at it. But, between ourselves, I am now too well known. I should be glad to borrow your face a bit. A nobleman of distinction has just returned from Italy. My face is familiar to his por- ter; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide the spoil.'' “Bless us, George,” cried I, “and is this the employment of poets now? Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary? Can they so far disgrace their calling as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?” "Oh, no, sir,” returned he.“ A true poet can never be so base, for wherever there is genius, there is pride. The crea- tures I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt; and none but those who are unworthy protection condescend to solicit it. Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a middle course, and write for bread. But I was unqualified for a profession where mere industry alone was to insure suc- I could not suppress my lurking passion for applause, but usually consumed that time in efforts after excellence, which takes up but little room, when it should have been more advantageously employed in the diffusive productions of fruit- ful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of periodical publication, unnoticed and unknown. The public were more importantly employed than to observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while Philautos, Philalethes, Phile- cess. 89 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD lutheros, and Philanthropos all wrote better, because they wrote faster, than I. “Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disap- pointed authors like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction we found in every cele- brated writer's attempts was inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could please me. My unfor- tunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction, for excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade. In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a bench in St. James's Park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had been my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. We saluted each other with some hesitation, he almost ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my suspicion soon vanished, for Ned' Thornhill was at the bottom a very good-natured fellow." “What did you say, George?” interrupted I. "Thornhill, was not that his name? It can certainly be no other than my landlord." “ Bless me," cried Mrs. Arnold, “is Mr. Thornhill so near a neighbor of yours? He has long been a friend in our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly." “ My friend's first care,” continued my son, was to alter my appearance by a very fine suit of his own 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 sate for his picture, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had twenty other little employments in the family. I was to do many small things without bidding- to carry the corkscrew; to stand godfather to all the butler's children; to sing when I was bid; to be never out of humor; always to be humble; and, if I could, to be very happy. “ In this honorable post, however, I was not without a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my patron's affections. His mother had been laundress to a man of quality, and thus he early acquired a 90 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found many of them, who were as dull as himself, that permitted his assidu- ities. 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, being better acquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus I was once more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my friend found occa- sion 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 indispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I under- took the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was only a woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid with the warmest professions of gratitude; but, as my friend was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other method to serve me but by recommending me to his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction, who enjoyed a post under the government. When he was gone my first care was to carry his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose character for every virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by his servants with the most hospitable smiles, for the looks of the domestics ever transmit their master's benevolence. Being shown into a grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I deliv- ered my message and letter, which he read; and, after pausing some minutes, ' Pray, sir,' cried he, inform me what you have done for my kinsman to deserve this warm recommendation ? But I suppose, sir, I guess your merits. You have fought for him, and so you would expect a reward from me for being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my pres- ent refusal may be some punishment for your guilt, but, still more, that it may be some inducement to your repentance.' The severity of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of the nobility are 91 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD almost ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly petition, I found it no easy matter to gain admittance. How- ever, after bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his Lordship’s inspection. During this anxious interval I had full time to look round me. Every- thing was grand and of happy contrivance. The paintings, the furniture, the gildings, petrified me with awe, and raised my idea of the owner. Ah! thought I to myself, how very great must the possessor of all these things be, who carries in his head the business of the state, and whose house displays half the wealth of a kingdom. Sure, his genius must be un- fathomable! During these awful reflections I heard a step coming 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 let- ter?' 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 further notice, he went out of the room, and left me to digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw, no more of him till told by a footman that his Lordship was going to his coach at the door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my voice to that of three or four more, who came, like me, to petition for favors. His Lordship, how- ever, went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I was to have any reply. He was by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half of which I only heard, the other half was lost in the rattling of his chariot wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched out in the posture of one that was listening to catch the glorious sounds, till, looking round me, I found myself at his Lordship's gate. “My patience,” continued my son,“ was now quite ex- hausted. Stung 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 designed should be thrown by into her lumber-room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, however, half a guinea 92 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD left, and of that I thought Fortune herself should not deprive me; but, in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go in- stantly and spend it while I had it, and then trust to occur- rences for the rest. As I was going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Crispe's office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this office Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his Majesty's subjects a generous promise of thirty pounds a year, for which promise all they give in return is their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport them to America as slaves. I was happy at finding a place where I could lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell, for it had the appearance of one, with the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in circumstances like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome of English impatience. Each untractable soul at variance with Fortune, wreaked her injuries on their own hearts. But Mr. Crispe at last came down, and all our 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 talked to me with smiles. After a few ques- tions, he found I was fit for everything in the world. He paused awhile upon the properest means of providing for me, and slapping his forehead as if he had found it, assured me that there was at that time an embassy talked of, from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was something so magnificent in the sound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half guinea one half of which went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and with the other half I resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there more happy than he. As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door by the captain of a ship with whom I had formerly some little acquaintance, and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose to make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that I was upon the 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 93 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD put into a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam. What if you go in her as a passenger? The moment you land, all that you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you 'll get pupils and money enough. I suppose you understand Eng- lish,' added he, ' by this time, or the deuce is in it.' I confi- dently assured him of that, but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing to learn English. He affirmed, with an oath, that they were fond of it to distraction; and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage short; and, after having paid my passage with half my movables, I found myself fallen, as from the skies, a stranger, in one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let any time pass unem- ployed in teaching. I addressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those I met, whose appearance seemed most promis- ing; but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually under- stood. It was not till this very moment I recollected that, in order to teach Dutchmen English, it was necessary that they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection is to me amazing; but certain it is I over- looked it. “ This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back to England again; but happening into company with an Irish student who was returning from Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics of literature,-for, by the way, it may be observed that I always forgot the meanness of my circumstances when I could converse upon such subjects, —from him I learned that there were not two men in his whole university who understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek. And in this design I was heartened by my brother student, who threw out some hints that a fortune might be got by it. "I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day les- sened the burden of my movables, like Æsop and his basket of bread; for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I traveled on. When I came to Louvain I was resolved not to go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly tendered my 94 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD talents to the principal himself. I went, had admittance, and offered him my service as a master of the Greek language, which I had been told was a desideratum in his university. The principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities, but of these I offered to convince him by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my proposal, he addressed me thus : 'You see me, young man,' continued he. “I never learned Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I have had a doctor's cap and gown without Greek; I have ten thousand florins a year without Greek; I eat heartily without Greek; and, in short,' continued he,' as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there is any good in it.' “I was now too far from home to think of returning, so I resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice. I now turned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to be very merry; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. When- ever I approached a peasant's house, toward nightfall, I played one of my most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion, but they always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary as, whenever I used in better days to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially; but'as it was now my only means, it was received with contempt—a proof how ready the world is to underrate those talents by which a man is supported. “In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just to look about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of strangers that have money than of those that have wit. As I could not boast much of either, I was no great favorite. After walking about the town four or five days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I was preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when, pass- ing through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet 95 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD but our cousin to whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable to me, and, I believe, not displeas- ing to him. He inquired into the nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his own business there, which was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds for a gentleman in London who had just stepped into taste and a large fortune. I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this office, as he himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he had been taught the art of a cognoscente so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules: the one, always to observe that the picture might have been better if the painter had taken more pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino. 'But,' says he,' as I once taught you how to be an author in London, I'll now undertake to instruct you in the art of picture-buying at Paris.' “ With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was a living, and now all my ambition was to live. I went, therefore, to his lodgings, improved my dress by his assistance, and, after some time, accompanied him to auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture or medal as an unerring standard of taste. He made very good use of my assistance upon these occasions, for when asked his opinion he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return and assure the company that he could give no opinion upon an affair of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more supported I remember to have seen him, after giving his opinion that the coloring of a picture was not mellow enough, very deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidently lying by, and rub it over the piece with great com- posure, before all the company, and then ask if he had not im- proved the tints. When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly recommended to several men of distinction as a per- son very proper for a traveling tutor; and, after some time, I was employed in that capacity by a gentleman who brought assurance. 66 96 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD e. I displ ume Erich Caste eing addis ingh udden de ser alwa park Forks ou hos rict you Eore , : 1. afte his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's gov- ernor, but with a proviso that he should always be permitted to govern himself. My pupil, in fact, understood the art of guiding, in money concerns, much better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies, and his guardians, to qualify him for the management of it, had bound him ap- prentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing pas- sion. All his questions on the road were, how money might be saved; which was the least expensive course of travel; whether anything could be bought that would turn to account when disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on the way as could be seen for nothing he was ready enough to look at; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not observe how amazingly expensive traveling 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 unable to withstand the temptation; so, paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he took leave, and em- barked with only one attendant for London. “I now, therefore, was left once more upon the world at large; but then it was a thing I was used to. However, my skill in music could avail me nothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician than I; but by this time I had acquired another talent, which answered my purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universi- ties and convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical theses maintained against every adventitious disputant; for which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In this manner, therefore, I fought my way toward England, walked along from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the pic- ture. My remarks, however, are but few. I found that mon- archy was the best government for the poor to live in, and 7 97 were the s not a ashion picture e ver wher ad as Chat he tance porter nough t wa com- ot im ft me per me, ought THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 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 sub- jecting 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 expe- dition that was going forward; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed by meeting an old acquaintance, who, I found, belonged to a company of comedians that were going to make a summer campaign in the country. The com- pany seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, however, apprised me of the importance of the task at which I aimed: that the public was a many-headed monster, and that only such as had very good heads could please it; that acting was not to be learned in a day; and that, without some traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and only on the stage, these hundred years, I could never pretend to please. The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as almost every character was in keeping. I was driven, for some time, from one character to another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of the present company has happily hindered me from acting." CHAPTER XXI THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL SATISFAC- TION. MY Y 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 ap- pearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at the door seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler, who was now become my friend in the family, informed me, with a whisper, that the Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill's entering he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start back; but I readily 98 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD imputed that to surprise, and not displeasure. However, upon our advancing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the most apparent candor, and, after a short time, his presence served only to increase the general good humor. After tea he called me aside to inquire after my daughter. But, upon my informing him that my inquiry was unsuccess- ful, he seemed greatly surprised, adding that he had been since frequently at my house, in order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep it a secret. “For at best,” cried he, “it is but divulging one's own infamy: and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine.” We were here inter- rupted by a servant, who came to ask the Squire in to stand up at dances, so that he left me quite pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot were too obvious to be mistaken; and yet she seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in com- pliance to the will of her aunt than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other could neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming com- posure, however, not a little surprised me. We had now con- tinued here a week, at the pressing instances of Mr. Arnold; but each day the more tenderness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill's friendship seemed proportionally to in- crease for him. He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his interest to serve the family, but now his generosity was not confined to promises alone. The morning I designed for my departure Mr. Thornhill came to me with looks of real pleas- ure to inform me of a piece of service he had done for his friend George. This was nothing less than his having pro- cured him an ensign's commission in one of the regiments that was going to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one hundred pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement of the other two. “As for this trifling piece of service," continued the young gentleman, “I desire no other 99 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD reward but the pleasure of having served my friend; and as for the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your leisure.” This was a favor we wanted words to express our sense of. I readily, therefore, gave my bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to pay. George was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission, in pursuance of his generous patron's directions, who judged it highly expedient to use despatch, lest, in the meantime, another should step in with more advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, our young soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress-for Miss Wilmot actually loved him- he was leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. “And now, my boy,” cried I, “thou art going to fight for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk- land. Go, my boy, and if you fall, though distant, exposed, and unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears are those with which Heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier." The next morning I took leave of the good family that had been kind enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions of gratitude to Mr. Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the enjoyment of all that happiness which afflu- ence and good breeding procure, and returned toward home, despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and to forgive her. I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired 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 roadside, and asked for the landlord's company over a pint of wine. We sate beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and the news of the 100 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of young Squire Thornhill, who, the host assured me, was hated as much as his uncle, Sir William, who sometimes came down to the country, was loved. He went on to observe that he made it his whole study to betray the daughters of such as received him to their houses, and, after a fortnight or three weeks' possession, turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who had been out to get change, returned, and per- ceiving that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him, in an angry tone, what he did there; to which he only replied in an ironical way by drinking her health. “Mr. Symonds," cried she," you use me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here three parts of the business is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished, while you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long, whereas, if a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop.” I now found what she would be at, and immediately poured her out a glass, which she received with a courtesy, and drinking toward my good health, “Sir," re- sumed she, “ it is not so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but one cannot help it when the house is going out of the windows. If the customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burden lies upon my back. He'd as lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. There above stairs we have a young woman who has come to take up her lodgings here, and I don't believe she has got any money by her over-civility. I am certain she is very slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it.” “What signifies minding her?” cried the host. “If she be slow, she is sure." "I don't know that," replied the wife, “but I know that I am sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the cross.of her money." "I suppose, my dear," cried he, "we shall have it all in a lump." “In a lump !" cried the other. “I hope we may get it any way, and that I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage.” now, IOI THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “Consider, my dear,” cried the husband," she is a gentle- woman, and deserves more respect.” “ As for the matter of that,” returned the hostess, “gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a sasarara. 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 overhead, and I soon perceived, by the loudness of her voice and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances very distinctly. “Out, I say; pack out this moment, tramp, thou infamous strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the better for these three months. What! you trumpery, to come and take up an hostess house without cross or coin to bless yourself with. Come along, I say.” "Oh, dear madam," cried the stranger, "pity me; pity a poor abandoned creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest.” I instantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child, Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my treas- ure, to your poor old father's bosom. Though the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the world that will never for- sake thee. Though thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them all." Oh, my own dear,” for minutes she could no more- my own dearest, good papa! Could angels be kinder? How do I deserve so much! The villain, I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You can't forgive me, I know you cannot.” 'Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive thee! Only repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia." Ah, never, sir, never! The rest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad and shame at home. But, alas! papa, you look much paler than you used to do. Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneasiness ? Sure, you have too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself.” 102 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “Our wisdom, young woman,” replied I- Ah, why so cold a name, papa ?” cried she. “This is the first time you ever called me by so cold a name.” “I ask pardon, my darling," returned I; "but I was going to observe that wisdom makes but a slow defense against trouble, though at last a sure 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 honorable, though private, proposals.” “ Villain, indeed!” cried I. And yet it in some measure surprises me how a person of Mr. Burchell's good sense and seeming honor could be guilty of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo it.” “My dear papa,” returned my daughter, “you labor under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted to deceive me. Instead of that, he took every opportunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who, I now find, was even worse than he represented him.” “Mr. Thornhill ! ” interrupted I. Can it be? “Yes, sir," returned she, “it was Mr. Thornhill who se- duced me, who employed the two ladies, as he called them, but who, in fact, were abandoned women of the town, without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices, you may remember, would have certainly succeeded but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who directed those reproaches at them which we all applied to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat their intentions still remains a secret to me; but I am convinced he was ever our warmest, sincerest friend.” “ You amaze me, my dear,” cried I. “ But now I find my first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's baseness were too well grounded: but he can triumph in security, for he is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions of such an education and so virtuous a disposition as thine?” 103 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “ Indeed, sir," replied she," he owes all his triumph to the desire I had of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our marriage, which was privately per- formed by a popish priest, was no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honor." “What!” interrupted I; “and were you indeed married by a priest 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 adamant, lessen the force of that sacred connection." “ 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 de- ceived 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 lopped off to preserve the body. But, in religion, the law is written and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my child, is right; for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of contingent advantage. And, though the advantage should certainly follow, yet the interval between commission and ad- vantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for the things we have done, and the volume of human actions is closed forever. 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 sincerity. That very 104. THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD morning he introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With this view I danced, dressed, and talked, but still was unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me every moment of the power of my charms, and this only con- tributed 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 had the assurance to offer me to a young baronet of his acquaintance. Need I de- scribe, sir, how his ingratitude stung me? My answer to this proposal was almost madness. I desired to part. As I was going he offered me a purse, but I flung it at him with indig- nation, and burst from him in a rage that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that interval a stage-coach happening to pass by, I took a place, it being my only aim to be driven to a distance from a wretch I despised and detested. I was set down here, where, since my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman's unkindness have been my only companions. The hours of pleasure that I have passed with my mama 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'll carry you home to your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will receive a kind reception. Poor woman, this has gone to their heart; but she loves you still, Olivia, and will forget it." : 105 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER XXII OFFENSES ARE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE IS LOVE AT BOTTOM. THE HE next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on my return home. As we traveled along I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the pros- pect of a fine country, through which we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven was to us than we to each other, and that the misfortunes of nature's making were very few. I assured her that she should never perceive any change in my affections, and that during my life, which yet might be long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her against the censures of the world, showed her that books were sweet, unreproaching companions to the mis- erable, and that, if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it. The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by the way, within about five miles from my house; and, as I was willing to prepare my family for my daugh- ter's reception, I determined to leave her that night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached our appointed stage. However, after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I kissed her, and pro- ceeded toward home. And now my heart caught new sensa- tions of pleasure the nearer I approached that peaceful man- sion. As a bird that had been frighted from his nest, my affections outwent my haste, and hovered round my little fireside with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The laborers 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- 1 106 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ery! mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance. I approached my little abode of pleasure, and before I was within a furlong of the place our honest mastiff came running to welcome me. It was now near midnight that I came to knock at my door. All was still and silent. My heart dilated with un- utterable 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 convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till this been asleep, and he, perceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife and daughter; and all running out naked and wild with apprehension, recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of new terror, for the flames had by this time caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood with silent agony, looking on as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two little ones; but they were not to be seen. O mis- Where,” cried I, “ where are my little ones ? ” They are burnt to death in the flames,” says my wife calmly," and I will die with them." That moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and nothing could have stopped me. “Where, where are my children?” cried I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in which they were confined," where are my little ones ?” “Here, dear papa, here we are," cried they together, while the flames were just catching the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them through the fire as fast as possible, while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. “Now,” cried I, holding up my children, “ now let the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are, I have saved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet be happy." We kissed our little darlings a thousand times; they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports, while their mother laughed and wept by turns. I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time began to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was therefore out of my 107 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD power to give my son any assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames spreading to our corn. By this time the neighbors were alarmed, and came running to our assistance; but all they could do was to stand, like us, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three things more, of little consequence, which my son brought away in the beginning. The neighbors contributed, however, what they could to lighten our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished one of our outhouses with kitchen utensils, so that by day- light we had another, though a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbor and his children were not the least assiduous in providing us with everything necessary, and offer- ing whatever consolation untutored benevolence could suggest. When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause of my long stay began to take place. Having therefore informed them of every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception to our lost one; and though we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have been more difficult, but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my wife's pride and blunted it by more poig- nant afflictions. Being unable to go for my poor child my- self, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and daugh- ter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent, who had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no instructions of mine could persuade to a perfect recon- ciliation; for women have a much stronger sense of female error than men. “Ah, madam," cried her mother, " this is but a poor place you are come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons who have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.” During this reception the unhappy victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply; but I could not con- tinue a silent spectator of her distress, wherefore, assuming 108 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD apting : par a degree of severity in my voice and manner, which was ever g tom followed with instant submission: “I entreat, woman, that nd ca my words may be now marked once for all. I have here Eo se brought you back a poor deluded wanderer. Her return to og whi duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hard- Ortue ships of life are now coming fast upon us; let us not, there- erst fore, increase them by dissension among each other. If we of E live harmoniously together, we may yet be contented, as in there are enough of us to shut out the censuring world, and Duld: keep each other in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is risk promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the ex- I d ample. Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view etire: a repentant sinner than ninety-nine persons who have sup- e les ported a course of undeviating rectitude. And this is right, lofte for that single effort by which we stop short in the downhill gga path to perdition is itself a greater exertion of virtue than an sity i hundred acts of justice.” Lavia Fed : ghu CHAPTER XXIII voul NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY MIS- ERABLE. SOME ? were soon jent DOIG ME assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient as possible, and we ugh again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual occupations, I hoe read to my family from the few books that were saved, and com particularly from such as, by amusing the imagination, con- malé tributed to ease the heart. Our good neighbors, too, came every day with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in acé which they were all to assist at repairing my former dwelling. oh Honest Farmer Williams was not last among these visitors, ch but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have re- is newed 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 i 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 te 109 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD hy pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession of her mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her con- stitution, and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her eye; and as one vice, though cured, ever plants others where it has been, so her former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages of history as a strong memory and some reading could suggest. “Our happiness, my dear," I would say, “is in the power of one who can bring it about a thou- sand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. If example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing, historian : “Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan noble- man of the first quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an apartment which hung over the river Volturna, the child, with a sudden spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an effort to save him, plunged in after; but, far from being able to assist the infant, she herself with great diffi- culty escaped to the opposite shore just when some French soldiers were plundering the country on that side, who im- mediately made her their prisoner. “ As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to perpetrate those two extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution, however, was opposed by a young officer, who, though their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her merit soon after his heart. They were married; he rose to the 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 com- manded having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. Here I10 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ession her c ninish tal =; ther I for ande are. 2 cing se nd sie a exami mild, te an: and aressa sprin Opear they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few histories can produce more various instances of cruelty than those which the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death; but par- ticularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting the siege. Their de- terminations were, in general, executed almost as soon as re- solved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the exe- cutioner with his sword stood ready, while the spectators, in gloomy silence, awaited the fatal blow, which was only sus- pended till the general, who presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of anguish and expecta- tion that Matilda came to take her last farewell of her hus- band and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a prem- ature 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 dis- tress, but with still stronger emotions when he heard her men- tion her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for whom she had encountered so much danger. He acknowl- edged her at once as his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed. The captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, and duty could confer on each were united.'” In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but she listened with divided attention, for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company she dreaded contempt; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the color of her wretchedness when we received certain information that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always suspected he had a real passion, though he took every opportunity, before me, to express his con- tempt both of her person and fortune. This news only served to increase poor Olivia's affliction; such a flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her courage could support. I was resolved, however, to get more certain information, and to defeat, if possible, the completion of his designs, by sending se, 21 ar fror Fren" ho ir ch 22 at onc te al by utmos safet ce, he ose to парр. anent com take Herit III THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD my son to old Mr. Wilmot's with instructions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter in- timating Mr. Thornhill's conduct in my family. My son went, in pursuance of my directions, and in three days returned, assuring us of the truth of the account; but that he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They were to be married, he said, in a few days, having appeared together at church the Sunday before he was there in great splendor, the bride at- tended 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 grandest equipage that had been seen in the country for many years. All the friends of both families, he said, were there, par- ticularly the Squire's uncle, Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He added that nothing but mirth and feasting were going forward; that all the country praised the young bride's beauty and the bridegroom's fine person, and that they were immensely fond of each other; concluding that he could not help thinking Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world. Why, let him, if he can,” returned I; “but, my son, observe this bed of straw and unsheltering roof; those mold- ering walls and humid floor; my wretched body, thus dis- abled by fire, and my children weeping round me for bread. You have come home, my child, to all this; yet here, even here, you see a man that would not, for a thousand worlds, exchange situations. Oh, my children, if you could but learn to commune with your own hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would little regard the elegance and splendors of the worthless! Almost all men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the travelers. The similitude still may be improved when we ob- serve that the good are joyful and serene, like travelers that are going toward home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travelers 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 112 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD recovered. She appeared from that time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution. But ap- pearances deceived me, for her tranquillity was the languor of overwrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charit- ably sent us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness amongst the rest of the family. Nor was I dis- pleased at seeing them once more sprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their satisfactions merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to burden them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more, the tale went round, and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness con- descended to hover round our little habitation. CHAPTER XXIV T ness. FRESH CALAMITIES. HE next morning the sun arose with peculiar warmth for the season, so that we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank, where, while we sate, my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, and every object served to recall her sad- But that melancholy which is excited by objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, upon this occa- sion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, 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 your old father.” She complied in a manner so ex- quisitely pathetic as moved me. When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds, too late, that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? 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. 8 113 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an inter- ruption in her voice, from sorrow, gave peculiar softness, 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 sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place where I was still sitting, inquired after my health with his usual air of familiarity. 'Sir,” replied I, “your present assurance only serves to aggravate the baseness of your character; and there was a time when I would have chastised your insolence for pre- suming thus to appear before me. But now you are safe, for age has cooled my passions, and my calling restrains them.” “I vow, my dear sir," returned he, “I am amazed at all this; nor can I understand what it means! I hope you don't think your daughter's late excursion with me had anything criminal in it." “Go!” cried I. “Thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful wretch, and every way a liar; but your meanness secures you from my anger! Yet, sir, I am descended from a family that would not have borne this! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but honor for their portion !" “If she, or you,” returned he, “are resolved to be miser- able, I cannot help it. But you may still be happy; and what- ever opinion you may have formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can marry her to an- other in a short time, and, what is more, she may keep her lover beside; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard for her.” I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading pro- posal; for, though the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little villainy can at any time get within the soul and sting it into rage. “ Avoid my sight, thou reptile,” cried I, nor continue to insult me with thy presence! Were my brave son at home, he would not suffer this; but I am old, and disabled, and every way undone.”. I14 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 ' I find,” cried he, “ you are bent upon obliging me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. But, as I have shown you what may be hoped from my friendship, it may not be im- proper to represent what may be the consequences of my re- sentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has been transferred, threatens hard; nor do I know how to prevent the course of justice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I have been at some expenses lately, previous to my in- tended marriage, is not so easy to be done. And, then, my steward talks of driving for the rent. It is certain he knows his duty, for I never trouble myself with affairs of that nature. Yet, still, I could wish to serve you, and even to have you and your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is even the request of my charming Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse.” “Mr. Thornhill,” replied I, “ hear me once for all: as to your marriage with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to; and though your friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once woefully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honor, 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 forgive- ness, thou shalt ever have my contempt. “If so," returned he, “ depend upon it, you shall feel the effects of this insolence, and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object of scorn, you or me." Upon which he departed abruptly. My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed terrified with the apprehension. My daughters also, finding that he was gone, came out to be informed of the result of our conference, which, when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of his malevolence. He had already struck the blow, and now I stood prepared to repel every new effort- like one of those instruments used in the art of war, which, however thrown, still presents a point to receive the enemy. 115 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain, for the very next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which, by the train of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. The consequence of my incapacity was his driving my cattle that evening, and their being appraised and sold the next day for less than half their value. My wife and children now, therefore, entreated me to comply upon any terms rather than incur certain destruction. They even begged of me to admit his visits once more, and used all their little eloquence to paint the calamities I was going to endure; the terrors of a prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with the danger that threatened my health from the late acci- dent that happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible. “Why, my treasures,” cried I, “ why will you thus attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not right? My duty has taught me to forgive him, but my conscience will not permit me to approve. Would you have me applaud to the world what my heart must internally condemn? Would you have me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer, and, to avoid a prison, continually suffer the more galling bonds of mental confinement ? No, never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right, and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire to a charming apartment, when we can look round our own hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure!” In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was employed in clearing it away and opening a passage before the door. He had not been thus engaged long when he came running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two strangers, whom we 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 employ- ment and business, made me their prisoner, bidding me pre- pare to go with them to the county jail, which was eleven miles off. "My friends," said I, “this is severe weather in which you have come to take me to a prison; and it is particularly unfor- tunate at this time, as one of my arms has lately been burned 116 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD in a terrible manner, and it has thrown me into a slight fever; and I want clothes to cover me, and I am now too weak and old to walk far in such deep snow; but, if it must be so” I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get together what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I entreated 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 calami- ties, was fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. I en- couraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the mean- time, my youngest daughter prepared for our departure; and as she received several hints to use despatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart. CHAPTER XXV NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT. WE E set forward from this peaceful neighborhood, 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 had an horse, kindly took her behind him, for even these men cannot entirely divest themselves of humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell, not for her own, but my distresses. We were now got from my late dwelling about two miles, when we saw a crowd running and shouting behind us, con- sisting of about fifty of my poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, and, swearing they would never see their minister go to a jail while they had a drop of blood to shed in his defense, were going to use them with great severity. The consequence might have been fatal had I not immediately interposed, and, with some difficulty, rescued the officers from 117 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD the hands of the enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon my delivery now as certain, appeared transported with joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures. But they were soon undeceived upon hearing me address the poor deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to do me service. “What, my friends," cried I, “and is this the way you love me? Is this the manner you obey the instructions I have given you from the pulpit! Thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on yourselves and me! Which is your ringleader? Show me the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas! my dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, to your country, and to me. I shall yet perhaps one day see you in greater felicity here, and contribute to make your lives more happy. But let it at least be my comfort, when I pen my fold for immortality, that not one here shall be wanting.” They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into tears, came, one after the other, to bid me farewell. I shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any farther interruption. Some hours before night we reached the town, or rather village, for it consisted but of a few mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient su- periority but the jail. Upon entering we put up at an inn, where we had such refreshments as could most readily be procured, and I supped with my family with my usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly accommodated for the night, I next attended the sheriff's officers to the prison, which had formerly been built for the purposes of war, and consisted of one large apart- ment, strongly grated and paved with stone, common to both felons and debtors at certain hours in the four and twenty. Besides this, every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the night. I expected, upon my entrance, to find nothing but lamenta- tions and various sounds of misery, but it was very different. The prisoners seemed all employed in one common design, that of forgetting thought in merriment or clamor. I was apprised of the usual perquisite required upon these occasions, and immediately complied with the demand, though the little 118 , who la sported at ptures. B ress the po me service ay you be cons I ha e of just hich is educed pa Alas! 1 we to G one day your le when I - wanting into tears shook eau proché on. Som village, ost all i ncient s had sue I suppe er seein attende erly be ge apar n to be twent ce he wa The Departure for Prison lament differe desit I w ccasion the lit THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD money I had was very near being all exhausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison was soon filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness. “How,” cried I to myself, “shall men so very wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy? I feel only the same confinement with them, and I think I have more reason to be happy." With such reflections I labored to become cheerful; but cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, which is itself painful. As I was sitting, therefore, in a corner of the jail, in a pensive posture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and, sitting by me, entered into conversation. It was my constant rule in life never to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed to desire it: for, if good, I might profit by his in- struction; if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thor- ough knowledge of the world, as it is called, or, more properly speaking, of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care to provide myself with a bed, which was a circumstance I had never once attended to. “That's unfortunate," cried he, as you are allowed here nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large and cold. However, you seem to be something of a gentleman, and, as I have been one myself in my time, part of my bedclothes are heartily at your service.” I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such hu- manity in a jail in misfortunes; adding, to let him see that I was a scholar, that the sage ancient seemed to understand the value of company in affliction, when he said, “ Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton etairon; and, in fact," continued I, " what is the world if it affords only solitude? You talk of the world, sir," returned my fellow-prisoner; the world is in its dotage; and yet the cosmogony, or crea- tion of the world, has puzzled the philosophers of every age. What a medley of opinions have they not broached upon the creation of the world! Sanconiathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which im- plies” “I ask pardon, sir,” cried I, “ for interrupting so much 119 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD learning; but I think I have heard all this before. Have I not had the pleasure of once seeing you at Wellbridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson?” At this demand he only sighed. "I suppose you must recollect," resumed I, "one Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought a horse." He now at once recollected me; for the gloominess of the place, and the approaching night, had prevented his distin- guishing my features before. “Yes, sir," returned Mr. Jenkinson, " I remember you per- fectly well; I bought an horse, but forgot to pay for him. Your neighbor Flamborough is the only prosecutor I am any way afraid of at the next assizes; for he intends to swear positively against me as a coiner. I am heartily sorry, sir, I ever deceived you, or, indeed, any man; for you see,” con- tinued he, showing his shackles, “what my tricks have brought me to." “Well, sir,” replied I," your kindness in offering me assist- ance, when you could expect no return, shall be repaid with my endeavors to soften or totally suppress Mr. Flamborough's evidence; and I will send my son to him for that purpose the first opportunity; nor do I in the least doubt but he will comply with my request; and as to my own evidence, you need be under no uneasiness about that.” Well, sir,” cried he, “ all the return I can make shall be yours. You shall have more than half my bedclothes to-night, and I'll take care to stand your friend in the prison, where I think I have some influence.” I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised at the present youthful change in his aspect; for at the time I had seen him before he appeared at least sixty. “Sir," answered he," you are little acquainted with the world. I had at that time false hair, and have learned the art of counterfeiting every age from seventeen to seventy. Ah! sir, had I but bestowed half the pains in learning a trade that I have in learning to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day. But, rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and that, perhaps, when you least expect it.” We were now prevented from further conversation by the arrival of the jailer's servants, who came to call over the pris- oners' names and lock up for the night. A fellow also, with a I 20 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD bundle of straw for my bed, attended, who led me along a dark narrow passage into a room paved like the common prison, and in one corner of this I spread my bed and the clothes given me by my fellow-prisoner; which done, my conductor, who was civil enough, bade me a good night. After my usual meditations, and having praised my Heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning. CHAPTER XXVI A REFORMATION IN THE JAIL-TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, THEY SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS PUNISH. THE next morning early I was awakened by my family, whom I found in tears at my bedside. The gloomy strength of everything about us, it seems, had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them that I had never slept with greater tranquillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter, who was not among them. They informed me that yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged proper to leave her behind. My next care was to send my son to procure a room or two to lodge the family in, as near the prison as conveniently could be found. He obeyed, but could only find one apartment, which was hired at a small expense, for his mother and sisters, the jailer with humanity consenting to let him and his two little brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore prepared for them in a corner of the room, which, I thought, answered very conveniently. I was willing, however, pre- viously to know whether my little children chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright them upon entrance. “Well," cried I, “my good boys, how do you like your bed? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this room, dark as it appears. “ No, papa," says Dick, “I am not afraid to lie anywhere where you are." “ And I,” says Bill, who was yet but four years old, “ love every place best that my papa is in.” After this I allotted to each of the family what they were to I21 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD room. do. My daughter was particularly directed to watch her de- clining sister's health; my wife was to attend me; my little boys were to read to me. “ And as for you, my son,” con- tinued I, “it is by the labor of your hands we must all hope to be supported. Your wages as a day laborer will be full sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, and com- fortably too. Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength, and it was given thee, my son, for very useful pur- poses; for it must save from famine your helpless parents and family. Prepare, then, this evening to look out for work against the morrow, and bring home every night what money you earn for our support.” Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I walked down to the common prison, where I could enjoy more air and But I was not long there when the execrations, lewd- ness, and brutality that invaded me on every side drove me back to my apartment again. Here I sate for some time, pon- dering upon the strange infatuation of wretches who, finding all mankind in open arms against them, were laboring to make themselves a future and a tremendous enemy. Their insensibility excited my highest compassion and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved, therefore, once more to return, and, in spite of their contempt, to give them my advice and conquer them by per- severance. Going, therefore, among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but communicated it to the rest. The proposal was received with the greatest good humor, as it promised to afford a new fund of entertainment to persons who had now no other resource for mirth but what could be derived from ridicule or debauchery. I therefore read them a portion of the service with a loud, unaffected voice, and found my audience perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans of contrition bur- lesqued, winking, and coughing alternately excited laughter. However, I continued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what I did might amend some, but could itself receive no contamination from any 122 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD After reading I entered upon my exhortation, which was rather calculated, at first, to amuse them than to reprove. I previously observed that no other motive but their welfare could induce me to this; that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane, because they got nothing by it, but might lose a great deal; “For be assured, my friends,” cried I, “ for you are my friends, however the world may disclaim your friendship, though you swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies calling every moment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses you? He has given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly; and, by the best accounts I have of him, he will give you nothing that's good hereafter. If used ill in our dealings with one man, we naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your while, then, just to try how you may like the usage of another master, who gives you fair promises at least to come to him? Surely, my friends, of all stupidity in the world, his must be greatest who, after rob- bing an house, runs to the thief-takers for protection. And yet, how are you more wise? You are all seeking comfort from one that has already betrayed you, applying to a more malicious being than any thief-taker of them all; for they only decoy and then hang you, but he decoys and hangs, and, what is worst of all, will not let you loose after the hangman has done." When I had concluded I received the compliments of my audience, some of whom came and shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and that they desired my further acquaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of mak- ing a reformation here, for it had ever been my opinion that no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart lying open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could but take a proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apartment, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, of my conversation. He had not yet seen my family, for, as 123 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD they came to my apartment by a door in the narrow passage already described, by this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkinson, at the first interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten, and my little ones did not pass unnoticed. “Alas, Doctor," cried he," these children are too handsome and too good for such a place as this !” “Why, Mr. Jenkinson,” replied I, “thank Heaven, my children are pretty tolerable in morals; and if they be good, it matters little for the rest." “I fancy, sir," returned my fellow-prisoner, " that it must give you great comfort to have this little family about you.” “A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson,” replied I; “yes, it is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them for all the world; for they can make a dungeon seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring them." “I am afraid, then, sir,” cried he, “ that I am in some meas- ure culpable, for I think I see here”-looking at my son Moses—“ one that I have injured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.” My son immediately recollected his voice and features, though he had before seen him in disguise, and taking him by the hand, with a smile forgave him. “Yet,” continued he, I can't help wondering at what you could see in my face to think me a proper mark for deception." “My dear sir," returned the other, “it was not your face, but your white stockings and the black ribbon in your hair that allured me. But no disparagement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my time; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me at the last.” “I suppose,” cried my son, “ that the narrative of such a life as yours must be extremely instructive and amusing.” Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson. Those relations which describe the tricks and vices only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in life, retard our success. The traveler that distrusts every person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance of every man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives in time at his journey's end. Į24 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that the know- ing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I was thought cunning from my very childhood. When but seven years old the ladies would say that I was a perfect little man; at four- teen I knew the world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies; at twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so cunning that not one would trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to turn sharper in my own defense, and have lived ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive and my heart palpitating with fears of detection. “I used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbor, Flamborough, and, one way or another, generally cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest man went forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor without the consolation of being honest. However," continued he, “ let me know your case, and what has brought you here. Perhaps, though I have not skill to avoid a jail myself, I may extricate my friends." In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of the whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged me into my present troubles, and my utter inability to get free. After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit upon something ma- terial, and took his leave, saying he would try what could be done. CHAPTER XXVII THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. THE to dren the scheme I had planned of reforming the pris- oners, which they received with universal disapprobation, alleging the impossibility and impropriety of it, adding that my endeavors would no way contribute to their amendment, but might possibly disgrace my calling. “Excuse me," returned I; "these people, however fallen, are still men, and that is a very good title to my affections. 125 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 Good counsel rejected returns to enrich the giver's bosom; and though the instruction I communicate may not mend them, yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, niy children, were princes, there would be thousands ready to offer their ministry; but, in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them I will; perhaps they will not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain; for is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human soul ?” Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the common prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, expecting my arrival and each prepared with some jail trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A third would cry, Amen!” in such an affected tone as gave the rest great delight. A fourth had slyly picked my pocket of my spec- tacles. But there was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest; for, observing the manner in which I had disposed my books on the table before me, he very dexterously displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest- book of his own in the place. However, I took no notice of all that this mischievous group of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the first or second time, while what was serious would be permanent. My design suc- ceeded; and in less than six days some were penitent, and all attentive. It was now that I applauded my perseverance and address at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested of every moral feeling, and now began to think of doing them temporal serv- ices also by rendering their situation somewhat more comfort- able. Their time had hitherto been divided between famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only employment was quarreling among each other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper 126 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD wood being bought by a general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold by my appointment, so that each earned something every day-a trifle, indeed, but sufficient to main- tain him. I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the punishment of immorality and rewards for peculiar industry. Thus in less than a fortnight I had formed them into something social and humane, and had the pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator who had brought men from their native ferocity into friendship and obedience. And it were highly to be wished that legislative power would thus direct the law rather to reformation than severity; that it would seem convinced that the work of eradicating crime is not by making punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead of our present prisons, which find or make men guilty, which inclose wretches for the commission of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted for the per- petration of thousands, we should see, as in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and solitude, where the accused might be attended by such as could give them repentance if guilty, or new motives to virtue if innocent. And this, but not the increasing punishments, is the way to mend a state. Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of that right, which social combinations have assumed, of capitally punish- ing offenses of a slight nature. In cases of murder their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self- defense, to cut off that man who has shown a disregard for the life of another. Against such all nature rises in arms; but it is not so against him who steals my property. Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, as, by that, the horse he steals is as much his property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it must be from a compact made between us, that he who deprives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a false compact, because no man has a right to barter his life, no more than to take it away, as it is not his own. And be- side, the compact is inadequate, and would be set aside, even in a court of modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a very trifling convenience, since it is far better that two men should live than that one man should ride. But a compact that is false between two men is equally so between an hun- 127 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD dred, or an hundred thousand; for, as ten millions of circles can never make a square, so the united voice of myriads can- not lend the smallest foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored nature says the same thing. Savages that are directed by natural law alone are very tender of the lives of each other; they seldom shed blood but to re- taliate former cruelty. Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had but few executions in times of peace; and in all commencing gov- ernments, that have the print of nature still strong upon them, scarce any crime is held capital. It is among the citizens of a refined community that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while it grows older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age; and, as if our property were become dearer in proportion as it increased, as if the more enormous our wealth, the more extensive our fears, all our possessions are paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every invader. I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, that this country should show more convicts in a year than half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it is owing to both; for they mutually produce each other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds the same punishment affixed to dis- similar degrees of guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the penalty the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in the crime; and this distinction is the bulwark of all morality. Thus the multitude of laws produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh restraints. It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of contriving new laws to punish vice; instead of drawing hard the cords of society till a convulsion come to burst them; instead of cutting away wretches as useless before we have tried their utility; instead of converting correction into vengeance, it were to be wished that we tried the restrictive arts of govern- ment, and made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the people. We should then find that creatures whose souls are held as dross only wanted the hand of the refiner; we should then find that wretches now stuck up for long tortures, lest 128 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD luxury should feel a momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the state in times of danger; that, as iheir faces are like ours, their hearts are so too; that few minds are so base as that perseverance cannot amend; that a man may see his last crime without dying for it; and that very little blood will serve to cement our security, CHAPTER XXVIII HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE THAN OF VIRTUE IN THIS LIFE; TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICI- TIES BEING REGARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRIFLING AND UNWORTHY ITS CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION. I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but had not since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl entered my apartment, leaning on her sister's arm. The change which I saw in her countenance struck me. The numberless graces that once resided there were now fled, and the hand of death seemed to have molded every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was tense, and a fatal pale- ness sat upon her cheek. “I am glad to see thee, my dear,” cried I; “but why this dejection, Livy? I hope, my love, you have too great a re- gard for me to permit disappointment thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be cheerful, child, and we yet may see happier days." “ You have ever, sir,” replied she, “ been kind to me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an opportunity of sharing that happiness you promise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here; and I long to be rid of a place where I have only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would make a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill; it may in some measure induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in dying.” “Never, child," replied I; "never will I be brought to 129 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD acknowledge my daughter a prostitute; for though the world may look upon your offense with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place, however dismal it may seem, and be assured that while you continue to bless me by living, he shall never have my consent to make you more wretched by marry- ing another." After the departure of my daughter, my fellow-prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly enough expostulated upon my obstinacy in refusing a submission which promised to give me freedom. He observed that the rest of my family was not to be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she the only one who had offended me. “Beside," added he, “I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match which you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy." “Sir," replied I, "you are unacquainted with the man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no submission I can make could procure me liberty even for an hour. I am told that, even in this very room, a debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. But though my submission and appro- bation could transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as something whispers me that it would be giving a sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other marriage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those who wish for an union. No, villain as he is, I should then wish him married to prevent the consequences of his future debaucheries. But now should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign an instrument which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid a prison myself, and thus, to escape one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand ?” He acquiesced in the justice of this answer; but could not avoid observing that he feared my daughter's life was already too much wasted to keep me long a prisoner. “However," continued he," though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no objections to laying your case before the uncle, who has the first character in the kingdom for every- 130 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD thing that is just and good. I would advise you to send him a letter by the post, intimating all his nephew's ill usage, and my life for it that in three days you shall have an answer.” I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set about comply- ing; but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been laid out that morning in provisions. However, he sup- plied me. For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety to know what reception my letter might meet with; but, in the meantime, was frequently solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain here; and every hour re- ceived repeated accounts of the decline of my daughter's health. The third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter. The complaints of a stranger against a favorite nephew were no way likely to succeed, so that these hopes soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, still supported itself, though confinement and bad air began to make a visible alteration in my health, and my arm, that had suffered in the fire, grew worse. My children, however, sat by me, and while I was stretched on my straw read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my instructions. But my daughter's health declined faster than mine; every message from her contributed to increase my apprehensions and pain. The fifth morning, after I had written the letter which was sent to Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an account that she was speechless. Now it was that confinement was truly painful to me; my soul was bursting from its prison to be near the pillow of my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last wishes, and...teach - her soul the way to heaven! Another account came. She.wąs expiring; and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner, some time after, came with the last account. He bade me be patient. She was dead! The next morning he returned, and found me with my two little ones, now my only companions, who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort me. They entreated to read to me, and bade me not to cry, for I was now too old to weep. “ And is not my sister an angel now, papa?” cried the eld- est; “and why, then, are you sorry for her? I wish I were an angel out of this frightful place, if my papa were with me.” I THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “Yes,” added my youngest darling, “heaven, where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there are none but good people there, and the people here are very bad.” Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by observ- ing that now my daughter was no more, I should seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt to save my own life, which was every day declining for want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resentment of my own to the wel- fare of those who depended on me for support, and that I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my landlord. “Heaven be praised !” replied I. “There is no pride left me now. I should detest my own heart if I saw either pride or resentment lurking there. On the contrary, as my op- pressor has been once my parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no resentment now; and though he has taken from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he has wrung my heart, for I am sick almost to fainting, very sick, my fellow-prisoner, yet that shall never inspire me with ven- geance. I am now willing to approve his marriage, and if this submission can do him any pleasure, let him know that if I have done him any injury, I am sorry for it.” Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down my sub- mission nearly as I have expressed it, to which I signed my name. My son was employed to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat in the country. He went, and in about six hours returned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants were insolent and suspicious; but he accidentally saw him as he was going out upon business, preparing for his marriage, which was to be in three days. He continued to inform us that he stepped up in the humblest manner and de- livered the letter, which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all submission was now too late and unnecessary; that he had heard of our application to his uncle, which met with the contempt it deserved; and, as for the rest, that all future applications should be directed to his attorney, not to him. He observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion of 132 ch le del pri lari i fa EVE and that ed: 1 ICA Jet ndi des Olivia's Return to Her Father fur at THON THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD the discretion of the two young ladies, they might have been the most agreeable intercessors. “Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, "you now dis- cover the temper of the man who oppresses me. He can at once be facetious and cruel; but let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite of all his bolts to restrain me. am now drawing toward an abode that looks brighter as I approach it. This expectation cheers my afflictions, and though I leave an helpless family of orphans behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken. Some friend, per- haps, will be found to assist them for the sake of their poor father; and some may charitably relieve them for the sake of their heavenly Father.” Just as I spoke my wife, whom I had not seen that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making efforts, but unable to speak. “Why, my love,” cried I, “why will you thus increase my afflictions by your own? What though no submissions can turn our severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in your other children when I shall be no more.” “We have indeed lost," returned she, "a darling child. My Sophia, my dearest, is gone, snatched from us, carried off by ruffians!” “How, madam," cried my fellow-prisoner, “Miss Sophia carried off by villains? Sure it cannot be!” She could only answer with a fixed look and a flood of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives, who was present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct account. She informed us that as my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together on the great road, a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to them and instantly stopped. Upon which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, step- ping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing her in, bade the postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment. “Now," cried I," the sum of my miseries is made up, nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give me another pang. What! not one left? not to leave me one! The monster! the 133 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD child that was next my heart! She had the beauty of an angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one!” “ Alas! my husband,” said my wife," you seem to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are great; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but easy. They may take away my children, and all the world, if they leave me but you." My son, who was present, endeavored to moderate our grief. He bade us take comfort, for he hoped that we might still have reason to be thankful. “My child,” cried I, “ look round the world, and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only lie beyond the grave?" My dear father,” returned he, “ I hope there is still some- thing that will give you an interval of satisfaction; for I have a letter from my brother George.” “What of him, child ? ” interrupted I. “Does he know our misery? I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his wretched family suffers ? " “Yes, sir,” returned he," he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing but good news; he is the favorite of his colonel, who promises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that becomes vacant!” And are you sure of all this?” cried my wife; sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?” "Nothing, indeed, madam," returned my son. “ You shall see the letter, which will give you the highest pleasure; and if anything can procure you comfort I am sure that will." “But are you sure,” still repeated she," that the letter is from himself, and that he is really so happy?” “Yes, madam," replied he, “it is certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and the support of our family." Then I thank Providence,” cried she, “ that my last letter to him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," continued she, turn- ing to me, “I will now confess that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it has been favor- able here. By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother's bless- are you 134 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD ing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But thanks be to Him that directs all things, it has miscarried, and I am at rest." Woman,” cried I, “ thou hast done very ill, and at another time my reproaches might have been more severe. Oh, what a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried both thee and him in endless ruin! Providence, indeed, has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father and protector of my children when I shall be away. How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of every comfort when still I hear that he is happy and insensible of our afflictions; still kept in reserve to sup- port his widowed mother and to protect his brothers and sis- ters! But what sisters has he left ? He has no sisters now; they are all gone, robbed from me, and I am undone." * Father,” interrupted my son, “I beg you will give me leave to read his letter; I know it will please you." Upon which, with my permission, he read as follows: 66 HONORED SIR: I have called off my imagination a few moments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that harmless group as listening to every line of this with great com- posure. I view those faces with delight which never felt the deform- ing hand of ambition or distress! But whatever your happiness may be at home, I am sure it will be some addition to it to hear that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, and every way happy here. Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave the kingdom. The colonel, who professes himself my friend, takes me with him to all companies where he is acquainted; and, after my first visit, I gen- erally find myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. I danced last night with Lady G-; and could I forget you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. But it is my fate still to re- member others, while I am myself forgotten by most of niy absent friends; and in this number I fear, sir, that I must consider you; for I have long expected the pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. Olivia, and Sophia too, promised to write, but seem to have forgotten Tell them they are two arrant little baggages, and that I am this moment in a most violent passion with them; yet still, I know not how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, sir, that, after all, I love them affectionately; and be assured of my ever remaining “ Your dutiful son.” me. 135 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD " In all our miseries," cried I,“ what thanks have we not to return that one, at least, of our family is exempted from what we suffer! Heaven be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to be the supporter of his widowed mother, and the father of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him. May he keep their innocence from the temptations of want, and be their conductor in the paths of honor.” I had scarce said these words when a noise, like that of a tumult, seemed to proceed from the prison below. It died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was heard along the passage that led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the heaviest irons. I looked with compassion on the wretch as he approached me, but with horror when I found it was my own son. “My George! my George! and do I behold thee thus? Wounded! fettered! Is this thy happi- ness? Is this the manner you return to me? Oh that this sight could break my heart at once, and let me die!” " Where, sir, is your fortitude ?” returned my son, with an intrepid voice. “I must suffer; my life is forfeited, and let them take it." I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes in silence; but I thought I should have died with the effort. “Oh, my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment that I thought thee blessed, and prayed for thy safety, to behold thee thus again! Chained, wounded! And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this day,—to see my children all untimely falling about me, while I con- tinue a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon the murderer of my children! May he live, like me, to see- "Hold, sir," replied my son, or I shall blush for thee. How, sir, forgetful of your age, your holy calling, thus to arrogate the justice of Heaven, and fling those curses upward, that must soon descend to crush thy own gray head with de- struction! No, sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I must shortly suffer, to arm me with hope and resolution, to give me courage to drink of that bitterness which must shortly be my portion." 136 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “My child, you must not die; I am sure no offense of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. My George could never be guilty of any crime to make his ancestors ashamed of him.” Mine, sir,” returned my son,“ is, I fear, an unpardonable one. When I received my mother's letter from home, I imme- diately came down, determined to punish the betrayer of our honor, and sent him an order to meet me, which he answered not in person, but by despatching four of his domestics to seize me. I wounded one, who first assaulted me, and, I fear, desperately; but the rest made me their prisoner. The cow- ard is determined to put the law in execution against me; the proofs are undeniable; I have sent a challenge, and, as I am the first transgressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of par- don. But you have often charmed me with your lessons of fortitude. Let me now, sir, find them in your example." “ And, my son, you shall find them. I am now raised above this world, and all the pleasures it can produce. From this moment I break from my heart all the ties that held it down to earth, and will prepare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I now see, and am convinced, you can expect no pardon here, and I can only exhort you to seek it at that greatest tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. But let us not be nig- gardly in our exhortation, but let all our fellow-prisoners have a share. Good jailer, let them be permitted to stand here while I attempt to improve them.” Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from my straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to recline against the wall. The prisoners assembled according to my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel; my son and his mother supported me on either side. I looked and saw that none were wanting, and then addressed them with the following exhortation. 137 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER XXIX THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED, WITH REGARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE BELOW; THAT FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN THE WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFER- INGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER. “ MY Y friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers: When I reflect on the distribution of good and evil here below, I find that much has been given man to enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine the whole world, we shall not find one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish for; but we daily see thousands who by suicide show us they have nothing left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely blessed, but yet we may be com- pletely miserable. Why man should thus feel pain; why our wretchedness should be requisite in the formation of universal felicity; why, when all other systems are made perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great system should require for its perfection parts that are not only subordinate to others, but imperfect in themselves—these are questions that never can be explained, and might be useless if known. On this subject Providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satis- fied with granting us motives to consolation. "In this situation man has called in the friendly assistance of philosophy; and Heaven, seeing the incapacity of that to console him, has given him the aid of religion. The consola- tions of philosophy are very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us that life is filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them; and, on the other hand, that though we unavoidably have miseries here, life is short, and they will soon be over. Thus do these consolations destroy each other; for, if life is a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, and if it be long our griefs are protracted. Thus philosophy is weak; but religion comforts in an higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind and preparing it for another abode. When the good man leaves the body, and is all a glorious mind, he will find he has been making himself a heaven of happiness 138 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD here, while the wretch that has been maimed and contami- nated by his vices shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To religion, then, we must hold, in every circumstance of life, for our truest comfort; for if already we are happy, it is a pleasure to think that we can make that happiness unending; and, if we are miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. Thus, to the fortunate religion holds out a continu- ance of bliss, to the wretched a change from pain. “But though religion is very kind to all men, it has prom- ised peculiar rewards to the unhappy; the sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, and the prisoner have ever most frequent promises in our sacred law. The author of our re- ligion everywhere professes himself the wretch's friend, and unlike the false ones of this world, bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as par- tiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. But they never reflect that it is not in the power even of Heaven itself to make the offer of unceasing felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the miserable. To the first, eternity is but a single bless- ing, since, at most, it but increases what they already possess. To the latter it is a double advantage, for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss hereafter. But Providence is, in another respect, kinder to the poor than the rich; for as it thus makes the life after death more desirable, so it smooths the passage there. The wretched have had a long familiarity with every face of terror. The man of sorrows lays himself quietly down without possessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his departure. He feels only nature's pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater than he has often fainted under before; for, after a certain degree of pain, every new breach that death opens in the constitution, nature kindly covers with insensibility. “Thus Providence has given the wretched two advantages over the happy in this life, greater felicity in dying, and in heaven all that superiority of pleasure which arises from con- trasted enjoyment. And this superiority, my friends, is no small advantage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor man in the parable; for, though he was already in heaven, and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was men- 139 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD tioned as an addition to his happiness that he had once been wretched, and now was comforted; that he had known what it was to be miserable, and now felt what it was to be happy. “ Thus, my friends, you see religion does what philosophy could never do: it shows the equal dealings of Heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and levels all human enjoyments to nearly the same standard. It gives to both rich and poor the same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; but if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure here, the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it was once to be miserable, when crowned with endless felicity here- after; and even though this should be called a small advan- tage, yet, being an eternal one, it must make up by duration what the temporal happiness of the great may have exceeded by intenseness. “These are therefore the consolations which the wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which they are above the rest of mankind. In other respects they are below them. They who would know the miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. To declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy is only repeating what none either believe or practise. The men who have the necessaries of living are not poor, and they who want them must be miserable. Yes, my friends, we must be miserable. No vain efforts of a refined imagina- tion can soothe the wants of nature; can give elastic sweetness to the dank vapor of a dungeon, or ease to the throbbings of a broken heart. Let the philosopher, from his couch of soft- ness, tell us we can resist all these. Alas! the effort by which we resist them is still the greatest pain! Death is slight, and any man may sustain it; but torments are dreadful, and these no man can endure. "To us, then, my friends, the promises of happiness in heaven should be peculiarly dear; for if our reward be in this life alone, we are then indeed of all men the most miserable. When I look round these gloomy walls, made to terrify as well as to confine us; this light that only serves to show the horrors of the place; those shackles that tyranny has imposed, or crime made necessary; when I survey these emaciated looks, and hear those groans: oh, my friends, what a glorious exchange would heaven be for these! To fly through regions 140 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD unconfined as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carol over endless hymns of praise, to have no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of Goodness himself for- ever in our eyes: when I think of these things, death becomes the messenger of very glad tidings; when I think of these things, his sharpest arrow becomes the staff of my support; when I think of these things, what is there in life worth hav- ing? when I think of these things, what is there that should not be spurned away? Kings in their palaces should groan for such advantages; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn for them. And shall these things be ours? Ours they will certainly dibe, if we but try for them; and, what is a comfort, we are shut out from many temptations that would retard our pur- suit. Only let us try for them, and they will certainly be ours, and, what is still a comfort, shortly too; for if we look back on past life, it appears but a very short span, and whatever we may think of the rest of life, it will yet be found of less dura- tion; as we grow older, the days seem to grow shorter, and our intimacy with time ever lessens the perception of his stay. Then let us take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our journey's end; we shall soon lay down the heavy burden laid by Heaven upon us; and though death, the only friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks the weary traveler with the view, and, like his horizon, still flies before him, yet the time will certainly and shortly come when we shall cease from our toil; when the luxurious great ones of the world shall no more tread us to the earth; when we shall think with pleasure on our sufferings below; when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, or. such as deserved our friendship; when our bliss shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, unending." 141 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER XXX HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR-LET US BE IN FLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN OUR FAVOR. WHEN HEN I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, the jailer, who was one of the most humane of his profession, hoped I would not be displeased, as what he did was but his duty, observing that he must be obliged to remove my son into a stronger cell, but that he should be permitted to revisit me every morning. I thanked him for his clemency; and, grasping my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mind- ful of the great duty that was before him. I again, therefore, laid me down, and one of my little ones sate by my bedside reading, when Mr. Jenkinson, entering, informed me that there was news of my daughter; for that she was seen by a person, about two hours before, in a strange gentleman's company, and that they had stopped at a neigh- boring village for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to town. He had scarce delivered this news when the jailer came, with looks of haste and pleasure, to inform me that my daughter was found. Moses came running in a moment after, crying out that his sister Sophy was below, and coming up with our old friend Mr. Burchell. Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl entered, and, with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me in a transport of affection. Her mother's tears and silence also showed her pleasure. “Here, papa,” cried the charming girl, “ here is the brave man to whom I owe my delivery. To this gentleman's in- trepidity I am indebted for my happiness and safety—" A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even greater than hers, interrupted what she was going to add. “Ah! Mr. Burchell," cried I, "this is but a wretched habi- tation you now find us in; and we are now very different from what you last saw us. You were ever our friend. We have long discovered our errors with regard to you, and re- pented of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then re- ceived at my hands, I am almost ashamed to behold your face; yet I hope you 'll forgive me, as I was deceived by a base un- 142 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD generous wretch, who, under the mask of friendship, has un- done me.” “ It is impossible,” replied Mr. Burchell, “ that I should forgive you, as you never deserved my resentment. I partly saw your delusion then, and as it was out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it!” “ It was ever my conjecture,” cried I, that your mind was noble; but now I find it so. But tell me, my dear child, how hast thou been relieved, or who the ruffians were who carried thee away." “ Indeed, sir," replied she, "as to the villain who carried me off, I am yet ignorant. For as my mama and I were walking out, he came behind us, and almost before I could call for help forced me into the post-chaise, and in an instant the horses drove away. I met several on the road, to whom I cried out for assistance; but they disregarded my entreaties. In the mean- time, the ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from crying out. He flattered and threatened by turns, and swore that if I continued but silent he intended no harm. In the meantime, I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walking along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick for which we used so much to ridicule him. As soon as he came within hearing I called out to him by name, and entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations several times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he bade the postilion stop; but the boy took no notice, but drove on with still greater speed. I now thought he could never overtake us, when, in less than a minute, I saw Mr. Burchell come running up by the side of the horses, and with one blow knock the postilion to the ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped of themselves; and the ruffian, stepping out, with oaths and menaces, drew his sword, and ordered him at his peril to retire; but Mr. Burchell, running up, shivered his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile, but he made his escape. I was at this time come out myself, willing to assist my deliverer; but he soon returned to me in triumph. The postilion, who was recovered, was going to make his escape too, but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril to mount again, and drive back to town. Finding it im- 143 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD possible to resist, he reluctantly complied, though the wound he had received seemed, to me at least, to be dangerous. He continued to complain of the pain as we drove along, so that he at last excited Mr. Burchell's compassion, who, at my re- quest, exchanged him for another at an inn where we called on our return." “Welcome, then," cried I, "my child, and thou, her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes. Though our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready to receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she is yours; if you can stoop to an alliance with a family so poor as mine, take her, obtain her consent, as I know you have her heart, and you have mine. And let me tell you, sir, that I give you no small treasure; she has been celebrated for beauty, it is true, but that is not my meaning. I give you up a treasure in her mind.” “But I suppose, sir,” cried Mr. Burchell, “ that you are apprised of my circumstances, and of my incapacity to support her as she deserves ? " “If your present objection," replied I, "be meant as an evasion of my offer, I desist; but I know no man so worthy to deserve her as you; and if I could give her thousands, and thousands sought her from me, yet my honest, brave Burchell should be my dearest choice.” To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying re- fusal, and, without the least reply to my offer, he demanded if we could not be furnished with refreshments from the next inn. To which being answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to send in the best dinner that could be provided upon such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their best wine, and some cordials for me, adding, with a smile, that he would stretch a little for once, and, though in a prison, as- serted he was never better disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made his appearance with preparations for dinner. A table was lent us by the jailer, who seemed remarkably assidu- ous; the wine was disposed in order, and two very well- dressed dishes were brought in. My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's melan- choly situation, and we all seemed unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the relation. But it was in vain that I at- 144 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD tempted to appear cheerful. The circumstances of my unfor- tunate son broke through all efforts to dissemble; so that I was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating his misfor- tunes, and wishing that he might be permitted to share with us in this little interval of satisfaction. After my guests were recovered from the consternation my account had produced, I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-prisoner, might be admitted, and the jailer granted my request with an air of unual submission. The clanking of my son's irons was no sooner heard along the passage than his sister ran impatiently to meet him, while Mr. Burchell, in the meantime, asked me if my son's name were George, to which replying in the affirma- tive, he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered the room I could perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of astonishment and reverence. Come on," cried I, “my son, though we are fallen very low, yet Providence has been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her deliverer. To that brave man it is that I am indebted for yet having a daughter. Give him, my boy, the hand of friendship; he deserves our warmest gratitude.' My son seemed all this while regardless of what I said, and still continued fixed at a respectful distance. “My dear brother,” cried his sister, “why don't you thank my good deliverer? The brave should ever love each other." He still continued his silence and his astonishment, till our guest at last perceived himself to be known, and, assuming all his native dignity, desired my son to come forward. Never before had I seen anything so truly majestic as the air he as- sumed upon this occasion. The greatest object in the uni- verse, says a certain philosopher, is a good man struggling with adversity; yet there is still a greater, which is the good man that comes to relieve it. After he had regarded my son for some time with a superior air, “I again find,” said he, “ unthinking boy, that the same crime” But here he was interrupted by one of the jailer's servants, who came to inform us that a person of distinction, who had driven into town with a chariot and several attendants, sent his respects to the gentle- man that was with us, and begged to know when he should think proper to be waited upon. “Bid the fellow wait," cried 10 145 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD “ This,” says the time de our guest,“ till I shall have leisure to receive him "; and then, turning to my son, “I again find, sir," proceeded he, " that you are guilty of the same offense for which you once had my reproof, and for which the law is now preparing its justest punishments. You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt for your own life gives you a right to take that of another; but where, sir, is the difference between a duelist, who hazards a life of no value, and the murderer who acts with greater se- curity? Is it any diminution of the gamester's fraud when he alleges that he has staked a counter ?” " Alas, sir,” cried I, “whoever you are, pity the poor mis- -- guided creature; for what he has done was in obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the bitterness of her resentment, re- quired him, upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel! Here, sir, is the letter, which will serve to convince you of her im- prudence and diminish his guilt." He took the letter and hastily read it over. he, “though not a perfect excuse, is such a palliation of his 22 a.; fault as induces me to forgive him. And now, sir,” continued he, kindly taking my son by the hand, “I see you are sur- prised at finding me here; but I have often visited prisons milie upon occasions less interesting. I am now come to see jus- tice done a worthy man for whom I have the most sincere but 1 I have long been a disguised spectator of thy father's benevolence. I have at his little dwelling enjoyed respect un- contaminated by flattery, and have received that happiness that * And courts could not give from the amusing simplicity round his fireside. My nephew has been apprised of my intentions of coming here, and I find is arrived. It would be wronging him and you to condemn him without examination. If there that I be injury, there shall be redress; and this I may say without boasting, that none have ever taxed the injustice of Sir William Thornhill." We now found the personage whom we had so long enter- tained as an harmless amusing companion was no other than the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities scarce any were strangers. The poor Mr. Bur- chell was in reality a man of large fortune and great interest, to whom senates listened with applause, and whom party heard with conviction; who was the friend of his country, but "I ask "Yes, 209, " oL "I can It " Plea it is certa daten I know moment. a farth Upon Sir Wil "Yes 146 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 cer cet OI atince TE SI loyal to his king. My poor wife, recollecting her former familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehension; but Sophia, who a few moments before thought him her own, now perceiv- ing the immense distance to which he was removed by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears. * Ah, sir,” cried my wife, with a piteous aspect,“ how is it possible that I can ever have your forgiveness? The slights you received from me the last time I had the honor of seeing you at our house, and the jokes which I audaciously threw out,—these jokes, sir, I fear can never be forgiven." “My dear good lady," returned he, with a smile,“ if you had your joke, I had my answer. I'll leave it to all the com- Ha pany if mine were not as good as yours. To say the truth, I know nobody whom I am disposed to be angry with at present but the fellow who so frighted my little girl here. I had not even time to examine the rascal's person, so as to describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my dear, whether you should know him again?” Indeed, sir," replied she, “ I can't be positive; yet, now I priscos recollect, he had a large mark over one of his eyebrows. “I ask pardon, madam,” interrupted Jenkinson, who was since by, “but be so good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own Eathe red hair." “Yes, I think so," cried Sophia. “And did your Honor," continued he, turning to Sir Wil- unds liam,“ observe the length of his legs?” "I can't be sure of their length,” cried the baronet, “but I am convinced of their swiftness, for he outran me, which is what I thought few men in the kingdom could have done." "Please your Honor," cried Jenkinson, “I know the man; of S it is certainly the same; the best runner in England. He has beaten Pinwire, of Newcastle; Timothy Baxter is his name. I know him perfectly, and the very place of his retreat this inoment. If your Honor will bid Mr. Jailer let two of his men go with me, I 'll engage to produce him to you in an hour at farthest." Upon this the jailer was called, who instantly appearing, Sir William demanded if he knew him. “Yes, please your Honor,” replied the jailer, “I know Sir mee je ect 11 ess the ions congir : If ther witho enter er the tes an r. Bur nteresi 7 part tri ; de 147 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD William Thornhill well; and everybody that knows anything of him will desire to know more of him," “Well, then,” said the baronet, “my request is that you will permit this man and two of your servants to go upon a mes- sage, by my authority; and, as I am in the Commission of the Peace, I undertake to secure you." “ Your promise is sufficient,” replied the other, “and you may, at a minute's warning, send them over England, when- ever your Honor thinks fit.” In pursuance of the jailer's compliance, Jenkinson was despatched in search of Timothy Baxter, while we were amused with the assiduity of our youngest boy Bill, who had just come in and climbed up to Sir William's neck, in order to kiss him. His mother was immediately going to chastise his familiarity, but the worthy man prevented her, and taking the child, all ragged as he was, upon his knee, “What, Bill, you chubby rogue,” cried he, “ do you remember your old friend Burchell? And Dick, too, my honest veteran, are you here? You shall find I have not forgot you.” So saying, he gave each a large piece of ginger-bread, which the poor fellows ate very heartily, as they had got that morning but a very scanty breakfast. We now sate down to dinner, which was almost cold; but previously, my arm still continuing painful, Sir William wrote a prescription, for he had made the study of physic his amuse- ment, and was more than moderately skilled in the profession. This being sent to an apothecary who lived in the place, my arm was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. We were waited upon at dinner by the jailer himself, who was willing to do our guest all the honor in his power. But before we had well dined another message was brought from his nephew, desiring permission to appear, in order to vindi- cate his innocence and honor, with which request the baronet complied, and desired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 148 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER XXXI FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEXPECTED INTEREST. MR he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air of disdain. “No fawning, sir, at present,” cried the baronet, with a look of severity. “The only way to my heart is by the road of honor; but here I only see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and oppression. How is it, sir, that this poor man, for whom I know you professed a friendship, is used thus hardly? His daughter vilely seduced, as a recompense for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into a prison, perhaps but for resenting the insult. His son, too, whom you feared to face as a man- "Is it possible, sir," interrupted his nephew, "that my uncle could object that as a crime, which his repeated instruc- tions alone have persuaded me to avoid ?” “Your rebuke," cried Sir William, “is just; you have acted in this instance prudently and well, though not quite as your father would have done. My brother, indeed, was the soul of honor; but thou—yes, you have acted in this instance perfectly right, and it has my warmest approbation.” “And I hope," said his nephew, “ that the rest of my con- duct will not be found to deserve censure. I appeared, sir, with his gentleman's daughter at some places of public amuse- ment; thus, what was levity, scandal called by a harsher name, and it was reported that I had debauched her. I waited on her father in person, willing to clear the thing to his satis- faction, and he received me only with insult and abuse. As for the rest, with regard to his being here, my attorney and steward can best inform you, as I commit the management of business entirely to them. If he has contracted debts, and is unwilling or even unable to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this manner, and I see no hardship or injustice in pursuing the most legal means of redress.” “If this,” cried Sir William, “be as you have stated it, there is nothing unpardonable in your offense; and though your 149 u THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD conduct might have been more generous in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable." “He cannot contradict a single particular," replied the Squire. "I defy him to do so; and several of my servants are ready to attest what I say. Thus, sir," continued he, find- ing that I was silent, for, in fact, I could not contradict him, “ thus, sir, my own innocence is vindicated. But though, at your entreaty, I am ready to forgive this gentleman every other offense, yet his attempts to lessen me in your esteem excite a resentment that I cannot govern; and this, too, at a time when his son was actually preparing to take away my life. This, I say, was such guilt that I am determined to let the law take its course. I have here the challenge that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove it. One of my servants has been wounded dangerously; and even though my uncle himself should dissuade me, which I know he will not, yet I will see public justice done, and he shall suffer for it.” “Thou monster!” cried my wife, “hast thou not had venge- ance enough already, but must my poor boy feel thy cruelty ? I hope that good Sir William will protect us, for my son is as innocent as a child. I am sure he is, and never did harm to man.” “Madam,” replied the good man, “your wishes for his safety are not greater than mine; but I am sorry to find his guilt too plain; and if my nephew persists—" But the appearance of Jenkinson and the jailer's two serv- ants now called off our attention, who entered, haling in a tall man very genteelly dressed, and answering the description already given of the ruffian who had carried off my daughter. “Here," cried Jenkinson, pulling him in, “ here we have him; and if ever there was a candidate for Tyburn, this is one." The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, and Jenkinson who had him in custody, he seemed to shrink back with terror. His face became pale with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn; but Jenkinson, who perceived his design, stopped him. “ What! Squire,” cried he, "are you ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter? But this is the 150 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 “How,” interrupted young Mr. Thornhill, “ this to my face!” “Yes," replied the butler, or to any man's face. To tell you a truth, Master Thornhill, I never either loved you or liked you, and I don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind.” “Now, then,” cried Jenkinson,“ tell his Honor whether you know anything of me.” “I can't say,” replied the butler, " that I know much good of you. The night that gentleman's daughter was deluded to our house you were one of them.” “So, then," cried Sir William, “ I find you have brought a very fine witness to prove your innocence. Thou stain to humanity, to associate with such wretches!” But continuing his examination, “You tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the person who brought him this old gentleman's daughter." No, please your Honor," replied the butler," he did not bring her, for the Squire himself undertook that business; but he brought the priest that pretended to marry them.” “It is but too true,” cried Jenkinson; “I cannot deny it, that was the employment assigned me, and I confess it to my confusion.” “Good heavens!” exclaimed the baronet, “how every new discovery of his villainy alarms me! All his guilt is now too plain; and I find his present prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and revenge. At my request, Mr. Jailer, set this young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to me for the consequences. I'll make it my business to set the affair in a proper light to my friend, the magistrate, who has committed him. But where is the unfortunate young lady herself? Let her appear to confront this wretch. I long to know by what arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to come in. Where is she?” “Ah, sir!” said I, “that question stings me to the heart. I was once indeed happy in a daughter, but her miseries—" Another interruption here prevented me, for who should make her appearance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could equal her surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew here before her, for her arrival was quite accidental. It hap- 152 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD pened that she and the old gentleman her father were passing through the town, on their way to her aunt's, who had insisted that her nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be consummated at her house; but stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was there, from the win- dow, that the young lady happened to observe one of my little boys playing in the street, and instantly sending a footman to bring the child to her, she learned from him some account of our misfortunes; but was still kept ignorant of young Mr. Thornhill's being the cause. Though her father made several remonstrances on the impropriety of going to a prison to visit us, yet they were ineffectual. She desired the child to conduct her, which he did; and it was thus she surprised us at a junc- ture so unexpected. Nor can I go on without a reflection on those accidental meetings, which, though they happen every day, seldom excite our surprise, but upon some extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concurrence do we not owe every pleasure and convenience of our lives! How many seeming accidents must unite before we can be clothed or fed! The peasant must be disposed to labor, the shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, or numbers must want the usual supply. We all continued silent for some moments, while my charm- ing pupil, which was the name I generally gave this young lady, united in her looks compassion and astonishment, which gave new finishings to her beauty. “Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill," cried she to the Squire, who she supposed was come here to succor, and not to oppress us, “I take it a little unkindly that you should come here without me, or never inform me of the situation of a family so dear to us both. You know I should take as much pleasure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret." "He find pleasure in doing good!” cried Sir William, inter- rupting her. “No, my dear, his pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, madam, as complete a villain as ever dis- graced humanity—a wretch who, after having deluded this poor man's daughter, after plotting against the innocence of her sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the eldest son 153 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD into fetters because he had courage to face his betrayer. And give me leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an es- cape from the embraces of such a monster." “O goodness ! ” cried the lovely girl,“ how have I been deceived! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain that this gentleman's eldest son, Captain Primrose, was gone off to America with his new married lady." “My sweetest miss," cried my wife," he has told you noth- ing but falsehoods. My son George never left the kingdom, nor never was married. Though you have forsaken him, he has always loved you too well to think of anybody else; and I have heard him say he would die a bachelor for your sake.” She then proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's passion; she set his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a proper light; from thence she made a rapid digression to the Squire's de- baucheries, his pretended marriages, and ended with a most insulting picture of his cowardice. “Good heavens !" cried Miss Wilmot,“ how very near have I been to the brink of ruin; but how great is my pleasure to have escaped it! Ten thousand falsehoods has this gentleman told me. He had at last art enough to persuade me that my promise to the only man I esteemed was no longer binding, since he had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was taught to detest one equally brave and generous ! ” But by this time my son was freed from the encumbrances of justice, as the person supposed to be wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr. Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet de chambre, had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with whatever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. He now, therefore, entered, handsomely dressed in his regi- mentals; and, without vanity (for I am above it), he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he entered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet acquainted with the change which the elo- quence of his mother had wrought in his favor. But no decorums could restrain the impatience of his blushing mis- tress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed to discover the real sensations of her heart for having forgotten her former promise, and having suffered herself to be deluded 154 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD by an impostor. My son appeared amazed at her condescen- sion, and could scarce believe it real. Sure, madam," cried he, “this is but delusion! I can never have merited this! To be blessed thus is to be too happy.” No, sir," replied she, “I have been deceived, basely de- ceived, else nothing could have ever made me unjust to my promise. You know my friendship, you have long known it; but forget what I have done, and, as you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now have them repeated; and be assured that if your Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be another's.” And no other's you shall be,” cried Sir William, “ if I have any influence with your father.” This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who immediately flew to the inn where the old gentleman was, to inform him of every circumstance that had happened. But, in the mean- time, the Squire, perceiving that he was on every side undone, now finding that no hopes were left from flattery or dissimu- lation, concluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he appeared the open, hardy villain. “I find, then,” cried he,“ that I am to expect no justice here, but I am resolved it shall be done me. You shall know, sir," turning to Sir William, “I am no longer a poor de- pendent upon your favors. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The articles, and a bond for her fortune, are signed and safe in my possession. It was her fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish for this match; and possessed of the one, let who will take the other." This was an alarming blow; Sir William was sensible of the justness of his claims, for he had been instrumental in drawing up the marriage articles himself. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that her fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, she asked if the loss of fortune could lessen her value to him. “ Though fortune,” said she, “ is out of my power, at least I have my hand to give.” And that, madam,” cried her real lover, was indeed all that you ever had to give, at least all that I ever thought worth 155 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD the acceptance. And I now protest, my Arabella, by all that 's happy, your want of fortune this moment increases my pleas- ure, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity.” Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little pleased at the danger his daughter had just escaped, and readily con- sented to a dissolution of the match. But finding that her for- tune, which was secured to Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now saw that his money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal; but to want an equivalent to his daughter's fortune was wormwood. He sat, therefore, for some minutes employed in the most mortifying speculations, till Sir William attempted to lessen his anxiety. "I must confess, sir," cried he," that your present disap- pointment does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate passion for wealth is now justly punished. But, though the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a competence sufficient to give content. Here you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to take her without fortune. They have long loved each other; and for the friendship I bear his father, my inter- est shall not be wanting in his promotion. Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, and for once admit that hap- piness which courts your acceptance." "Sir William," replied the old gentleman, “be assured I never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I now. If she still continues to love this young gentleman, let her have him with all my heart. There is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will make it something more. Only let my old friend here ”—meaning me—“ give me a promise of settling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he should come to his fortune, and I am ready this night to be the first to join them together.' As it now remained with me to make the young couple happy, I readily gave a promise of making the settlement he required, which, to one who had such little expectations as I, was no great favor. We had now, therefore, the satisfac- tion of seeing them fly into each other's arms in a transport. “After all my misfortunes," cried my son George, “to be thus rewarded! Sure this is more than I could ever have 156 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 66 presumed to hope for. To be possessed of all that 's good, and after such an interval of pain! My warmest wishes could never rise so high!” “Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride, "now let the wretch take my fortune; since you are happy without it, so am I. Oh, what an exchange have I made, from the basest of men to the dearest, best! Let him enjoy our fortune. I now can be happy even in indigence." And I promise you,” cried the Squire, with a malicious grin, “ that I shall be very happy with what you despise.” Hold, hold, sir,” cried Jenkinson, “ there are two words to that bargain. As for that lady's fortune, sir, you shall never touch a single stiver of it. Pray, your Honor," continued he to Sir William, “can the Squire have this lady's fortune if he be married to another?” “ How can you make such a simple demand ?” replied the baronet. “Undoubtedly he cannot.” "I am sorry for that," cried Jenkinson, “ for as this gentle- man and I have been old fellow sporters, I have a friendship for him. But I must declare, well as I love him, that his contract is not worth a tobacco-stopper, for he is married al- ready." “You lie like a rascal,” returned the Squire, who seemed roused by this insult. “I never was legally married to any woman." Indeed, begging your Honor's pardon,” replied the other, you were; and I hope you will show a proper return of friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who brings you a wife, and if the company restrains their curiosity a few min- utes, they shall see her." So saying, he went off with his usual celerity, and left us all unable to form any probable con- jecture as to his design. Ay, let him go,” cried the Squire, “whatever else I may have done, I defy him there. I am too old now to be fright- ened with squibs." “I am surprised," said the baronet, "what the fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of humor, I suppose.” “Perhaps, sir," replied I," he may have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the various schemes this gentleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some one 157 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD more artful than the rest has been found able to deceive him. When we consider what numbers he has ruined, how many parents now feel with anguish the infamy and the contamina- tion which he has brought into their families, it would not sur- prise me if some one of them-Amazement! Do I see my lost daughter? Do I hold her? It is, it is my life, my happiness! I thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee—and still thou shalt live to bless me.”[ The warmest transports of the fondest lover were not greater than mine, when I saw him introduce my child, and held my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her raptures. “And art thou returned to me, my darling,” cried I, “ to be my comfort in age? “That she is,” cried Jenkinson, “and make much of her, for she is your own honorable child, and as honest a woman as any in the whole room, let the other be who she will. And as for you, Squire, as sure as you stand there, this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And, to convince you that I speak nothing but truth, here is the license by which you were married together." So saying, he put the license into the baronet's hands, who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. “And now, gentlemen,” continued he, “I find you are surprised at all this; but a few words will explain the diffi- culty. That there Squire of renown, for whom I have a great friendship,-but that's between ourselves,-has often em- ployed me in doing odd little things for him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to procure him a false license and a false priest, in order to deceive this young lady. But, as was very much his friend, what did I do, but went and got a true license and a true priest, and married them both as fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps you 'll think it was generosity that made me do all this. But no. To my shame I confess it, my only design was to keep the license, and let the Squire know that I could prove it upon him whenever I thought proper, and so make him come down whenever I wanted money." A burst of pleasure now seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy reached even to the common room, where the prisoners themselves sympathized, And shook their chains, In transport and rude harmony. 158 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even Olivia's cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be thus restored to reputation, to friends, and fortune at once was a rapture suffi- cient to stop the progress of decay and restore former health and vivacity. But perhaps among all there was not one who felt sincerer pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child in my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not delusion. “How could you,” cried I, turning to Mr. Jenkinson,“ how could you add to my miseries by the story of her death? But it matters not; my pleasure at finding her again is more than a recompense for the pain. “As to your question," replied Jenkinson, " that is easily answered. I thought the only probable means of freeing you from prison was by submitting to the Squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant while your daughter was living; there was therefore no other method to bring things to bear, but by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving you till now. In the whole assembly there now only appeared two faces that did not glow with transport. Mr. Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him. He now saw the gulf of infamy and want before him, and trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing misery implored compassion., Sir William was go- ing to spurn him away, but, at my request, he raised him, and, after pausing a few moments, “Thy vices, crimes, and ingrati- tude," cried he, "deserve no tenderness, yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken; a bare competence shall be supplied to support the wants of life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall be put in possession of a third part of that for- tune which once was thine; and from her tenderness alone thou art to expect any extraordinary supplies for the future.” He was going to express his gratitude for such kindness in a set speech; but the baronet prevented him by bidding him not aggravate his meanness, which was already but too appar- ent. He ordered him at the same time to be gone, and from all his former domestics to choose one such as he should think 159 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD proper, which was all that should be granted to attend him. As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and wished her joy. His ex- ample was followed by Miss Wilmot and her father; my wife, too, kissed her daughter with much affection, as, to use her own expression, she was now made an honest woman of. Sophia and Moses followed in turn; and even our benefactor, Jenkinson, desired to be admitted to that honor. Our satis- faction seemed scarce capable of increase. Sir William, whose greatest pleasure was in doing good, now looked round with a countenance open as the sun, and saw nothing but joy in the looks of all except that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. “I think now," cried he, with a smile," that all the com- pany, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. There only remains an act of justice for me to do. You are sensible, sir," continued he, turning to me, " of the obligations we both owe Mr. Jenkinson; and it is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make him very happy; and he shall have from me five hundred pounds as her fortune, and upon this, I am sure, they can live very comfortably to- gether. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my making? Will you have him?” My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's arms at the hideous proposal. “Have him, sir!” cried she faintly. “No, sir, never!" What,” cried he again, “not have Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome young fellow, with five hundred pounds and good expectations!” “I beg, sir," returned she, scarce able to speak, that you ’ll desist, and not make me so very wretched.” “Was ever such obstinacy known," cried he again, "to re- fuse a man whom the family has such infinite obligations to, who has preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds! What, not have him? “No, sir, never !” replied she, angrily. “I'd sooner die first." ' If that be the case, then,” cried he, “if you will not have him I think I must have you myself.” And so saying, he 6 Ібо THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD caught her to his breast with ardor. “My loveliest, my most sensible of girls,” cried he, “how could you ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a mistress that loved him for him- self alone? I have for some years sought for a woman who, a stranger to my fortune, could think that I had merit as a man. After having tried in vain, even amongst the pert and the ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to have made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly beauty!” Then, turning to Jenkinson, “ As I cannot, sir, part with this young lady myself, for she has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense I can make is to give you her fortune, and you may call upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred pounds." Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony that her sister had done before. In the meantime, Sir William's gen- tleman appeared to tell us that the equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where everything was prepared for our reception. My wife and I led the van, and left those gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the prisoners; and Mr. Wil- mot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. We were received below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of my honest parishioners, who were among the number. They attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and coarser provisions distributed in great quantities among the populace. After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the alterna- tion of pleasure and pain which they had sustained during the day, I asked permission to withdraw; and, leaving the com- pany in the midst of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone I poured out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning. 161 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD CHAPTER XXXII THE CONCLUSION. 'HE next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my eldest son sitting by my bedside, who came to increase my joy with another turn of fortune in my favor. First, hav- ing released me from the settlement that I had made the day before in his favor, he let me know that my merchant, who had failed in town, was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to a much greater amount than what was due to his creditors. My boy's generosity pleased me almost as much as this unlooked-for good fortune. But I had some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept his offer. While I was pondering upon this, Sir William entered the room, to whom I communicated my doubts His opinion was that, as my son was already possessec of a very affluent fortune by his narriage, I might accept his offer without any hesitation. His business, however, was to inform me that as he had the night before sent for the licenses, and expected them every hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in mak- ing all the conipany happy that inorning. A footman entered while we were speaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned; and as I was by this time ready, I went down, where I found the whole company as merry as affluence and inno- cence could make theni. However, as they were now prepar- ing for a very solemn ceremony, their laughter entirely dis- pleased me. I told them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read them two homilies and a thesis of my own compos- ing, in order to prepare them. Yet they still seemed perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we were going along to church, to which I led the way, all gravity had quite for- saken them, and I was often tempted to turn back in indigna- tion. In church a new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. This was, which couple should be married first. My son's bride warmly insisted that Lady Thornhill- that was to be-should take the lead; but this the other re- fused with equal ardor, protesting she would not be guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argument was supported 162 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD for some time between both with equal obstinacy and good breeding. But as I stood all this time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of the contest; and, shutting it, “I perceive,” cried I, “ that none of you have a mind to be mar- ried; and I think we had as good go back again, for I suppose there will be no business done here to-day.” This at once re- duced them to reason. The baronet and his lady were first married, and then my son and his lovely partner. I had previously that morning given orders that a coach should be sent for my honest neighbor Flamborough and his family; by which means, upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my son Moses led up the other (and I have since found that he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and bounty he shall have whenever he thinks proper to demand them). We were no sooner returned to the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my success, came to congratulate me; but among the rest were those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told the story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out and re- proved them with great severity; but finding them quite dis- heartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half a guinea apiece to drink his health and raise their dejected spirits. Soon after this we were called to a very genteel entertain- ment, which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's cook. And it may not be improper to observe, with respect to that gentle- man, that he now resides in quality of companion at a rela- tion's house, being very well liked, and seldom sitting at the side-table except when there is no room at the other, for they make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken up in keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to blow the French horn. My eldest daughter, however, still remem- bers him with regret; and she has even told me, though I make great secret of it, that when he reforms she may be brought to relent. But to return--for I am not apt to digress thus—when we were to sit down to dinner, our ceremonies were going to be renewed. The question was, whether my eldest daughter, as 103 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD being a matron, should not sit above the two young brides? But the debate was cut short by my son George, who proposed that the company should sit indiscriminately, every gentleman by his lady. This was received with great approbation by all, excepting my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she expected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of the table and carving all the meat for all the com- pany. But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe our good humor. I can't say whether we had more wit amongst us now than usual, but I am certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as well. One jest I par- ticularly remember. Old Mr. Wilmot, drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way, my son replied, “ Mad- am, I thank you.” Upon which the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the company, observed that he was thinking of his mistress. At which jest I thought the two Miss Flam- boroughs would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, according to my old custom I requested that the table might be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my family assembled once more by a cheerful fireside. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the company by their partners. I had nothing now on this side of the grave to wish for; all my cares were over; my pleasure was unspeakable. It now only remained that my gratitude in good fortune should exceed my former submission in ad- versity. 164 4 Tbe Englisb Comedie humaine bome Library THE MAN OF FEELING BY HENRY MACKENZIE 1 ***** r “His daughter was now prostrate at his feet" The Englisb Comédie bumaine bome Library THE MAN OF FEELING BY HENRY MACKENZIE AR NEW YORK The Century Co. 1907 Copyright, 1902, by THE CENTURY Co. Published November, 1908. ! INTRODUCTION My dog had made a point on a piece of fallow-ground, and led the curate and me two or three hundred yards over that and some stubble adjoining, in a breathless state of expecta- tion, on a burning first of September. It was a false point, and our labour was vain: yet, to do Rover justice (for he's an excellent dog, though I have lost his pedigree), the fault was none of his, the birds were gone : the curate showed me the spot where they had lain basking, at the root of an old hedge. I stopped and cried Hem! The curate is fatter than I; he wiped the sweat from his brow. There is no state where one is apter to pause and look round one, than after such a disappointment. It is even so in life. When we have been hurrying on, impelled by some warm wish or other, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left-we find of a sudden that all our gay hopes are flown; and the only slender consolation that some friend can give us, is to point where they were once to be found. And if we are not of that combustible race, who will rather beat their heads in spite, than wipe their brows with the curate, we look round and say, with the nauseated listlessness of the king of Israel, “ All is vanity and vexation of spirit.” I looked round with some such grave apophthegm in my mind when I discovered, for the first time, a venerable pile, to which the enclosure belonged. An air of melancholy hung about it. There was a languid stillness in the day, and a sin- gle crow, that perched on an old tree by the side of the gate, seemed to delight in the echo of its own croaking. I leaned on my gun and looked; but I had not breath V INTRODUCTION enough to ask the curate a question. I observed carving on the bark of some of the trees : 'twas indeed the only mark of human art about the place, except that some branches ap- peared to have been lopped, to give a view of the cascade, which was formed by a little rill at some distance. Just at that instant I saw pass between the trees a young lady with a book in her hand. I stood upon a stone to observe her; but the curate sat him down on the grass, and leaning his back where I stood, told me, " That was the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman of the name of Walton, whom he had seen walking there more than once. “Some time ago,” he said, one HARLEY lived there, a whimsical sort of a man I am told, but I was not then in the cure; though, if I had a turn for such things, I might know a good deal of his history, for the greatest part of it is still in my possession." “ His history!” said I. “Nay, you may call it what you please," said the curate; " for indeed it is no more a history than it is a sermon. The way I came by it was this: some time ago, a grave, oddish kind of a man boarded at a farmer's in this parish: the country people called him The Ghost; and he was known by the slouch in his gait, and the length of his stride. I was but little acquainted with him, for he never frequented any of the clubs hereabouts. Yet for all he used to walk a-nights, he was as gentle as a lamb at times; for I have seen him playing at teetotum with the children, on the great stone at the door of our churchyard. Soon after I was made curate, he left the parish, and went nobody knows whither; and in his room was found a bundle of papers, which was brought to me by his landlord. I began to read them, but I soon grew weary of the task; for, besides that the hand is intolerably bad, I could never find the author in one strain for two chapters together; and I don't believe there's a single syllogism from beginning to end." vi INTRODUCTION 66 'Tis ex- “I should be glad to see this medley,” said I. "You shall see it now," answered the curate, “ for I always take it along with me a-shooting." “How came it so torn?” cellent wadding," said the curate.-This was a plea of expe- diency I was not in a condition to answer; for I had actually in my pocket great part of an edition of one of the German Illustrissimi, for the very same purpose. We exchanged books; and by that means (for the curate is a strenuous lo- gician) we probably saved both. When I returned to town, I had leisure to peruse the ac- quisition I had made: I found it a bundle of little episodes, put together without art, and of no importance on the whole, with something of nature, and little else in them. I was a good deal affected with some very trifling passages in it; and had the name of Marmontel, or a Richardson, been on the title-page- 'tis odds that I should have wept: But One is ashamed to be pleased with the works of one knows not whom. vü, THE MAN OF FEELING THE MAN OF FEELING CHAPTER XI1 OF BASHFULNESS-A CHARACTER-HIS OPINION ON THAT SUBJECT. THERE is some must about every manhat the beginning; stance) the ideas of the inhabitants, from climate, or what other cause you will, are so vivacious, so eternally on the wing, that they must, even in small societies, have a frequent colli- sion; the rust therefore will wear off sooner : but in Britain it often goes with a man to his grave, nay, he dares not even pen a hic jacet to speak out for him after his death. “Let them rub it off by travel,” said the baronet's brother, who was a striking instance of excellent metal, shamefully rusted. I had drawn my chair near his. Let me paint the honest old man: 'tis but one passing sentence to preserve his image in my mind. He sat in his usual attitude, with his elbow rested on his knee, and his fingers pressed to his cheek. His face was shaded by his hand; yet it was a face that might once have been well accounted handsome; its features were manly and striking, and a certain dignity resided on his eye-brows, which were the largest I remember to have seen. His person was tall and well-made; but the indolence of his nature had now inclined it to corpulency. His remarks were few, and made only to his familiar friends; but they were such as the world might have heard 1 The reader will remember that the Editor is accountable only for scattered chapters and fragments of chapters; the curate must answer for the rest. The number at the top, when the chapter was entire, he has given as it originally stood, with the title which its author had affixed to it. 3 THE MAN OF FEELING with veneration : and his heart, uncorrupted by its ways, was ever warm in the cause of virtue and his friends. He is now forgotten and gone! The last time I was at Silton Hall, I saw his chair stand in its corner by the fire-side; there was an additional cushion on it, and it was occupied by my young lady's favourite lap-dog. I drew near unperceived, and pinched its ears in the bitterness of my soul; the creature howled, and ran to its mistress. She did not suspect the author of its misfortune, but she bewailed it in the most pa- thetic terms; and kissing its lips, laid it gently on her lap, and covered it with a cambric handkerchief. I sat in my old friend's seat; I heard the roar of mirth and gaiety around me: poor Ben Silton! I gave thee a tear then: accept of one cordial drop that falls to thy memory now. “Let them rub it off by travel."—Why, it is true, said I, that will go far; but then it will often happen, that in the velocity of a modern tour, and amidst the materials through which it is commonly made, the friction is so violent, that not only the rust, but the metal too, will be lost in the progress. "Give me leave to correct the expression of your metaphor," said Mr. Silton, “this covering of which you complain, is not always rust which is produced by the inactivity of the body on which it preys; such, perhaps, is the case with me, though indeed I was never cleared from my youth; but taking it in its first stage) it is rather an encrustation, which nature has given for purposes of the greatest wisdom." “ You are right," I returned; "and sometimes, like certain precious fossils, there may be hid under it gems of the purest brilliancy.” “Nay, farther,” continued Mr. Silton, “there are two dis- tinct sorts of what we call bashfulness; this, the awkward- ness of a booby, which a few steps into the world will convert into the pertness of a coxcomb; that, a consciousness, which the most delicate feelings produce, and the most extensive knowledge cannot always remove." From the incidents I have already related, I imagine it will be concluded that Harley was of the latter species of bashful animals; at least, if Mr. Silton's principle be just, it may be argued on this side; for the gradation of the first mentioned sort, it is certain, he never attained. Some part of his external 4 THE MAN OF FEELING appearance was modelled from the company of those gentle- men, whom the antiquity of a family, now possessed .of bare £250 a year, entitled its representative to approach: these in- deed were not many; great part of the property in his neigh- bourhood being in the hands of merchants, who had got rich by their lawful calling abroad, and the sons of stewards, who had got rich by their lawful calling at home: persons so per- fectly versed in the ceremonial of thousands, tens of thou- sands, and hundreds of thousands (whose degrees of prece- dency are plainly demonstrable from the first page of the Complete Accomptant, or Young Man's Best Pocket Com- panion) that a bow at church from them to such a man as Harley would have made the parson look back into his sermon for some precept of Christian humility. CHAPTER XII OF WORLDLY INTERESTS. every man to have, and which therefore are properly enough termed worldly; but the world is apt to make an er- roneous estimate: ignorant of the dispositions which consti- tute our happiness or misery, it brings to an undistinguished scale the means of the one, as connected with power, wealth, or grandeur, and of the other with their contraries. Phi- losophers and poets have often protested against this decision; but their arguments have been despised as declamatory, or ridiculed as romantic. There are never wanting to a young man some grave and prudent friends to set him right in this particular, if he need it; to watch his ideas as they arise, and point them to those objects which a wise man should never forget. Harley did not want for some monitors of this sort. He was frequently told of men whose fortunes enabled them to command all the luxuries of life, whose fortunes were of their own acquirement: his envy was excited by a description of their happiness, and his emulation by a recital of the means which had procured it. 5 THE MAN OF FEELING Harley was apt to hear those lectures with indifference; nay, sometimes they got the better of his temper; and as the instances were not always amiable, provoked, on his part, some reflections, which I am persuaded his good-nature would else have avoided. Indeed, I have observed one ingredient, somewhat necessary in a man's composition towards happiness, which people of feeling would do well to acquire; a certain respect for the follies of mankind: for there are so many fools whom the opinion of the world entitles to regard, whom accident has placed in heights of which they are unworthy, that he who cannot restrain his contempt or indignation at the sight will be too often quarrelling with the disposal of things to relish that share which is allotted to himself. I do not mean, how- ever, to insinuate this to have been the case with Harley; on the contrary, if we might rely on his own testimony, the con- ceptions he had of pomp and grandeur served to endear the state which Providence had assigned him. He lost his father, the last surviving of his parents, as I have already related, when he was a boy. The good man, from a fear of offending, as well as from a regard to his son, had named him a variety of guardians; one consequence of which was, that they seldom met at all to consider the affairs of their ward; and when they did meet, their opinions were so opposite, that the only possible method of conciliation was the mediatory power of a dinner and a bottle, which commonly interrupted, not ended, the dispute; and after that interrup- tion ceased, left the consulting parties in a condition not very proper for adjusting it. His education therefore had been but indifferently attended to; and after being taken from a coun- try school, at which he had been boarded, the young gentle- man was suffered to be his own master in the subsequent branches of literature, with some assistance from the parson of the parish in languages and philosophy, and from the ex- ciseman in arithmetic and bookkeeping. One of his guard- ians, indeed, who, in his youth, had been an inhabitant of the Temple, set him to read Coke upon Lyttelton: a book which is very properly put into the hands of beginners in that science, as its simplicity is accommodated to their understandings, and its size to their inclination. He profited but little by the pe- 6 THE MAN OF FEELING rusal; but it was not without its use in the family: for his maiden aunt applied it commonly to the laudable purpose of pressing her rebellious linens to the folds she had allotted them. There were particularly two ways of increasing his fortune, which might have occurred to people of less foresight than the counsellors we have mentioned. One of these was, the prospect of his succeeding to an old lady, a distant relation, who was known to be possessed of a very large sum in the stocks: but in this their hopes were disappointed; for the young man was so untoward in his disposition, that, notwith- standing the instructions he daily received, his visits rather tended to alienate than gain the good-will of his kinswoman. He sometimes looked grave when the old lady told the jokes of her youth; he often refused to eat when she pressed him, and was seldom or never provided with sugar-candy or liquorice when she was seized with a fit of coughing: nay, he had once the rudeness to fall asleep while she was describing the composition and virtues of her favourite cholic-water. In short, he accommodated himself so ill to her humour, that she died, and did not leave him a farthing. The other method pointed out to him was an endeavour to get a lease of some crown-lands, which lay contiguous to his little paternal estate. This, it was imagined, might be easily procured, as the crown did not draw so much rent as Harley could afford to give, with very considerable profit to himself; and the then lessee had rendered himself so obnoxious to the ministry, by the disposal of his vote at an election, that he could not expect a renewal. This, however, needed some in- terest with the great, which Harley or his father never pos- sessed. His neighbour, Mr. Walton, having heard of this affair, generously offered his assistance to accomplish it. He told him, that though he had long been a stranger to courtiers, yet he believed there were some of them who might pay regard to his recommendation; and that, if he thought it worth the while to take a London journey upon the business, he would furnish him with a letter of introduction to a baronet of his acquaintance, who had a great deal to say with the first lord of the treasury. 7 THE MAN OF FEELING When his friends heard of this offer, they pressed him with the utmost earnestness to accept of it. They did not fail to enumerate the many advantages which a certain degree of spirit and assurance gives a man who would make a figure in the world: they repeated their instances of good fortune in others, ascribed them all to a happy forwardness of disposi- tion; and made so copious a recital of the disadvantages which attend the opposite weakness, that a stranger, who had heard them, would have been led to imagine, that in the British code there was some disqualifying statute against any citizen who should be convicted of-modesty. Harley, though he had no great relish for the attempt, yet could not resist the torrent of motives that assaulted him; and as he needed but little preparation for his journey, a day, not very distant, was fixed for his departure. CHAPTER XIII THE MAN OF FEELING IN LOVE. HE day before that on which he set out, he went to take leave of Mr. Walton.-We would conceal nothing ;- there was another person of the family to whom also the visit was intended, on whose account, perhaps, there were some tenderer feelings in the bosom of Harley than his gratitude for the friendly notice of that gentleman (though he was seldom deficient in that virtue) could inspire. Mr. Walton had a daughter; and such a daughter! we will attempt some descrip- tion of her by and by. Harley's notions of the kalov, or beautiful, were not always to be defined, nor indeed such as the world would always as- sent to, though we could define them. A blush, a phrase of affability to an inferior, a tear at a moving tale, were to him, like the Cestus of Cytherea, unequalled in conferring beauty. For all these Miss Walton was remarkable; but as these, like the above-mentioned Cestus, are perhaps still more powerful when the wearer is possessed of some degree of beauty, com- monly so called, it happened, that, from this cause, they had more than usual power in the person of that young lady. 8 THE MAN OF FEELING She was now arrived at that period of life which takes, or is supposed to take, from the flippancy of girlhood those sprightlinesses with which some good-natured old maids oblige the world at three-score. She had been ushered into life (as that word is used in the dialect of St. James's) at seventeen, her father being then in parliament, and living in London: at seventeen, therefore, she had been a universal toast; her health, now she was four-and-twenty, was only drank by those who knew her face at least. Her complexion was mellowed into a paleness, which certainly took from her beauty; but agreed, at least Harley used to say so, with the pensive softness of her mind. Her eyes were of that gentle hazel colour which is rather mild than piercing; and, except when they were lighted up by good-humour, which was fre- quently the case, were supposed by the fine gentlemen to want fire. Her air and manner were elegant in the highest degree, and were as sure of commanding respect as their mistress was far from demanding it. Her voice was inexpressibly soft; it was, according to that incomparable simile of Otway's, like the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains, When all his little flock's at feed before him.” The effect it had upon Harley, himself used to paint ridicu- lously enough; and ascribed it to powers, which few believed, and nobody cared for. Her conversation was always cheerful, but rarely witty; and without the smallest affectation of learning, had as much sentiment in it as would have puzzled a Turk, upon his prin- ciples of female materialism, to account for. Her beneficence was unbounded; indeed the natural tenderness of her heart might have been argued, by the frigidity of a casuist, as de- tracting from her virtue in this respect, for her humanity was a feeling, not a principle: but minds like Harley's are not very apt to make this distinction, and generally give our virtue credit for all that benevolence which is instinctive in our nature. As her father had for some years retired to the country, Harley had frequent opportunities of seeing her. He looked on her for some time merely with that respect and admiration which her appearance seemed to demand, and the opinion of 9 THE MAN OF FEELING others conferred upon her : from this cause, perhaps, and from that extreme sensibility of which we have taken frequent notice, Harley was remarkably silent in her presence. He heard her sentiments with peculiar attention, sometimes with looks very expressive of approbation ; but seldom declared his opinion on the subject, much less made compliments to the lady on the justness of her remarks. From this very reason it was that Miss Walton frequently took more particular notice of him than of other visitors, who, by the laws of precedency, were better entitled to it: it was a mode of politeness she had peculiarly studied, to bring to the line of that equality, which is ever necessary for the ease of our guests, those whose sensibility had placed them be- low it. Harley saw this; for though he was a child in the drama of the world, yet was it not altogether owing to a want of knowledge of his part; on the contrary, the most delicate con- sciousness of propriety often kindled that blush which marred the performance of it: this raised his esteem something above what the most sanguine descriptions of her goodness had been able to do; for certain it is, that notwithstanding the laboured definitions which very wise men have given us of the inherent beauty of virtue, we are always inclined to think her hand- somest when she condescends to smile upon ourselves. It would be trite to observe the easy gradation from esteem to love: in the bosom of Harley there scarce needed a transi- tion; for there were certain seasons when his ideas were flushed to a degree much above their common complexion. In times not credulous of inspiration, we should account for this from some natural cause; but we do not mean to account for it at all; it were sufficient to describe its effects; but they were sometimes so ludicrous, as might derogate from the dig- nity of the sensations which produced them to describe. They were treated indeed as such by most of Harley's sober friends, who often laughed very heartily at the awkward blunders of the real Harley, when the different faculties, which should have prevented them, were entirely occupied by the ideal. In some of these paroxysms of fancy, Miss Walton did not fail to be introduced; and the picture which had been drawn amidst the surrounding objects of unnoticed levity was now singled out IO THE MAN OF FEELING to be viewed through the medium of romantic imagination: it was improved of course, and esteem was a word inexpress- ive of the feelings which it excited. CHAPTER XIV H had taken leave of his aunt on the eve of his intended HE SETS OUT ON HIS JOURNEY-THE BEGGAR AND HIS DOG. E had taken leave of his aunt on the eve of his intended ; nephew interrupted her sleep, and early as it was next morn- ing when Harley came downstairs to set out, he found her in the parlour with a tear on her cheek, and her caudle-cup in her hand. She knew enough of physic to prescribe against going abroad of a morning with an empty stomach. She gave her blessing with the draught; her instructions she had delivered the night before. They consisted mostly of negatives, for London, in her idea, was so replete with temptations that it needed the whole armour of her friendly cautions to repel their attacks. Peter stood at the door. We have mentioned this faithful fellow formerly: Harley's father had taken him up an orphan, and saved him from being cast on the parish; and he had ever since remained in the service of him and of his son. Harley shook him by the hand as he passed, smiling, as if he had said, “I will not weep." He sprung hastily into the chaise that waited for him; Peter folded up the step. “My dear mas- ter,” said he, shaking the solitary lock that hung on either side of his head, “I have been told as how London is a sad place.” He was choked with the thought, and his benediction could not be heard :--but it shall be heard, honest Peter! where these tears will add to its energy. In a few hours Harley reached the inn where he proposed breakfasting, but the fulness of his heart would not suffer him to eat a morsel. He walked out on the road, and gaining a little height, stood gazing on the quarter he had left. He looked for his wonted prospect, his fields, his woods, and his hills: they were lost in the distant clouds! He pencilled them on the clouds, and bade them farewell with a sigh! He sat down on a large stone to take out a little pebble from II THE MAN OF FEELING his shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching him. He had on a loose sort of coat, mended with different- coloured rags, amongst which the blue and the russet were the predominant. He had a short knotty stick in his hand, and on the top of it was stuck a ram's horn; his knees (though he was no pilgrim) had worn the stuff of his breeches; he wore no shoes, and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which should have covered his feet and ankles; in his face, however, was the plump appearance of good humour; he walked a good round pace, and a crook-legged dog trotted at his heels. "Our delicacies," said Harley to himself, "are fantastic; they are not in nature that beggar walks over the sharpest of these stones barefooted, whilst I have lost the most delightful dream in the world, from the smallest of them happening to get into my shoe.” The beggar had by this time come up, and, pulling off a piece of hat, asked charity of Harley; the dog began to beg too :-it was impossible to resist both; and, in truth, the want of shoes and stockings had made both un- necessary, for Harley had destined sixpence for him before. The beggar, on receiving it, poured forth blessings without number; and, with a sort of smile on his countenance, said to Harley " that if he wanted to have his fortune told "-Harley turned his eye briskly on the beggar: it was an unpromising look for the subject of a prediction, and silenced the prophet immediately. “I would much rather learn," said Harley, “what it is in your power to tell me: your trade must be an entertaining one; sit down on this stone, and let me know something of your profession; I have often thought of turning fortune-teller for a week or two myself.” Master,” replied the beggar, “ I like your frankness much; God knows I had the humour of plain-dealing in me from a child, but there is no doing with it in this world; we must live as we can, and lying is, as you call it, my profession, but I was in some sort forced to the trade, for I dealt once in telling truth. “I was a labourer, sir, and gained as much as to make me live: I never laid by indeed: for I was reckoned a piece of a wag, and your wags, I take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley." 66 12 THE MAN OF FEELING So," said Harley," you seem to know me.' “Ay, there are few folks in the country that I don't know something of: how should I tell fortunes else?” “ True; but to go on with your story: you were a labourer, you say, and a wag; your industry, I suppose, you left with your old trade, but your humour you preserve to be of use to you in your new." “What signifies sadness, sir? a man grows lean on't: but I was brought to my idleness by degrees; first I could not work, and it went against my stomach to work ever after. I was seized with a jail fever at the time of the assizes being in the county where I lived; for I was always curious to get acquainted with the felons, because they are commonly fellows of much mirth and little thought, qualities I had ever an esteem for. In the height of this fever, Mr. Harley, the house where I lay took fire, and burnt to the ground; I was carried out in that condition, and lay all the rest of my illness in a barn. I got the better of my disease, however, but I was so weak that I spit blood whenever I attempted to work. I had no relation living that I knew of, and I never kept a friend above a week, when I was able to joke; I seldom re- mained above six months in a parish, so that I might have died before I had found a settlement in any: thus I was forced to beg my bread, and a sorry trade I found it, Mr. Harley. I told all my misfortunes truly, but they were seldom believed; and the few who gave me a halfpenny as they passed did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble them with a long story. In short, I found that people don't care to give alms without some security for their money; a wooden leg or a withered arm is a sort of draught upon heaven for those who choose to have their money placed to account there; so I changed my plan, and, instead of telling my own misfor- tunes, began to prophesy happiness to others. This I found by much the better way: folks will always listen when the tale is their own, and of many who say they do not believe in for- tune-telling, I have known few on whom it had not a very sensible effect. I pick up the names of their acquaintance; amours and little squabbles are easily gleaned among servants and neighbours; and indeed people themselves are the best 13 THE MAN OF FEELING intelligencers in the world for our purpose: they dare not puzzle us for their own sakes, for every one is anxious to hear what they wish to believe, and they who repeat it, to laugh at it when they have done, are generally more serious than their hearers are apt to imagine. With a tolerable good memory, and some share of cunning, with the help of walking a-nights over heaths and church-yards, with this, and showing the tricks of that there dog, whom I stole from the serjeant of a marching regiment (and by the way, he can steal too upon occasion), I make shift to pick up a livelihood. My trade, indeed, is none of the honestest; yet people are not much cheated neither who give a few halfpence for a prospect of happiness, which I have heard some persons say is all a man can arrive at in this world. But I must bid you good day, sir, for I have three miles to walk before noon, to inform some boarding school young ladies whether their husbands are to be peers of the realm or captains in the army: a question which I promised to answer them by that time.” Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket; but Virtue bade him consider on whom he was going to bestow it. Vir- tue held back his arm; but a milder form, a younger sister of Virtue's, not so severe as Virtue, nor so serious as Pity, smiled upon him; his fingers lost their compression, nor did Virtue offer to catch the money as it fell. It had no sooner reached the ground than the watchful cur (a trick he had been taught) snapped it up, and, contrary to the most approved method of stewardship, delivered it immediately into the hands of his master. CHAPTER XIX HE MAKES A SECOND EXPEDITION TO THE BARONET'S—THE LAUDABLE AMBITION OF A YOUNG MAN TO BE THOUGHT SOMETHING BY THE WORLD. W E have related, in a former chapter, the little success of his first visit to the great man, for whom he had the introductory letter from Mr. Walton. To people of equal sensibility, the influence of those trifles we mentioned on his deportment will not appear surprising, but to his friends in the 14 THE MAN OF FEELING country they could not be stated, nor would they have allowed them any place in the account. In some of their letters, there- fore, which he received soon after, they expressed their sur- prise at his not having been more urgent in his application, and again recommended the blushless assiduity of successful merit. He resolved to make another attempt at the baronet's; for- tified with higher notions of his own dignity, and with less apprehension of repulse. In his way to Grosvenor Square he began to ruminate on the folly of mankind, who affixed those ideas of superiority to riches, which reduced the minds of men, by nature equal with the more fortunate, to that sort of servility which he felt in his own. By the time he had reached the Square, and was walking along the pavement which led to the baronet's, he had brought his reasoning on the subject to such a point, that the conclusion, by every rule of logic, should have led him to a thorough indifference in his approaches to a fellow-mortal, whether that fellow-mortal was possessed of six or six thousand pounds a year. It is probable, however, that the premises had been improperly formed: for it is cer- tain, that when he approached the great man's door he felt his heart agitated by an unusual pulsation. He had almost reached it, when he observed a young gen- tleman coming out, dressed in a white frock and a red laced waistcoat, with a small switch in his hand, which he seemed to manage with a particular good grace. As he passed him on the steps, the stranger very politely made him a bow, which Harley returned, though he could not remember ever having seen him before. He asked Harley, in the same civil manner, if he was going to wait on his friend the baronet. ' For I was just calling,” said he, and am sorry to find that he is gone for some days into the country." Harley thanked him for his information, and was turning from the door, when the other observed that it would be proper to leave his name, and very obligingly knocked for 26 that purpose. “Here is a gentleman, Tom, who meant to have waited on your master." “Your name, if you please, sir? Harley." 15 THE MAN OF FEELING we “ You'll remember, Tom, Harley." The door was shut. “ Since we are here,” said he, shall not lose our walk if we add a little to it by a turn or two in Hyde Park." He accompanied this proposal with a second bow, and Har- ley accepted of it by another in return. The conversation, as they walked, was brilliant on the side of his companion. The playhouse, the opera, with every oc- currence in high life, he seemed perfectly master of, and talked of some reigning beauties of quality in a manner the most feeling in the world. Harley admired the happiness of his vivacity, and, opposite as it was to the reserve of his own nature, began to be much pleased with its effects. Though I am not of opinion with some wise men, that the existence of objects depends on idea, yet I am convinced that their appearance is not a little influenced by it. The optics of some minds are so unhappily constructed as to throw a certain shade on every picture that is presented to them, while those of others (of which number was Harley), like the mir- rors of the ladies, have a wonderful effect in bettering their complexions. Through such a medium perhaps he was look- ing on his present companion. When they had finished their walk, and were returning by the corner of the Park, they observed a board hung out of a window signifying, “An excellent ORDINARY on Saturdays and Sundays.” It happened to be Saturday, and the table was covered. What if we should go in and dine here, if you happen not to be engaged, sir ? " said the young gentleman. “It is not impossible but we shall meet with some original or other; it is a sort of humour I like hugely." Harley made no objection, and the stranger showed him the way into the parlour. He was placed, by the courtesy of his introductor, in an arm-chair that stood at one side of the fire. Over against him was seated a man of a grave considering aspect, with that look of sober prudence which indicates what is commonly called a warm man. He wore a pretty large wig, which had once been white, but was now of a brownish yellow; his coat was one of those modest-coloured drabs which mock the in- 16 THE MAN OF FEELING juries of dust and dirt; two jack-boots concealed, in part, the well-mended knees of an old pair of buckskin breeches; while the spotted handkerchief round his neck preserved at once its owner from catching cold and his neckcloth from being dirtied. Next him sat another man, with a tankard in his hand and a quid of tobacco in his cheek, whose eye was rather more vivacious, and whose dress was something smarter. The first-mentioned gentleman took notice that the room had been so lately washed, as not to have had time to dry, and remarked that wet lodging was unwholesome for man or beast. He looked round at the same time for a poker to stir the fire with, which, he at last observed to the company, the people of the house had removed in order to save their coals. This difficulty, however, he overcame by the help of Harley's stick, saying, “ that as they should, no doubt, pay for their fire in some shape or other, he saw no reason why they should not have the use of it while they sat.” The door was now opened for the admission of dinner. “I don't know how it is with you, gentlemen,” said Harley's new acquaintance, “but I am afraid I shall not be able to get down a morsel at this horrid mechanical hour of dining.” He sat down, however, and did not show any want of appetite by his eating. He took upon him the carving of the meat, and criti- cised on the goodness of the pudding. When the table-cloth was removed, he proposed calling for some punch, which was readily agreed to; he seemed at first inclined to make it himself, but afterwards changed his mind, and left that province to the waiter, telling him to have it pure West Indian, or he could not taste a drop of it. When the punch was brought he undertook to fill the glasses and call the toasts. “ The King.”—The toast naturally pro- duced politics. It is the privilege of Englishmen to drink the king's health, and to talk of his conduct. The man who sat opposite to Harley (and who by this time, partly from him- self, and partly from his acquaintance on his left hand, was discovered to be a grazier) observed, “That it was a shame for so many pensioners to be allowed to take the bread out of the mouth of the poor.” “ Ay, and provisions," said his friend, " were never so dear 1 17 THE MAN OF FEELING in the memory of man; I wish the king and his counsellors would look to that.” "As for the matter of provisions, neighbour Wrightson," he replied, “ I am sure the prices of cattle- A dispute would have probably ensued, but it was pre- vented by the spruce toastmaster, who gave a sentiment, and turning to the two politicians,“ Pray, gentlemen,” said he, “ let us have done with these musty politics: I would always leave them to the beer-suckers in Butcher Row.1 Come, let us have something of the fine arts. That was a damn'd hard match between the Nailor and Tim Bucket. The knowing ones were cursedly taken in there! I lost a cool hundred myself, faith." At mention of the cool hundred, the grazier threw his eyes aslant, with a mingled look of doubt and surprise; while the man at his elbow looked arch, and gave a short emphatical sort of cough. Both seemed to be silenced, however, by this intelligence; and while the remainder of the punch lasted the conversation was wholly engrossed by the gentleman with the fine waistcoat, who told a great many “ immense comical stories ” and founded smart things," as he termed them, acted and spoken by lords, ladies, and young bucks of quality, of his acquaint- At last, the grazier, pulling out a watch, of a very unusual size, and telling the hour, said that he had an appoint- ment. "Is it so late?” said the young gentleman; "then I am afraid I have missed an appointment already; but the truth is, I am cursedly given to missing of appointments." When the grazier and he were gone, Harley turned to the remaining personage, and asked him if he knew that young gentleman. “A gentleman!” said he; "ay, he is one of your gentlemen at the top of an affidavit. I knew him, some years ago, in the quality of a footman; and I believe he had some times the honour to be a pimp. At last, some of the great folks, to whom he had been serviceable in both capacities, had him made a gauger; in which station he remains, and has the assurance to pretend an acquaintance with men of quality. 1 It may be necessary to inform readers of the present day, that the noted political debating Society, called the Robinhood, was held in a house in Butcher Row. con- ance. 18 THE MAN OF FEELING seemed surprised at their uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevailed on to leave that part of the house without showing them some others: who, as he expressed it in the phrase of those that keep wild beasts for show, were much better worth seeing than any they had passed, being ten times more fierce and unmanageable. He led them next to that quarter where those reside who, as they are not dangerous to themselves or others, enjoy a certain degree of freedom, according to the state of their distemper. Harley had fallen behind his companions, looking at a man who was making pendulums with bits of thread and little balls of clay. He had delineated a segment of a circle on the wall with chalk, and marked their different vibrations by intersect- ing it with cross lines. A decent-looking man came up, and smiling at the maniac, turned to Harley, and told him that gentleman had once been a very celebrated mathematician. “He fell a sacrifice," said he,“ to the theory of comets; for having, with infinite labour, formed a table on the conjectures of Sir Isaac Newton, he was disappointed in the return of one of those luminaries, and was very soon after obliged to be placed here by his friends. If you please to follow me, sir,” continued the stranger, “I believe I shall be able to give a more satisfactory account of the unfortunate people you see here than the man who attends your companions.” Harley bowed, and accepted his offer. The next person they came up to had scrawled a variety of figures on a piece of slate. Harley had the curiosity to take a nearer view of them. They consisted of different columns, on the top of which were marked South-sea annuities, India- stock, and Three per cent. annuities consol. “ This," said Harley's instructor, “was a gentleman well known in Change Alley. He was once worth fifty thousand pounds, and had actually agreed for the purchase of an estate in the West, in order to realise his money; but he quarrelled with the pro- prietor about the repairs of the garden wall, and so returned to town, to follow his old trade of stock-jobbing a little longer ; when an unlucky fluctuation of stock, in which he was en- gaged to an immense extent, reduced him at once to poverty and to madness. Poor wretch! he told me t'other day that 20 THE MAN OF FEELING 66 against the next payment of differences he should be some hundreds above a plum." “It is a spondee, and I will maintain it," interrupted a voice on his left hand. This assertion was followed by a very rapid recital of some verses from Homer. “That figure,' said the gentleman, “whose clothes are so bedaubed with snuff, was a schoolmaster of some reputation : he came hither to be resolved of some doubts he entertained concerning the genuine pronunciation of the Greek vowels. In his highest fits, he makes frequent mention of one Mr. Bentley. But delusive ideas, sir, are the motives of the greatest part of mankind, and a heated imagination the power by which their actions are incited: the world, in the eye of a philosopher, may be said to be a large madhouse." It is true," answered Harley, “ the passions of men are temporary madnesses; and sometimes very fatal in their effects. From Macedonia's madman to the Swede.” “It was, indeed," said the stranger, “a very mad thing in Charles to think of adding so vast a country as Russia to his dominions : that would have been fatal indeed; the balance of the North would then have been lost; but the Sultan and I would never have allowed it.”—“ Sir!” said Harley, with no small surprise on his countenance.—“Why, yes,” answered the other, “the Sultan and I; do you know me? I am the Chan of Tartary.” Harley was a good deal struck by this discovery; he had prudence enough, however, to conceal his amazement, and bowing as low to the monarch as his dignity required, left him immediately, and joined his companions. He found them in a quarter of the house set apart for the insane of the other sex, several of whom had gathered about the female visitors, and were examining, with rather more accuracy than might have been expected, the particulars of their dress. Separate from the rest stood one whose appearance had something of superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, was less squalid than those of the others, and showed a dejection of that decent kind, which moves our pity unmixed with horror: upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were imme- 21 THE MAN OF FEELING diately turned. The keeper who accompanied them observed it : “ This," said he, “is a young lady who was born to ride in her coach and six. She was beloved, if the story I have heard is true, by a young gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no means her match in fortune: but love, they say, is blind, and so she fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it seems, would not hear of their marriage, and threatened to turn her out of doors if ever she saw him again. Upon this the young gentleman took a voyage to the West Indies, in hopes of bettering his fortune, and obtaining his mistress; but he was scarce landed, when he was seized with one of the fevers which are common in those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one that knew him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was at the same time pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly fellow, who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death of her lover had no effect on her inhuman parent: he was only the more earnest for her marriage with the man he had provided for her; and what be- tween her despair at the death of the one, and her aversion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced to the condition you see her in. But God would not prosper such cruelty; her father's affairs soon after went to wreck, and he died almost a beggar.” Though this story was told in very plain language, it had particularly attracted Harley's notice; he had given it the tribute of some tears. The unfortunate young lady had till now seemed entranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little garnet ring she wore on her finger; she turned them now upon Harley. My Billy is no more !” said she; “ do you weep for my Billy? Blessings on your tears! I would weep too, but my brain is dry; and it burns, it burns, it burns!”- She drew nearer to Harley.—“Be comforted, young lady," said he, “ your Billy is in heaven.”—“Is he, indeed ? and shall we meet again? and shall that frightful man (pointing to the keeper) not be there ?-Alas! I am grown naughty of late; I have almost forgotten to think of heaven : yet I pray some- times; when I can, I pray; and sometimes I sing; when I am saddest, I sing :-You shall hear me—hush! “Light be the earth on Billy's breast, And green the sod that wraps his grave." 22 THE MAN OF FEELING There was a plaintive wildness in the air not to be withstood; and, except the keeper's, there was not an unmoistened eye around her. “Do you weep again?” said she. “I would not have you weep: you are like my Billy; you are, believe me; just so he looked when he gave me this ring; poor Billy! 'twas the last time ever we met ! “ 'Twas when the seas were roaring—I love you for re- sembling my Billy; but I shall never love any man like him.” -She stretched out her hand to Harley; he pressed it between both of his, and bathed it with his tears.—“Nay, that is Billy's ring,” said she, “ you cannot have it, indeed; but here is an- other, look here, which I plated to-day of some gold-thread from this bit of stuff; will you keep it for my sake? I am a strange girl; but my heart is harmless : my poor heart; it will burst some day; feel how it beats !” She pressed his hand to her bosom, then holding her head in the attitude of listening -“Hark! one, two, three! be quiet, thou little trembler; my Billy is cold !—but I had forgotten the ring."-She put it on his finger.—“Farewell! I must leave you now.”—She would have withdrawn her hand; Harley held it to his lips.—“I dare not stay longer; my head throbs sadly: farewell!”- She walked with a hurried step to a little apartment at some distance. Harley stood fixed in astonishment and pity; his friend gave money to the keeper.--Harley looked on his ring. -He put a couple of guineas into the man's hand: "Be kind to that unfortunate "-He burst into tears, and left them. CHAPTER XXI THE MISANTHROPIST. T HE friend who had conducted him to Moorfields called upon him again the next evening. After some talk on the adventures of the preceding day: “I carried you yes- terday,” said he to Harley, " to visit the mad; let me introduce you to-night, at supper, to one of the wise: but you must not look for anything of the Socratic pleasantry about him; on the contrary, I warn you to expect the spirit of a Diogenes. 23 THE MAN OF FEELING That you may be a little prepared for his extraordinary man- ner, I will let you into some particulars of his history. “He is the elder of the two sons of a gentleman of con- siderable estate in the country. Their father died when they were young: both were remarkable at school for quickness of parts and extent of genius; this had been bred to no profes- sion, because his father's fortune, which descended to him, was thought sufficient to set him above it; the other was put ap- prentice to an eminent attorney. In this the expectations of his friends were more consulted than his own inclination; for both his brother and he had feelings of that warm kind that could ill brook a study so dry as the law, especially in that de- partment of it which was allotted to him. But the difference of their tempers made the characteristical distinction between them. The younger, from the gentleness of his nature, bore with patience a situation entirely discordant to his genius and disposition. At times, indeed, his pride would suggest of how little importance those talents were which the partiality of his friends had often extolled: they were now incumbrances in a walk of life where the dull and the ignorant passed him at every turn; his fancy and his feeling were invincible obstacles to eminence in a situation where his fancy had no room for exertion, and his feeling experienced perpetual disgust. But these murmurings he never suffered to be heard; and that he might not offend the prudence of those who had been con- cerned in the choice of his profession, he continued to labour in it several years, till, by the death of a relation, he succeeded to an estate of a little better than £100 a year, with which, and the small patrimony left him, he retired into the country, and made a love-match with a young lady of a similar temper to his own, with whom the sagacious world pitied him for find- ing happiness. But his elder brother, whom you are to see at supper, if you will do us the favour of your company, was naturally impetuous, decisive, and overbearing. He entered into life with those ardent expectations by which young men are com- monly deluded : in his friendships, warm to excess; and equal- ly violent in his dislikes. He was on the brink of marriage with a young lady, when one of those friends, for whose hon- our he would have pawned his life, made an elopement with 24 THE MAN OF FEELING nan hert that very goddess, and left him besides deeply engaged for sums which that good friend's extravagance had squandered. “ The dreams he had formerly enjoyed were now changed for ideas of a very different nature. He abjured all confidence in anything of human form; sold his lands, which still pro- duced him a very large reversion, came to town, and immured himself, with a woman who had been his nurse, in little better than a garret; and has ever since applied his talents to the vilifying of his species. In one thing I must take the liberty to instruct you; however different your sentiments may be (and different they must be), you will suffer him to go on without contradiction; otherwise, he will be silent immediately, and we shall not get a word from him all the night after.” Harley promised to remember this injunction, and accepted the invitation of his friend. When they arrived at the house, they were informed that the gentleman was come, and had been shown into the parlour. They found him sitting with a daughter of his friend's, about three years old, on his knee, whom he was teaching the alpha- bet from a horn book: at a little distance stood a sister of hers, some years older. “Get you away, miss,” said he to this last; you are a pert gossip, and I will have nothing to do with you.”—“Nay,” answered she, “Nancy is your favourite; you are quite in love with Nancy.”—“ Take away that girl,” said he to her father, whom he now observed to have entered the room; she has woman about her already.” The children were accordingly dismissed. Betwixt that and supper-time he did not utter a syllable. When supper came, he quarrelled with every dish at table, but eat of them all; only exempting from his censures a salad, which you have not spoiled,” said he, “because you have not attempted to cook it." When the wine was set upon the table, he took from his pocket a particular smoking apparatus, and filled his pipe, without taking any more notice of Harley, or his friend, than if no such persons had been in the room. Harley could not help stealing a look of surprise at him; but his friend, who knew his humour, returned it by annihi- lating his presence in the like manner, and, leaving him to his own meditations, addressed himself entirely to Harley. 25 THE MAN OF FEELING In their discourse some mention happened to be made of an amiable character, and the words honour and politeness were applied to it. Upon this, the gentleman, laying down his pipe, and changing the tone of his countenance, from an ironical grin to something more intently contemptuous: “Honour," said he: “Honour and Politeness! this is the coin of the world, and passes current with the fools of it. You have substituted the shadow Honour, instead of the substance Virtue; and have banished the reality of friendship for the fictitious semblance which you have termed Politeness : polite- ness, which consists in a certain ceremonious jargon, more ridiculous to the ear of reason than the voice of a puppet. You have invented sounds, which you worship, though they tyrannize over your peace; and are surrounded with empty forms, which take from the honest emotions of joy, and add to the poignancy of misfortune.” “Sir!” said Harley-his friend winked to him, to remind him of the caution he had received. He was silenced by the thought. The philosopher turned his eye upon him : he examined him from top to toe, with a sort of triumphant contenipt. Harley's coat happened to be a new one; the other's was as shabby as could possibly be supposed to be on the back of a gentleman: there was much significance in his look with regard to this coat; it spoke of the sleekness of folly and the threadbareness of wisdom. “Truth," continued he," the most amiable, as well as the most natural of virtues, you are at pains to eradicate. Your very nurseries are seminaries of falsehood; and what is called Fashion in manhood completes the system of avowed insin- cerity. Mankind, in the gross, is a gaping monster, that loves to be deceived, and has seldom been disappointed : nor is their vanity less fallacious to your philosophers, who adopt modes of truth to follow them through the paths of error, and defend paradoxes merely to be singular in defending them. These are they whom ye term Ingenious ; 'tis a phrase of commenda- tion I detest: it implies an attempt to impose on my judgment, by flattering my imagination ; yet these are they whose works are read by the old with delight, which the voung are taught to look upon as the codes of knowledge and philosophy. Indeed, the education of your youth is every way pre- posterous; you waste at school years in improving talents, 26 THE MAN OF FEELING 1 66 without having ever spent an hour in discovering them; one promiscuous line of instruction is followed, without regard to genius, capacity, or probable situation in the commonwealth. From this bear-garden of the pedagogue, a raw, unprincipled boy is turned loose upon the world to travel; without any ideas but those of improving his dress at Paris, or starting into taste by gazing on some paintings at Rome. Ask him of the manners of the people, and he will tell you that the skirt is worn much shorter in France, and that everybody eats macaroni in Italy. When he returns home, he buys a seat in parliament, and studies the constitution at Arthur's. Nor are your females trained to any more useful purpose: they are taught, by the very rewards which their nurses pro- pose for good behaviour, by the first thing like a jest which they hear from every male visitor of the family, that a young woman is a creature to be married; and when they are grown somewhat older, are instructed that it is the purpose of mar- riage to have the enjoyment of pin-money, and the expectation of a jointure." These, indeed, are the effects of luxury, which is, per- haps, inseparable from a certain degree of power and grandeur in a nation. But it is not simply of the progress of luxury that we have to complain : did its votaries keep in their own sphere of thoughtless dissipation, we might despise them with- out emotion; but the frivolous pursuits of pleasure are min- gled with the most important concerns of the state; and public enterprise shall sleep till he who should guide its operation has decided his bets at Newmarket, or fulfilled his engagement with a favourite mistress in the country. We want some man of acknowledged eminence to point our counsels with that firmness which the counsels of a great people require. We have hundreds of ministers, who press forward into office 1 Though the Curate could not remember having shown this chapter to anybody, I strongly suspect that these political observations are the work of a later pen than the rest of this performance. There seems to have been, by some accident, a gap in the manuscript, from the words, " Expectation of a jointure,” to these, “In short, man is an animal,” where the present blank ends; and some other person (for the hand is different, and the ink whiter) has filled part of it with sentiments of his own. Whoever he was, he seems to have caught some portion of the spirit of the man he personates. 27 THE MAN OF FEELING without having ever learned that art which is necessary for every business: the art of thinking; and mistake the petulance, which could give inspiration to smart sarcasms on an ob- noxious measure in a popular assembly, for the ability which is to balance the interest of kingdoms, and investigate the latent sources of national superiority. With the administra- tion of such men the people can never be satisfied; for besides that their confidence is gained only by the view of superior talents, there needs that depth of knowledge, which is not only acquainted with the just extent of power, but can also trace its connection with the expedient, to preserve its possessors from the contempt which attends irresolution, or the resent- ment which follows temerity." [Here a considerable part is wanting.) * * "In short, man is an animal equally selfish and vain. Vanity, indeed, is but a modification of selfishness. From the latter, there are some who pretend to be free: they are gen- erally such as declaim against the lust of wealth and power, because they have never been able to attain any high degree in either : they boast of generosity and feeling. They tell us (perhaps they tell us in rhyme) that the sensations of an honest heart, of a mind universally benevolent, make up the quiet bliss which they enjoy; but they will not, by this, be ex- empted from the charge of selfishness. Whence the luxurious happiness they describe in their little family-circles ? Whence the pleasure which they feel, when they trim their evening fires, and listen to the howl of winter's wind? Whence, but from the secret reflection of what houseless wretches feel from it? Or do you administer comfort in affliction—the motive is at hand; I have had it preached to me in nineteen out of twenty of your consolatory discourses--the comparative little- ness of our own misfortunes. 'With vanity your best virtues are grossly tainted: your benevolence, which ye deduce immediately from the natural impulse of the heart, squints to it for its reward. There are some, indeed, who tell us of the satisfaction which flows from a secret consciousness of good actions: this secret satisfaction 28 THE MAN OF FEELING is truly exceilent—when we have some friend to whom we may discover its excellence.” He now paused a moment to re-light his pipe, when a clock, that stood at his back, struck eleven; he started up at the sound, took his hat and his cane, and nodding good night with his head, walked out of the room. The gentleman of the house called a servant to bring the stranger's surtout.“ What sort of a night is it, fellow?” said he.--" It rains, sir," an- swered the servant," with an easterly wind.”—“Easterly for ever!” He made no other reply; but shrugging up his shoul- ders till they almost touched his ears, wrapped himself tight in his great coat, and disappeared. “This is a strange creature," said his friend to Harley. “I cannot say," answered he," that his remarks are of the pleas- ant kind : it is curious to observe how the nature of truth may be changed by the garb it wears; softened to the admonition of friendship, or soured into the severity of reproof: yet this severity may be useful to some tempers; it somewhat resem- bles a file: disagreeable in its operation, but hard metals may be the brighter for it." * CHAPTER XXV THE HIS SKILL IN PHYSIOGNOMY. HE company at the baronet's removed to the play-house accordingly, and Harley took his usual route into the Park. He observed, as he entered, a fresh-looking elderly gentleman in conversation with a beggar, who, leaning on his crutch, was recounting the hardships he had undergone, and explaining the wretchedness of his present condition. This was a very interesting dialogue to Harley; he was rude enough, therefore, to slacken his pace as he approached, and at last to make a full stop at the gentleman's back, who was just then expressing his compassion for the beggar, and re- gretting that he had not a farthing of change about him. At saying this, he looked piteously on the fellow: there was something in his physiognomy which caught Harley's notice: indeed, physiognomy was one of Harley's foibles, for which he had been often rebuked by his aunt in the country, who 29 THE MAN OF FEELING used to tell him that when he was come to her ears and ex- perience he would know that all's not gold that glisters : and it must be owned that his aunt was a very sensable, harsh-look- ing maiden lady of threescore and upwards But he was too apt to forget this caution; and now, it seems, it had not oc- curred to him. Stepping up, therefore, to the gentleman, who was lamenting the want of silver, “ Your intentions, sir," said he, are so good, that I cannot help lending you my assist- ance to carry them into execution,” and gave the beggar a shilling. The other returned a suitable compliment, and ex- tolled the benevolence of Harley. They kept walking to- gether, and benevolence grew the topic of discourse. The stranger was fluent on the subject. “There is no use of money,” said he, “ equal to that of beneficence. With the profuse, it is lost; and even with those who lay it out accord- ing to the prudence of the world, the objects acquired by it pall on the sense, and have scarce become our own till they lose their value with the power of pleasing; but here the en- joyment grows on reflection, and our money is most truly ours when it ceases being in our possession." " Yet I agree in some measure,” answered Harley, “ with those who think that charity to our common beggars is often misplaced; there are objects less obtrusive whose title is a better one.” “We cannot easily distinguish," said the stranger; "and even of the worthless, are there not many whose imprudence, or whose vice, may have been one dreadful consequence of misfortune?" Harley looked again in his face, and blessed himself for his skill in physiognomy. By this time they had reached the end of the walk, the old gentleman leaning on the rails to take breath, and in the mean- time they were joined by a younger man, whose figure was much above the appearance of his dress, which was poor and shabby. Harley's former companion addressed him as an ac- quaintance, and they turned on the walk together. The elder of the strangers complained of the closeness of the evening, and asked the other if he would go with him into a house hard by, and take one draught of excellent cider. “The man who keeps this house," said he to Harley, 30 THE MAN OF FEELING once a servant of mine. I could not think of turning loose upon the world a faithful old fellow, for no other reason but that his age had incapacitated him; so I gave him an annuity of ten pounds, with the help of which he has set up this little place here, and his daughter goes and sells milk in the city, while her father manages his tap-room, as he calls it, at home. I can't well ask a gentleman of your appearance to accompany me to so paltry a place." “Sir," replied Harley, interrupting him, “I would much rather enter it than the most celebrated tavern in town. To give to the necessitous may sometimes be a weakness in the man; to encourage industry is a duty in the citizen.” They entered the house accordingly. On a table at the corner of the room lay a pack of cards, loosely thrown together. The old gentleman reproved the inan of the house for encouraging so idle an amusement. Harley attempted to defend him from the necessity of accom- modating himself to the humour of his guests, and taking up the cards, began to shuffle them backwards and forwards in his hand. “Nay, I don't think cards so unpardonable an amusement as some do,” replied the other ; and now and then, about this time of the evening, when my eyes begin to fail me for my book, I divert myself with a game at piquet, without finding my morals a bit relaxed by it. Do you play piquet, sir?” (to Harley.) Harley answered in the affirma- tive; upon which the other proposed playing a pool at a shilling the game, doubling the stakes; adding, that he never played higher with anybody. Harley's good nature could not refuse the benevolent old man; and the younger stranger, though he at first pleaded prior engagements, yet being earnestly solicited by his friend, at last yielded to solicitation. When they began to play, the old gentleman, somewhat to the surprise of Harley, produced ten shillings to serve for markers of his score. "He had no change for the beggar,' said Harley to himself; "but I can easily account for it; it is curious to observe the affection that inanimate things will create in us by a long acquaintance. If I may judge from my own feelings, the old man would not part with one of these counters for ten times its intrinsic value; it even got the better of his benevolence! I, myself, have a pair of old brass sleeve 31 THE MAN OF FEELING buttons." Here he was interrupted by being told that the old gentleman had beat the younger, and that it was his turn to take up the conqueror. “Your game has been short,” said Harley. “I re-piqued him," answered the old man, with joy sparkling in his countenance. Harley wished to be re-piqued too, but he was disappointed; for he had the same good for- tune against his opponent. Indeed, never did fortune, mutable as she is, delight in mutability so much as at that moment. The victory was so quick, and so constantly alternate, that the stake, in a short time, amounted to no less a sum than £12, Harley's proportion of which was within half-a-guinea of the money he had in his pocket. He had before proposed a division, but the old gentleman opposed it with such a pleasant warmth in his manner, that it was always over-ruled. Now, however, he told them that he had an appointment with some gentlemen, and it was within a few minutes of his hour. The young stranger had gained one game, and was engaged in the second with the other; they agreed, therefore, that the stake should be divided, if the old gentleman won that: which was more than probable, as his score was 90 to 35, and he was elder hand; but a momentous re-pique decided it in favour of his adversary, who seemed to enjoy his victory mingled with regret, for having won too much, while his friend, with great ebullience of passion, many praises of his own good play, and many maledictions on the power of chance, took up the cards, and threw them into the fire. CHAPTER XXVI THE MAN OF FEELING IN A BROTHEL. TH "HE company he was engaged to meet were assembled in Fleet Street. He had walked some time along the Strand, amidst a crowd of those wretches who wait the un- certain wages of prostitution, with ideas of pity suitable to the scene around him and the feelings he possessed, and had got as far as Somerset House, when one of them laid hold of his arm, and, with a voice tremulous and faint, asked him for a pint of wine, in a manner more supplicatory than is usual 32 THE MAN OF FEELING with those whom the infamy of their profession has deprived of shame. He turned round at the demand, and looked stead- fastly on the person who made it. She was above the common size, and elegantly formed; her face was thin and hollow, and showed the remains of tarnished beauty. Her eyes were black, but had little of their lustre left; her cheeks had some paint laid on without art, and productive of no advantage to her complexion, which exhibited a deadly paleness on the other parts of her face. Harley stood in the attitude of hesitation; which she, in- terpreting to her advantage, repeated her request, and en- deavoured to force a leer of invitation into her countenance. He took her arm, and they walked on to one of those ob- sequious taverns in the neighbourhood, where the dearness of the wine is a discharge in full for the character of the house. From what impulse he did this we do not mean to enquire; as it has ever been against our nature to search for motives where bad ones are to be found. They entered, and a waiter showed them a room, and placed a bottle of wine on the table. Harley filled the lady's glass : which she had no sooner tasted, than dropping it on the floor, and eagerly catching his arm, her eye grew fixed, her lip assumed a clayey whiteness, and she fell back lifeless in her chair. Harley started from his seat, and, catching her in his arms, supported her from falling to the ground, looking wildly at the door, as if he wanted to run for assistance, but durst not leave the miserable creature. It was not till some minutes after that it occurred to him to ring the bell, which at last, however, he thought of, and rung with repeated violence even after the waiter appeared. Luckily the waiter had his senses somewhat more about him; and snatching up a bottle of water, which stood on a buffet at the end of the room, he sprinkled it over the hands and face of the dying figure before him. She began to revive, and, with the assistance of some harts- horn drops, which Harley now for the first time drew from his pocket, was able to desire the waiter to bring her a crust of bread, of which she swallowed some mouthfuls with the appearance of the keenest hunger. The waiter withdrew : when turning to Harley, sobbing at the same time, and shed- ding tears, “I am sorry, sir," said she, “ that I should have 33. THE MAN OF FEELING given you so much trouble; but you will pity me when I tell you that till now I have not tasted a morsel these two days past."--He fixed his eyes on hers—every circumstance but the last was forgotten; and he took her hand with as much re- spect as if she had been a duchess. It was ever the privilege of misfortune to be revered by him.-“ Two days !” said he; " and I have fared sumptuously every day!”-He was reach- ing to the bell; she understood his meaning, and prevented him. “I beg, sir," said she, “that you would give yourself no more trouble about a wretch who does not wish to live; but, at present, I could not eat a bit; my stomach even rose at the last mouthful of that crust.”—He offered to call a chair, saying that he hoped a little rest would relieve her. He had one half-guinea left.“I am sorry,” he said, “ that at present I should be able to make you an offer of no more than this paltry sum."-She burst into tears: "Your generosity, sir, is abused; to bestow it on me is to take it from the virtuous. I have no title but misery to plead : misery of my own pro- curing.” “No more of that,” answered Harley; "there is virtue in these tears; let the fruit of them be virtue.”—He rung, and ordered a chair.“ Though I am the vilest of beings,” said she, “I have not forgotten every virtue; grati- tude, I hope, I shall still have left, did I but know who is my benefactor."-"My name is Harley.”—“Could I ever have an opportunity?”-“You shall, and a glorious one too! your future conduct-but I do not mean to reproach you—if, I say -it will be the noblest reward-I will do myself the pleasure of seeing you again."-Here the waiter entered, and told them the chair was at the door ; the lady informed Harley of her lodgings, and he promised to wait on her at ten next morning. He led her to the chair, and returned to clear with the waiter, without ever once reflecting that he had no money in his pocket. He was ashamed to make an excuse; yet an ex- cuse must be made: he was beginning to frame one, when the waiter cut him short by telling him that he could not run scores; but that, if he would leave his watch, or any other pledge, it would be as safe as if it lay in his pocket. Harley jumped at the proposal, and pulling out his watch, delivered it into his hands immediately, and having, for once, had the precaution to take a note of the lodging he intended to visit 34 THE MAN OF FEELING next morning, sallied forth with a blush of triumph on his face, without taking notice of the sneer of the waiter, who, twirling the watch in his hand, made him a profound bow at the door, and whispered to a girl, who stood in the passage, something, in which the word CULLY was honoured with a particular emphasis. CHAPTER XXVII HIS SKILL IN PHYSIOGNOMY IS DOUBTED. FTER he had been some time with the company he had A appointed to meet, and the last bottle was called for, he first recollected that he would be again at a loss how to dis- charge his share of the reckoning. He applied, therefore, to one of them, with whom he was most intimate, acknowledging that he had not a farthing of money about him; and, upon being jocularly asked the reason, acquainted them with the two adventures we have just now related. One of the com- pany asked him if the old man in Hyde Park did not wear a brownish coat, with a narrow gold edging, and his companion an old green frock, with a buff-coloured waistcoat. Upon Harley's recollecting that they did, " Then,” said he, "you may be thankful you have come off so well; they are two as noted sharpers, in their way, as any in town, and but t’other night took me in for a much larger sum. I had some thoughts of applying to a justice, but one does not like to be seen in those matters.” Harley answered, “That he could not but fancy the gentle- man was mistaken, as he never saw a face promise more hon- esty than that of the old man he had met with.” His face!” said a grave-looking man, who sat opposite to him, squirting the juice of his tobacco obliquely into the grate. There was something very emphatical in the action, for it was followed by a burst of laughter round the table. “Gentlemen," said Harley, “you are disposed to be merry; it may be as you imagine, for I confess myself ignorant of the town; but there is one thing which makes me bear the loss of my money with temper: the young fellow who won it must have been miser- ably poor; I observed him borrow money for the stake from 35 THE MAN OF FEELING his friend: he had distress and hunger in his countenance: be his character what it may, his necessities at least plead for him.” At this there was a louder laugh than before. “Gen- tlemen,” said the lawyer, one of whose conversations with Harley we have already recorded, “here's a very pretty fellow for you! to have heard him talk some nights ago, as I did, you might have sworn he was a saint; yet now he games with sharpers, and loses his money, and is bubbled by a fine story invented by a whore, and pawns his watch; here are sanctified doings with a witness ! ” “ Young gentleman,” said his friend on the other side of the table, “ let me advise you to be a little more cautious for the future; and as for faces—you may look into them to know whether a man's nose be a long or a short one." CHAPTER XXVIII HE KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT. HE last night's raillery of his companions was recalled to his reniembrance when he awoke, and the colder homilies of prudence began to suggest some things which were nowise favourable for a performance of his promise to the unfortunate female he had met with before. He rose, un- certain of his purpose; but the torpor of such considerations was seldom prevalent over the warmth of his nature. He walked some turns backwards and forwards in his room; he recalled the languid form of the fainting wretch to his mind; he wept at the recollection of her tears. “ Though I am the vilest of beings, I have not forgotten every virtue; gratitude, I hope, I shall still have left.”—He took a larger stride- Powers of mercy that surround me!” cried he,“ do ye not smile upon deeds like these? to calculate the chances of decep- tion is too tedious a business for the life of man!”—The clock struck ten.- When he had got down-stairs, he found that he had forgot the note of her lodgings; he gnawed his lips at the delay: he was fairly on the pavement, when he recollected hav- ing left his purse; he did but just prevent himself from ar- ticulating an imprecation. He rushed a second time up into his chamber. What a wretch I am!” said he; 6 ere this 36 THE MAN OF FEELING time, perhaps” 'Twas a perhaps not to be borne ;-two vibrations of a pendulum would have served him to lock his bureau; but they could not be spared. When he reached the house, and inquired for Miss Atkins (for that was the lady's name), he was shown up three pair of stairs, into a small room lighted by one narrow lattice, and patched round with shreds of different-coloured paper. In the darkest corner stood something like a bed, before which a tattered coverlet hung by way of curtain. He had not waited long when she appeared. Her face had the glister of new- washed tears on it. “I am ashamed, sir," said she, “ that you should have taken this fresh piece of trouble about one so little worthy of it; but, to the humane, I know there is a pleasure in goodness for its own sake: if you have patience for the recital of my story, it niay palliate, though it cannot excuse, my faults.” Harley bowed, as a sign of assent; and she began as follows: “I am the daughter of an officer, whom a service of forty years had advanced no higher than the rank of captain. I have had hints from himself, and been informed by others, that it was in some measure owing to those principles of rigid honour, which it was his boast to possess, and which he early inculcated on me, that he had been able to arrive at no better station. My mother died when I was a child: old enough to grieve for her death, but incapable of remembering her pre- cepts. Though my father was dotingly fond of her, yet there were some sentiments in which they materially differed: she had been bred from her infancy in the strictest principles of religion, and took the morality of her conduct from the mo- tives which an adherence to those principles suggested. My father, who had been in the army from his youth, affixed an idea of pusillanimity to that virtue, which was formed by the doctrines, excited by the rewards, or guarded by the terrors of revelation; his darling idol was the honour of a soldier : a term which he held in such reverence, that he used it for his most sacred asseveration. When my mother died, I was some time suffered to continue in those sentiments which her in- structions had produced; but soon after, though, from respect to her memory, my father did not absolutely ridicule them, yet he showed, in his discourse to others, so little regard to 37 THE MAN OF FEELING and my them, and at times suggested to me motives of action so dif- ferent, that I was soon weaned from opinions which I began to consider as the dreams of superstition, or the artful inven- tions of designing hypocrisy. My mother's books were left behind at the different quarters we removed to, read- ing was principally confined to plays, novels, and those poetical descriptions of the beauty of virtue and honour, which the circulating libraries easily afforded. “As I was generally reckoned handsome, and the quickness of my parts extolled by all our visitors, my father had a pride in showing me to the world. I was young, giddy, open to adulation, and vain of those talents which acquired it. “After the last war, my father was reduced to half-pay; with which we retired to a village in the country, which the acquaintance of some genteel families who resided in it, and the cheapness of living, particularly recommended. My father rented a small house, with a piece of ground sufficient to keep a horse for him, and a cow for the benefit of his family. An old man servant managed his ground; while a maid, who had fornierly been my mother's, and had since been mine, under- took the care of our little dairy: they were assisted in each of their provinces by my father and me; and we passed our time in a state of tranquillity, which he had always talked of with delight, and which my train of reading had taught me to admire. Though I had never seen the polite circles of the metrop- olis, the company my father had introduced me into had given me a degree of good breeding, which soon discovered a supe- riority over the young ladies of our village. I was quoted as an example of politeness, and my company courted by most of the considerable families in the neighbourhood. “Amongst the houses to which I was frequently invited was Sir George Winbrooke's. He had two daughters nearly of my age, with whom, though they had been bred up in those maxims of vulgar doctrine which my superior understanding could not but despise, yet as their good nature led them to an imitation of my manners in everything else, I cultivated a particular friendship. "Some months after our first acquaintance, Sir George's eldest son came home from his travels. His figure, his ad- 38 THE MAN OF FEELING dress, and conversation, were not unlike those warm ideas of an accomplished man which my favourite novels had taught me to form; and his sentiments on the article of religion were as liberal as my own: when any of these happened to be the topic of our discourse, I, who before had been silent, from a fear of being single in opposition, now kindled at the fire he raised, and defended our mutual opinions with all the elo- quence I was mistress of. He would be respectfully attentive all the while; and when I had ended, would raise his eyes from the ground, look at me with a gaze of admiration, and express his applause in the highest strain of encomium. This was an incense the more pleasing, as I seldom or never had met with it before; for the young gentlemen who visited Sir George were for the most part of that common race of country squires, the pleasure of whose lives is derived from fox-hunting: these are seldom solicitous to please the women at all; or if they were, would never think of applying their flattery to the mind. Mr. Winbrooke observed the weakness of my soul, and took every occasion of improving the esteem he had gained. He asked my opinion of every author, of every sentiment, with that submissive diffidence, which showed an unlimited confidence in my understanding. I saw myself revered, as a superior being, by one whose judgment my vanity told me was not likely to err: preferred by him to all the other visitors of my sex, whose fortunes and rank should have entitled then to a much higher degree of notice: I saw their little jealousies at the distinguished attention he paid me; it was gratitude, it was pride, it was love! Love which had made too fatal a progress in my heart, before any declaration on his part should have warranted a return: but I interpreted every look of attention, every expression of compliment, to the passion I imagined him inspired with, and imputed to his sensibility that silence which was the effect of art and design. At length, however, he took an opportunity of declaring his love: he now expressed himself in such ardent terms, that prudence might have suspected their sincerity: but prudence is rarely found in the situation I had been unguardedly led into; besides, that the course of reading to which I had been accustomed, did not lead me to conclude, that his expressions could be too warm to be sincere: nor was I even alarmed at the manner 39 THE MAN OF FEELING in which he talked of marriage, a subjection, he often hinted, to which genuine love should scorn to be confined. The woman, he would often say, who had merit like mine to fix his affection, could easily command it for ever. That honour too which I revered, was often called in to enforce his senti- ments. I did not, however, absolutely assent to them; but I found my regard for their opposites diminish by degrees. If it is dangerous to be convinced, it is dangerous to listen; for our reason is so much of a machine, that it will not always be able to resist, when the ear is perpetually assailed. “In short, Mr. Harley (for I tire you with a relation, the catastrophe of which you will already have imagined), I fell a prey to his artifices. He had not been able so thoroughly to convert me, that my conscience was silent on the subject; but he was so assiduous to give repeated proofs of unabated affec- tion, that I hushed its suggestions as they rose. The world, however, I knew, was not to be silenced; and therefore I took occasion to express my uneasiness to my seducer, and entreat him, as he valued the peace of one to whom he professed such attachment, to remove it by a marriage. He made excuses from his dependence on the will of his father, but quieted my fears by the promise of endeavouring to win his assent. “My father had been some days absent on a visit to a dying relation, from whom he had considerable expectations. I was left at home, with no other company than my books: my books I found were not now such companions as they used to be; I was restless, melancholy, unsatisfied with myself. But judge my situation when I received a billet from Mr. Winbrooke in- forming me, that he had sounded Sir George on the subject we had talked of, and found him so averse to any match so un- equal to his own rank and fortune, that he was obliged, with whatever reluctance, to bid adieu to a place, the remembrance of which should ever be dear to him. “I read this letter a hundred times over. Alone, helpless, conscious of guilt, and abandoned by every better thought, my mind was one motley scene of terror, confusion, and remorse. A thousand expedients suggested themselves, and a thousand fears told me they would be vain : at last, in an agony of despair, I packed up a few clothes, took what money and trinkets were in the house, and set out for London, whither I 40 THE MAN OF FEELING understood he was gone; pretending to my maid, that I had received letters from my father requiring my immediate at- tendance. I had no other companion than a boy, a servant to the man from whom I hired my horses. I arrived in London within an hour of Mr. Winbrooke, and accidentally alighted at the very inn where he was. “ He started and turned pale when he saw me; but recov- ered himself in time enough to make many new protestations of regard, and beg me to make myself easy under a disap- pointment which was equally afflicting to him. He procured me lodgings, where I slept, or rather endeavoured to sleep, for that night. Next morning I saw him again, he then mildly observed on the imprudence of my precipitate flight from the country, and proposed my removing to lodgings at another end of the town, to elude the search of my father, till he should fall upon some method of excusing my conduct to him, and reconciling him to my return. We took a hackney-coach, and drove to the house he mentioned. "It was situated in a dirty lane, furnished with a tawdry affectation of finery, with some old family pictures hanging on walls which their own cobwebs would better have suited. I was struck with a secret dread at entering, nor was it lessened by the appearance of the landlady, who had that look of selfish shrewdness, which, of all others, is the most hateful to those whose feelings are untinctured with the world. A girl, who she told us was her niece, sat by her, playing on a guitar, while herself was at work, with the assistance of spectacles, and had a prayer-book with the leaves folded down in several places, lying on the table before her. Perhaps, sir, I tire you with my minuteness, but the place, and every circumstance about it, is so impressed on my mind, that I shall never forget it. “I dined that day with Mr. Winbrooke alone. He lost by degrees that restraint which I perceived too well to hang about him before, and, with his former gaiety and good humour, repeated the flattering things which, though they had once been fatal, I durst not now distrust. At last, taking my hand, and kissing it, 'It is thus,' said he, that love will last, while freedom is preserved; thus let us ever be blessed, without the galling thought that we are tied to a condition where we may cease to be so.' Collor 41 THE MAN OF FEELING “I answered, “That the world thought otherwise: that it had certain ideas of good fame, which it was impossible not to wish to maintain.' ". The world,' said he, 'is a tyrant, they are slaves who obey it; let us be happy without the pale of the world. To- morrow I shall leave this quarter of it, for one where the talk- ers of the world shall be foiled, and lose us. Could not my Emily accompany me? my friend, my companion, the mistress of my soul! Nay, do not look so, Emily! Your father may grieve for a while, but your father shall be taken care of; this bank-bill I intend as the comfort for his daughter.' “I could contain myself no longer : ‘Wretch,' I exclaimed, 'dost thou imagine that my father's heart could brook de- pendence on the destroyer of his child, and tamely accept of a base equivalent for her honour and his own?' “'Honour, my Emily,' said he, is the word of fools, or of those wiser men who cheat them. 'Tis a fantastic bauble that does not suit the gravity of your father's age; but, whatever it is, I am afraid it can never be perfectly restored to you: ex- change the word then, and let pleasure be your object now.' “At these words he clasped me in his arms, and pressed his lips rudely to my bosom. I started from my seat. ‘Perfidi- ous villain!' said I, 'who dar'st insult the weakness thou hast undone; were that father here, thy coward soul would shrink from the vengeance of his honour! Cursed be that wretch who has deprived him of it! oh! doubly cursed, who has dragged on his hoary head the infamy which should have crushed her own!' I snatched a knife which lay beside me, and would have plunged it in my breast, but the monster pre- vented my purpose, and smiling with a grin of barbarous insult- Madam,' said he, 'I confess you are too much in heroics for me; I am sorry we should differ about trifles; but as I seem somehow to have offended you, I would willingly rem- edy it by taking my leave. You have been put to some foolish expense in this journey on my account; allow me to reim- burse you.' “ So saying he laid a bank-bill, of what amount I had no patience to see, upon the table. Shame, grief, and indignation 42 THE MAN OF FEELING choked my utterance; unable to speak my wrongs, and unable to bear them in silence, I fell in a swoon at his feet. “What happened in the interval I cannot tell, but when I came to myself I was in the arms of the landlady, with her niece chafing my temples, and doing all in her power for my recovery. She had much compassion in her countenance; the old woman assumed the softest look she was capable of, and both endeavoured to bring me comfort. They continued to show me many civilities, and even the aunt began to be less disagreeable in my sight. To the wretched, to the forlorn, as I was, small offices of kindness are endearing. “ Meantime my money was far spent, nor did I attempt to conceal my wants from their knowledge. I had frequent thoughts of returning to my father; but the dread of a life of scorn is insurmountable. I avoided, therefore, going abroad when I had a chance of being seen by any former acquaint- ance, nor indeed did my health for a great while permit it; and suffered the old woman, at her own suggestion, to call me niece at home, where we now and then saw (when they could prevail on me to leave my room) one or two other elderly women, and sometimes a grave business-like man, who showed great compassion for my indisposition, and made me very obligingly an offer of a room at his country-house for the recovery of my health. This offer I did not choose to accept, but told my landlady, 'that I should be glad to be employed in any way of business which my skill in needle-work could recommend me to, confessing, at the same time, that I was afraid I should scarce be able to pay her what I already owed for board and lodging, and that for her other good offices, I had nothing but thanks to give her.' “'My dear child,' said she,' do not talk of paying; since I lost my own sweet girl' (here she wept), ‘your very picture she was, Miss Emily, I have nobody, except my niece, to whom I should leave any little thing I have been able to save; you shall live with me, my dear; and I have sometimes a little millinery work, in which, when you are inclined to it, you may assist us. By the way, here are a pair of ruffles we have just finished for that gentleman you saw here at tea; a distant relation of mine, and a worthy man he is. 'Twas pity you refused the offer of an apartment at his country house; my 43 THE MAN OF FEELING niece, you know, was to have accompanied you, and you might have fancied yourself at home; a most sweet place it is, and but a short mile beyond Hampstead. Who knows, Miss Emily, what effect such a visit might have had! If I had half your beauty I should not waste it pining after e'er a worthless fellow of them all.' "I felt my heart swell at her words; I would have been angry if I could, but I was in that stupid state which is not easily awakened to anger: when I would have chid her the reproof stuck in my throat; I could only weep! “Her want of respect increased, as I had not spirit to assert it. My work was now rather imposed than offered, and I became a drudge for the bread I eat: but my dependence and servility grew in proportion, and I was now in a situation which could not make any extraordinary exertions to disen- gage itself from either—I found myself with child. At last the wretch, who had thus trained me to destruc- tion, hinted the purpose for which those means had been used. I discovered her to be an artful procuress for the pleasures of those who are men of decency to the world in the midst of debauchery. “I roused every spark of courage within me at the horrid proposal. She treated my passion at first somewhat mildly, but when I continued to exert it she resented it with insult, and told me plainly that if I did not soon comply with her desires I should pay her every farthing I owed, or rot in a jail for life. I trembled at the thought; still, however, I resisted her importunities, and she put her threats in execution. I was conveyed to prison, weak from my condition, weaker from that struggle of grief and misery which for some time I had suf- fered. A miscarriage was the consequence. Amidst all the horrors of such a state, surrounded with wretches totally callous, lost alike to humanity and to shame, think, Mr. Harley, think what I endured; nor wonder that I at last yielded to the solicitations of that miscreant I had seen at her house, and sunk to the prostitution which he tempted. But that was happiness compared to what I have suffered since. He soon abandoned me to the common use of the town, and I was cast among those miserable beings in whose society I have since remained. 44 THE MAN OF FEELING e'er. re ner ass ICE 2 Tvar dise estra: nus. easura midst o "Oh! did the daughters of virtue know our sufferings; did they see our hearts torn with anguish amidst the affecta- tion of gaiety which our faces are obliged to assume! our bodies tortured by disease, our minds with that consciousness which they cannot lose! Did they know, did they think of this, Mr. Harley! Their censures are just, but their pity per- haps might spare the wretches whom their justice should con- demn. Last night, but for an exertion of benevolence which the infection of our infamy prevents even in the humane, had I been thrust out from this miserable place which misfortune has yet left me; exposed to the brutal insults of drunkenness, or dragged by that justice which I could not bribe, to the pun- ishment which may correct, but, alas! can never amend the abandoned objects of its terrors. From that, Mr. Harley, your goodness has relieved me.” He beckoned with his hand: he would have stopped the mention of his favours; but he could not speak, had it been to beg a diadem. She saw his tears; her fortitude began to fail at the sight, when the voice of some stranger on the stairs awakened her attention. She listened for a moment, then starting up, ex- claimed, “ Merciful God! my father's voice!” She had scarce uttered the word, when the door burst open, and a man entered in the garb of an officer. When he dis- covered his daughter and Harley, he started back a few paces; his look assumed a furious wildness! he laid his hand on his sword. The two objects of his wrath did not utter a syllable. Villain,” he cried, thou seest a father who had once a daughter's honour to preserve; blasted as it now is, behold him ready to avenge its loss!” Harley had by this time some power of utterance. said he, “ if you will be a moment calm- “Infamous coward!” interrupted the other, dost thou preach calmness to wrongs like mine?” He drew his sword. “Sir," said Harley, “let me tell you ”—the blood ran quicker to his cheek, his pulse beat one, no more, and regained the temperament of humanity-"you are deceived, sir,” said he, “ you are much deceived; but I forgive suspicions which horni mildt resista ads “Sir," ed with shame that ad see ampte sufferi e town Society 45 THE MAN OF FEELING your misfortunes have justified: I would not wrong you, upon my soul I would not, for the dearest gratification of a thousand worlds; my heart bleeds for you!” His daughter was now prostrate at his feet. "Strike," said she, “ strike here a wretch, whose misery cannot end but with that death she deserves." Her hair had fallen on her shoulders! her look had the hor- rid calmness of out-breathed despair! Her father would have spoken; his lip quivered, his cheek grew pale, his eyes lost the lightning of their fury! there was a reproach in them, but with a mingling of pity. He turned them up to heaven, then on his daughter. He laid his left hand on his heart, the sword dropped from his right, he burst into tears. CHAPTER XXIX THE DISTRESSES OF A FATHER. ARLEY kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate HARLEY-kneeled also at the side of the unfortunate Allow me, sir,” said he,“ to entreat your pardon for one whose offences have been already so signally punished. I know, I feel, that those tears, wrung from the heart of a father, are more dreadful to her than all the punishments your sword could have inflicted : accept the contrition of a child whom heaven has restored to you.” “Is she not lost," answered he, “irrecoverably lost? Damnation! a common prostitute to the meanest ruffian!” “Calmly, my dear sir," said Harley,“ did you know by what complicated misfortunes she has fallen to that miserable state in which you now behold her, I should have no need of words to excite your compassion. Think, sir, of what once Would you abandon her to the insults of an unfeel- ing world, deny her opportunity of penitence, and cut off the little comfort that still remains for your afflictions and her own!” Speak," said he, addressing himself to his daughter; “ speak; I will hear thee.” she was. 45 THE MAN OF FEELING Miss Atkins now retired to her chamber, to take some rest from the violence of the emotions she had suffered. When she was gone, her father, addressing himself to Harley, said, "You have a right, sir, to be informed of the present situation of one who owes so much to your compassion for his misfor- tunes. My daughter I find has informed you what that was at the fatal juncture when they began. Her distresses you have heard, you have pitied as they deserved; with mine, per- haps, I cannot so easily make you acquainted. You have a feeling heart, Mr. Harley; I bless it that it has saved my child; but you never were a father, a father torn by that most dread- ful of calamities, the dishonour of a child he doated on! You have been already informed of some of the circumstances of her elopement. I was then from home, called by the death of a relation, who, though he would never advance me a shilling on the utmost exigency in his life-time, left me all the gleanings of his frugality at his death. I would not write this intelli- gence to my daughter, because I intended to be the bearer myself; and as soon as my business would allow me, I set out on my return, winged with all the haste of paternal affection. I fondly built those schemes of future happiness, which present prosperity is ever busy to suggest: my Emily was con- cerned in them all. As I approached our little dwelling my heart throbbed with the anticipation of joy and welcome. I imagined the cheering fire, the blissful contentment of a frugal ineal, made luxurious by a daughter's smile, I painted to my- self her surprise at the tidings of our new-acquired riches, our fond disputes about the disposal of them. “The road was shortened by the dreams of happiness I en- joyed, and it began to be dark as I reached the house: I alighted from my horse, and walked softly upstairs to the room we commonly sat in. I was somewhat disappointed at not finding my daughter there. I rung the bell; her maid appeared, and shewed no small signs of wonder at the sum- mons. She blessed herself as she entered the room: I smiled at her surprise. "Where is Miss Emily, sir?' said she. Emily!' Yes, sir; she has been gone hence some days, upon re- ceipt of those letters you sent her.' Letters !' said I. 7 48 THE MAN OF FEELING Yes, sir, so she told me, and went off in all haste that very night.' “I stood aghast as she spoke, but was able so far to recol- lect myself, as to put on the affectation of calmness, and telling her there was certainly some mistake in the affair, desired her to leave me. “When she was gone, I threw myself into a chair, in that state of uncertainty which is, of all others, the most dreadful. The gay visions with which I had delighted myself, vanished in an instant. I was tortured with tracing back the same circle of doubt and disappointment. My head grew dizzy as I thought. I called the servant again, and asked her a hun- dred questions, to no purpose; there was not room even for conjecture. Something at last arose in my mind, which we call Hope, without knowing what it is. I wished myself deluded by it; but it could not prevail over my returning fears. I arose and walked through the room. My Emily's spinnet stood at the end of it, open, with a book of music folded down at some of my favourite lessons. I touched the keys; there was a vibra- tion in the sound that froze my blood; I looked around, and methought the family pictures on the walls gazed on me with compassion in their faces. I sat down again with an attempt at more composure; I started at every creaking of the door, and my ears rung with imaginary noises ! “I had not remained long in this situation, when the arrival of a friend, who had accidentally heard of my return, put an end to my doubts, by the recital of my daughter's dishonour. He told me he had his information from a young gentleman, to whom Winbrooke had boasted of having seduced her. I started from my seat, with broken curses on my lips, and without knowing whither I should pursue them, ordered my servant to load my pistols and saddle my horses. My friend, however, with great difficulty, persuaded me to compose my- self for that night, promising to accompany me on the morrow, to Sir George Winbrooke's in quest of his son. “ The morrow came, after a night spent in a state little dis- tant from madness. We went as early as decency would allow to Sir George's. He received me with politeness, and indeed compassion, protested his abhorrence of his son's con- 49 THE MAN OF FEELING duct, and told me that he had set out some days before for London, on which place he had procured a draft for a large sum, on pretence of finishing his travels, but that he had not heard from him since his departure. “I did not wait for any more, either of information or com- fort, but, against the united remonstrances of Sir George aná my friend, set out instantly for London, with a frantic uncer- tainty of purpose; but there, all manner of search was in vain. I could trace neither of them any farther than the inn where they first put up on their arrival; and after some days' fruitless inquiry, returned home destitute of every little hope that had hitherto supported me. The journeys I had made, the restless nights I had spent, above all, the perturbation of my mind, had the effect which naturally might be expected- a very dangerous fever was the consequence. From this, however, contrary to the expectation of my physicians, I re- covered. It was now that I first felt something like calmness of mind; probably from being reduced to a state which could not produce the exertions of anguish or despair. A stupid melancholy settled on my soul; I could endure to live with an apathy of life; at times I forgot my resentment, and wept at the remembrance of my child. “Such has been the tenor of my days since that fatal mo- ment when these misfortunes began, till yesterday, that I re- ceived a letter from a friend in town, acquainting me of her present situation. Could such tales as mine, Mr. Harley, be sometimes suggested to the daughters of levity, did they but know with what anxiety the heart of a parent flutters round the child he loves, they would be less apt to construe into harshness that delicate concern for their conduct, which they often complain of as laying restraint upon things, to the young, the gay, and the thoughtless, seemingly harmless and indif- ferent. Alas! I fondly imagined that I needed not even these common cautions ! my Emily was the joy of my age, and the pride of my soul! Those things are now no more, they are lost for ever! Her death I could have borne, but the death of her honour has added obloquy and shame to that sorrow which bends my grey hairs to the dust ! ” As he spoke these last words, his voice trembled in his throat; it was now lost in his tears. He sat with his face half - 50 THE MAN OF FEELING turned from Harley, as if he would have hid the sorrow which he felt. Harley was in the same attitude himself; he durst not meet Atkins' eye with a tear, but gathering his stifled breath,“ Let me entreat you, sir,” said he,“ to hope better things. The world is ever tyrannical; it warps our sorrows to edge them with keener affliction. Let us not be slaves to the names it affixes to motive or to action. I know an in- genuous mind cannot help feeling when they sting. But there are considerations by which it may be overcome. Its fan- tastic ideas vanish as they rise; they teach us to look be- yond it.” A FRAGMENT SHOWING HIS SUCCESS WITH THE BARONET. *THI HE card he received was in the politest style in which disappointment could be communicated. The baronet " was under a necessity of giving up his applica- tion for Mr. Harley, as he was informed that the lease was engaged for a gentleman who had long served His Majesty in another capacity, and whose merit had entitled him to the first lucrative thing that should be vacant.” Even Harley could not murmur at such a disposal. “Perhaps,” said he to himself, some war-worn officer, who, like poor Atkins, had been neglected from reasons which merited the highest ad- vancement; whose honour could not stoop to solicit the pre- ferment he deserved; perhaps, with a family, taught the prin- ciples of delicacy, without the means of supporting it; a wife and children-gracious heaven! whom my wishes would have deprived of bread!" He was interrupted in his reverie by some one tapping him on the shoulder, and, on turning round, he discovered it to be the very man who had explained to him the condition of his gay companion at Hyde Park Corner. “I am glad to see you, sir," said he; “I believe we are fellows in disappoint- ment.” Harley started, and said that he was at a loss to un- 51 THE MAN OF FEELING derstand him. “Pooh! you need not be so shy,” answered the other; “every one for himself is but fair, and I had much rather you had got it than the rascally gauger.” Harley still protested his ignorance of what he meant. " Why, the lease of Bancroft Manor; had not you been applying for it?" "I confess I was," replied Harley; "but I cannot conceive how you should be interested in the matter.” “Why, I was mak- ing interest for it myself," said he, “and I think I had some title. I voted for this same baronet at the last election, and made some of my friends do so too; though I would not have you imagine that I sold my vote. No, I scorn it, let me tell you I scorn it; but I thought as how this man was staunch and true, and I find he's but a double-faced fellow after all, and speechifies in the House for any side he hopes to make most by. Oh, how many fine speeches and squeezings by the hand we had of him on the canvass ! 'And if ever I shall be so happy as to have an opportunity of serving you.' A murrain on the smooth-tongued knave, and after all to get it for this pimp of a gauger.” “ The gauger! there must be some mis- take,” said Harley. “He writes me, that it was engaged for one whose long services" “ Services !” interrupted the other; "you shall hear. Services! Yes, his sister arrived in town a few days ago, and is now sempstress to the baronet. A plague on all rogues, says honest Sam Wrightson. I shall but just drink damnation to them to-night, in a crown's worth of Ashley's, and leave London to-morrow by sun-rise.” “I shall leave it too,” said Harley; and so he accordingly did. In passing through Piccadilly, he had observed, on the win- dow of an inn, a notification of the departure of a stage-coach for a place in his road homewards; in the way back to his lodgings, he took a seat in it for his return. THI CHAPTER XXXIII HE LEAVES LONDON-CHARACTERS IN A STAGE-COACH. HE company in the stage-coach consisted of a grocer and his wifeto visit to some of their country friends; a young officer, who took this way of marching to quarters; a middle-aged gentlewoman, who 52 THE MAN OF FEELING had been hired as housekeeper to some family in the country; and an elderly, well-looking man, with a remarkable old-fash- ioned periwig. Harley, upon entering, discovered but one vacant seat, next the grocer's wife, which, from his natural shyness of temper, lie made no scruple to occupy, however aware that being driven backwards always disagreed with him. Though his inclination to physiognomy had met with some rubs in the metropolis, he had not yet lost his attachment to that science. He set himself, therefore, to examine, as usual, the countenances of his companions. Here, indeed, he was not long in doubt as to the preference; for besides that the elderly gentleman, who sat opposite to him, had features by nature more expressive of good dispositions, there was some- thing in that periwig we mentioned, peculiarly attractive of Harley's regard. He had not been long employed in these speculations, when he found himself attacked with that faintish sickness, which was the natural consequence of his situation in the coach. The paleness of his countenance was first observed by the housekeeper, who immediately made offer of her smelling bottle, which Harley, however, declined, telling at the same time the cause of his uneasiness. The gentleman, on the op- posite side of the coach, now first turned his eye from the side direction in which it had been fixed, and begged Harley to ex- change places with him, expressing his regret that he had not made the proposal before. Harley thanked him, and, upon being assured that both seats were alike to him, was about to accept of his offer, when the young gentleman of the sword, putting on an arch look, laid hold of the other's arm. “So, my old boy,” said he, “I find you have still some youthful blood about you, but, with your leave, I will do myself the honour of sitting by this lady;” and took his place accord- ingly. The grocer stared him as full in the face as his own short neck would allow, and his wife, who was a little, round- faced woman, with a great deal of colour in her cheeks, drew up at the compliment that was paid her, looking first at the officer, and then at the housekeeper. This incident was productive of some discourse; for before, though there was sometimes a cough or a hem from the grocer, 53 THE MAN OF FEELING and the officer now and then humm'd a few notes of a song, there had not a single word passed the lips of any of the company. Mrs. Grocer observed, how ill-convenient it was for people, who could not bear to ride backwards, to travel in a stage. This brought on a dissertation on stage-coaches in general, and the pleasure of keeping a chay of one's own; which led to another, on the great riches of Mr. Deputy Bearskin, who, according to her, had once been of that industrious order of youths who sweep the crossings of the streets for the conveni- ency of passengers, but, by various fortunate accidents, had now acquired an immense fortune, and kept his coach and a dozen livery servants. All this afforded ample fund for con- versation, if conversation it might be called, that was carried on solely by the before-mentioned lady, nobody offering to interrupt her, except that the officer sometimes signified his approbation by a variety of oaths, a sort of phraseology in which he seemed extremely conversant. She appealed in- deed, frequently, to her husband for the authenticity of certain facts, of which the good man as often protested his total igno- rance; but as he was always called fool, or something very like it, for his pains, he at last contrived to support the credit of his wife without prejudice to his conscience, and signified his assent by a noise not unlike the grunting of that animal which in shape and fatness he somewhat resembled. The housekeeper, and the old gentleman who sat next to Harley, were now observed to be fast asleep, at which the lady, who had been at such pains to entertain them, muttered some words of displeasure, and, upon the officer's whispering to smoke the old put, both she and her husband pursed up their mouths into a contemptuous smile. Harley looked sternly on the grocer. “You are come, sir," said he,“ to those years when you might have learned some reverence for age. As for this young man, who has so lately escaped from the nursery, he may be allowed to divert himself.” Damme, sir !” said the officer, “ do you call me young ?” striking up the front of his hat, and stretching forward on his seat, till his face almost touched Harley's. It is probable, however, that he discovered something there which tended to pacify him, for, on the ladies entreating them not to quarrel, he very soon re- 54 THE MAN OF FEELING sumed his posture and calmness together, and was rather less profuse of his oaths during the rest of the journey. It is possible the old gentleman had waked time enough to hear the last part of this discourse; at least (whether from that cause, or that he too was a physiognomist) he wore a look remarkably complacent to Harley, who, on his part, shewed a particular observance of him. Indeed, they had soon a better opportunity of making their acquaintance, as the coach arrived that night at the town where the officer's regiment lay, and the places of destination of their other fellow-travellers, it seems, were at no great distance, for, next morning, the old gentle- man and Harley were the only passengers remaining. When they left the inn in the morning, Harley, pulling out a little pocket-book, began to examine the contents, and make some corrections with a pencil. “This,” said he, turning to his companion, “is an amusement with which I sometimes pass idle hours at an inn. These are quotations from those humble poets, who trust their fame to the brittle tenure of windows and drinking-glasses." “ From our inns,” returned the gentleman, “a stranger might imagine that we were a nation of poets; machines, at least, containing poetry, which the motion of a journey emptied of their contents. Is it from the vanity of being thought geniuses, or a mere mechanical imitation of the custom of others, that we are tempted to scrawl rhyme upon such places? “Whether vanity is the cause of our becoming rhymesters or not,” answered Harley, “it is a pretty certain effect of it. An old man of my acquaintance, who dealt in apothegms, used to say that he had known few men without envy, few wits without ill-nature, and no poet without vanity; and I believe his remark is a pretty just one. Vanity has been immemori- ally the charter of poets. In this, the ancients were more honest than we are. The old poets frequently make boastful predictions of the immortality their works will obtain for them; ours, in their dedications and prefatory discourses, employ much eloquence to praise their patrons, and much seeming honesty to condemn themselves, or at least to apolo- gise for their productions to the world. But this, in my opinion, is the more assuming manner of the two; for of all 55 THE MAN OF FEELING the garbs I ever saw Pride put on, that of her humility is to me the most disgusting." " It is natural enough for a poet to be vain," said the stranger. “The little worlds which he raises, the inspiration which he claims, may easily be productive of self-importance; though that inspiration is fabulous, it brings on egotism, which is always the parent of vanity.” " It may be supposed,” answered Harley, “ that inspiration of old was an article of religious faith; in modern times it may be translated a propensity to compose; and I believe it is not always most readily found where the poets have fixed its residence, amidst groves and plains, and the scenes of pastoral retirement. The mind may be there unbent from the cares of the world, but it will frequently, at the same time, be unnerved from any great exertion. It will feel the languor of indolence, and wander without effort over the regions of reflection. “There is at least," said the stranger, “one advantage in the poetical inclination, that it is an incentive to philanthropy. There is a certain poetic ground, on which a man cannot tread without feelings that enlarge the heart: the causes of human depravity vanish before the romantic enthusiasm he professes, and many who are not able to reach the Parnassian heights, may yet approach so near as to be bettered by the air of the climate.” 'I have always thought so,” replied Harley; “ but this is an argument with the prudent against it: they urge the danger of unfitness for the world." “I allow it,” returned the other; “but I believe it is not always rightfully imputed to the bent for poetry: that is only one effect of the common cause.—Jack, says his father, is in- deed no scholar; nor could all the drubbings from his master ever bring him one step forward in his accidence or syntax: but I intend him for a merchant.—Allow the same in- dulgence to Tom.—Tom reads Virgil and Horace when he should be casting accounts; and but t'other day he pawned his great-coat for an edition of Shakespeare.—But Tom would have been as he is, though Virgil and Horace had never been born, though Shakespeare had died a link-boy; for his nurse will tell you, that when he was a child, he broke his rattle, to discover what it was that sounded within it; and burnt the 66 56 THE MAN OF FEELING sticks of his go-cart, because he liked to see the sparkling of timber in the fire.---'Tis a sad case; but what is to be done ?- Why, Jack shall make a fortune, dine on venison, and drink claret.—Ay, but Tom-Tom shall dine with his brother, when his pride will let him; at other times, he shall bless God over a half-pint of ale and a Welsh-rabbit; and both shall go to heaven as they may.—That's a poor prospect for Tom, says the father.—To go to heaven! I cannot agree with him.” Perhaps," said Harley, "we now-a-days discourage the romantic turn a little too much. Our boys are prudent too soon. Mistake me not, I do not mean to blame them for want of levity or dissipation; but their pleasures are those of hack- neyed vice, blunted to every finer emotion by the repetition of debauch; and their desire of pleasure is warped to the desire of wealth, as the means of procuring it. The immense riches acquired by individuals have erected a standard of ambition, destructive of private morals, and of public virtue. The weaknesses of vice are left us; but the most allowable of our failings we are taught to despise. Love, the passion most natural to the sensibility of youth, has lost the plaintive dig- nity it once possessed, for the unmeaning simper of a dangling coxcomb; and the only serious concern, that of a dowry, is settled, even amongst the beardless leaders of the dancing- school. The Frivolous and the Interested (might a satirist say) are the characteristical features of the age; they are visible even in the essays of our philosophers. They laugh at the pedantry of our fathers, who complained of the times in which they lived; they are at pains to persuade us how much those were deceived; they pride themselves in defending things as they find them, and in exploding the barren sounds which had been reared into motives for action. To this their style is suited; and the manly tone of reason is exchanged for perpetual efforts at sneer and ridicule. This I hold to be an alarming crisis in the corruption of a state; when not only is virtue declined, and vice prevailing, but when the praises of virtue are forgotten, and the infamy of vice unfelt." They soon after arrived at the next inn upon the route of the stage-coach, when the stranger told Harley, that his 57 THE MAN OF FEELING brother's house, to which he was returning, lay at no great distance, and he must therefore unwillingly bid him adieu. "I should like," said Harley, taking his hand, “to have some word to remember so much seeming worth by: my name is Harley." “I shall remember it," answered the old gentleman, "in my prayers, mine is Silton.” And Silton indeed it was! Ben Silton himself! Once more, my honoured friend, farewell ! Born to be happy without the world, to that peaceful happiness which the world has not to bestow! Envy never scowled on thy life, nor hatred smiled on thy grave. CHAPTER XXXIV HE MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. W HEN the stage-coach arrived at the place of its destina- tion, Harley began to consider how he should proceed the remaining part of his journey. He was very civilly ac- costed by the master of the inn, who offered to accommodate him either with a post-chaise or horses, to any distance he had a mind: but as he did things frequently in a way different from what other people call natural, he refused these offers, and set out immediately a-foot, having first put a spare shirt in his pocket, and given directions for the forwarding of his portmanteau. This was a method of travelling which he was accustomed to take: it saved the trouble of provision for any animal but himself, and left him at liberty to choose his quar- ters, either at an inn, or at the first cottage in which he saw a face he liked : nay, when he was not peculiarly attracted by the reasonable creation, he would sometimes consort with a species of inferior rank, and lay himself down to sleep by the side of a rock, or on the banks of a rivulet. He did few things without a motive, but his motives were rather eccentric: and the usual and expedient were terms which he held to be very indefinite, and which therefore he did not always apply to the sense in which they are commonly understood. The sun was now in his decline, and the evening remarkably 58 THE MAN OF FEELING sling, and lay motionless across his breast. He had that steady look of sorrow, which indicates that its owner has gazed upon his griefs till he has forgotten to lament them; yet not without those streaks of complacency which a good mind will sometimes throw into the countenance, through all the incumbent load of its depression. He had now advanced nearer to Harley, and, with an un- certain sort of voice, begged to know what it was o'clock; “I fear,” said he, “ sleep has beguiled me of my time, and I shall hardly have light enough left to carry me to the end of my journey." “ Father !” said Harley (who by this time found the ro- mantic enthusiasm rising within him) “ how far do you mean to go?” “But a little way, sir," returned the other ; " and indeed it is but a little way I can manage now : 'tis just four miles from the height to the village, whither I am going.” “I am going thither too,” said Harley; " we may make the road shorter to each other. You seem to have served your country, sir, to have served it hardly too; 'tis a character I have the highest esteem for. I would not be impertinently inquisitive; but there is that in your appearance which ex- cites my curiosity to know something more of you; in the meantime, suffer me to carry that knapsack.” The old man gazed on him; a tear stood in his eye! “Young gentleman," said he, "you are too good; may Heaven bless you for an old man's sake, who has nothing but his blessing to give! but my knapsack is so familiar to my shoulders, that I should walk the worse for wanting it, and it would be trouble- some to you, who have not been used to its weight.” “Far from it," answered Harley, “I should tread the lighter; it would be the most honourable badge I ever wore.” “Sir,” said the stranger, who had looked earnestly in Har- ley's face during the last part of his discourse, “is not your name Harley ?" “It is,” replied he; “I am ashamed to say I have forgotten yours.” “ You may well have forgotten my face," said the stranger; —'tis a long time since you saw it; but possibly you may re- member something of old Edwards." 60 THE MAN OF FEELING “Edwards!” cried Harley, “ch! heavens?” and sprung to embrace him; “let me clasp those knees on which I have sat so often: Edwards !—I shall never forget that fire-side, round which I have been so happy! But where, where have you becn? where is Jack? where is your daughter? How has it fared with them, when fortune, I fear, has been so unkind to you? “ 'Tis a long tale," replied Edwards; " but I will try to tell it you as we walk. When you were at school in the neighbourhood, you re- member me at South-hill: that farm had been possessed by my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, which last was a younger brother of that very man's ancestor, who is now lord of the manor. I thought I managed it, as they had done, with prudence; I paid my rent regularly as it became due, and had always as much behind as gave bread to me and my children. But my last lease was out soon after you left that part of the country; and the squire, who had lately got a London-attorney for his steward, would not renew it, because, he said, he did not choose to have any farm under £300 a year value on his estate; but offered to give me the preference on the same terms with another, if I chose to take the one he had marked out, of which mine was a part. What could I do, Mr. Harley? I feared the undertaking was too great for me; yet to leave, at my age, the house I had lived in from my cradle! I could not, Mr. Harley, I could not; there was not a tree about it that I did not look on as my father, my brother, or my child: so I even ran the risk, and took the squire's offer of the whole. But I had soon rea- son to repent of my bargain; the steward had taken care that my former farm should be the best land of the division: I was obliged to hire more servants, and I could not have my eye over them all; some unfavourable seasons followed one an- other, and I found my affairs entangling on my hands. To add to my distress, a considerable corn-factor turned bankrupt with a sum of mine in his possession: I failed paying my rent so punctually as I was wont to do, and the same steward had my stock taken in execution in a few days after. So, Mr. Harley, there was an end of my prosperity. However, there was as much produced from the sale of my effects as paid 61 THE MAN OF FEELING . bot my debts and saved me from a jail: I thank God I wronged no man, and the world could never charge me with dishonesty. “ Had you seen us, Mr. Harley, when we were turned out of South-hill, I am sure you would have wept at the sight. You remember old Trusty, my shag house-dog ; I shall never forget it while I live; the poor creature was blind with age, and could scarce crawl after us to the door; he went however as far as the gooseberry-bush; which you may remember stood on the left side of the yard; he was wont to bask in the sun there; when he had reached that spot, he stopped; we went on: I called to him; he wagged his tail, but did not stir: I called again; he lay down: I whistled, and cried Trusty; he gave a short howl, and died! I could have lain down and died too; but God gave me strength to live for my children.” The old man now paused a moment to take breath. He eyed Harley's face; it was bathed with tears: the story was grown familiar to himself; he dropped one tear, and no more. “ Though I was poor,” continued he, “I was not altogether without credit. A gentleman in the neighbourhood, who had a small farm unoccupied at the time, offered to let me have it, on giving security for the rent; which I made shift to procure. It was a piece of ground which required management to make anything of; but it was nearly within the compass of my son's labour and my own. We exerted all our industry to bring it into some heart. We began to succeed tolerably, and lived contented on its produce, when an unlucky accident brought us under the displeasure of a neighbouring justice of the peace, and broke all our family happiness again. “My son was a remarkable good shooter; he had always kept a pointer on our former farm, and thought no harm in doing so now; when one day, having sprung a covey of part- ridges in our own ground, the dog, of his own accord, followed them into the justice's. My son laid down his gun, and went after his dog to bring him back: the game-keeper, who had marked the birds, came up, and seeing the pointer, shot him just as my son approached. The creature fell; my son ran up to him: he died with a complaining sort of cry at his master's feet. Jack could bear it no longer; but, flying at the game- keeper, wrenched his gun out of his hand, and with the butt end of it, felled him to the ground. on ,a 2 01 ker pelis tu SC SW .no so lec 62 THE MAN OF FEELING 1 1 “He had scarce got home, when a constable came with a warrant, and dragged him to prison; there he lay, for the justices would not take bail, till he was tried at the quarter- sessions for the assault and battery. His fine was hard upon us to pay; we contrived however to live the worse for it, and make up the loss by our frugality: but the justice was not content with that punishment, and soon after had an opportu- nity of punishing us indeed. “An officer with press-orders came down to our country, and having met with the justices, agreed that they should pitch on a certain number, who could most easily be spared from the county, of whom he would take care to clear it: my son's name was in the justices' list. 'Twas on a Christmas eve, and the birth-day too of my son's little boy. The night was piercing cold, and it blew à storm, with showers of hail and snow. We had made up a cheering fire in an inner room; I sat before it in my wicker- chair, blessing providence, that had still left a shelter for me and my children. My son's two little ones were holding their gambols around us; my heart warmed at the sight: I brought a bottle of my best ale, and all our misfortunes were forgotten. It had long been our custom to play a game at blind man's buff on that night, and it was not omitted now; so to it we fell, I, and my son, and his wife, the daughter of a neighbour- ing farmer, who happened to be with us at the time, the two children, and an old maid servant, who had lived with me from a child. The lot fell on my son to be blindfolded : we had continued some time at our game, when he groped his way into an outer room in pursuit of some of us, who, he imagined, had taken shelter there; we kept snug in our places, and en- joyed his mistake. He had not been long there, when he was suddenly seized from behind; “I shall have you now,' said he, and turned about. Shall you so, master?' answered the ruffian, who had laid hold of him; ' we shall make you play at another sort of game by and by.'”—At these words Harley started with a convulsive sort of motion, and grasping Ed- wards's sword, drew it half out of the scabbard, with a look of the most frantic wildness. Edwards gently replaced it in its sheath, and went on with his relation. “On hearing these words in a strange voice, we all rushed 63 THE MAN OF FEELING out to discover the cause; the room by this time was almost full of the gang. My daughter-in-law fainted at the sight; the maid and I ran to assist her, while my poor son remained motionless, gazing by turns on his children and their mother. We soon recovered her to life, and begged her to retire and wait the issue of the affair; but she flew to her husband, and clung round him in an agony of terror and grief. “In the gang was one of a smoother aspect, whom, by his dress, we discovered to be a serjeant of foot: he came up to me, and told me, that my son had his choice of the sea or land service, whispering at the same time that, if he chose the land, he might get off, on procuring him another man, and paying a certain sum for his freedom. The money we could just muster up in the house, by the assistance of the maid, who produced, in a green bag, all the little savings of her service; but the man we could not expect to find. My daughter-in- law gazed upon her children with a look of the wildest de- spair : ‘My poor infants !' said she, your father is forced from you; who shall now labour for your bread? or must your mother beg for herself and you?' I prayed her to be patient; but comfort I had none to give her. At last, calling the ser- jeant aside, I asked him, “If I was too old to be accepted in place of my son?' “Why, I don't know,' said he; ' you are rather old to be sure, but yet the money may do much.' “ I put the money in his hand, and coming back to my chil- dren, ‘Jack,' said I, ' you are free; live to give your wife and these little ones bread; I will go, my child, in your stead; I have but little life to lose, and if I staid, I should add one to the wretches you left behind.' "No,' replied my son, 'I am not that coward you imagine me; heaven forbid that my father's grey hairs should be so exposed, while I sat idle at home; I am young and able to endure much, and God will take care of you and my family.' Jack,' said I, I will put an end to this matter, you have never hitherto disobeyed me; I will not be contradicted in this; stay at home, I charge you, and, for my sake, be kind to my children.' "Our parting, Mr. Harley, I cannot describe to you; it was the first time we ever had parted: the very press-gang 64 THE MAN OF FEELING TE : 50% could scarce keep from tears; but the serjeant, who had seemed the softest before, was now the least moved of them all. He conducted me to a party of new-raised recruits, who lay at a village in the neighbourhood; and we soon after joined the regiment. I had not been long with it when we were ordered to the East Indies, where I was soon made a serjeant, and might have picked up some money, if my heart had been as hard as some others were; but my nature was never of that kind, that could think of getting rich at the expense of my conscience. Amongst our prisoners was an old Indian, whom some of our officers supposed to have a treasure hidden somewhere; which is no uncommon practice in that country. They pressed him to discover it. He declared he had none, but that would not satisfy them, so they ordered him to be tied to a stake, and suffer fifty lashes every morning till he should learn to speak out, as they said. Oh! Mr. Harley, had you seen hirn, as I did, with his hands bound behind him, suffering in silence, while the big drops trickled down his shrivelled cheeks and wet his grey beard, which some of the inhuman soldiers plucked in scorn! I could not bear it, I could not for my soul, and one morning, when the rest of the guard were out of the way, I found means to let him escape. I was tried by a court-martial for negligence on my post, and ordered, in compassion of my age, and having got this wound in my arm and that in my leg in the service, only to suffer three hundred lashes and be turned out of the regiment; but my sentence was mitigated as to the lashes, and I had only two hundred. When I had suffered these I was turned out of the camp, and had betwixt three and four hundred miles to travel before I could reach a sea-port, without guide to conduct me, or money to buy me provisions by the way. I set out, however, re- solved to walk as far as I could, and then to lay myself down and die. But I had scarce gone a mile when I was met by the Indian whom I had delivered. He pressed me in his arms, and kissed the marks of the lashes on my back a thousand times; he led ine to a little hut, where some friend of his dwelt, and after I was recovered of my wounds conducted me so far on my journey himself, and sent another Indian to guide me through the rest. When we parted he pulled out a purse with 0 es 15 65 THE MAN OF FEELING for some water and a smelling-bottle, with the assistance of which they soon recovered the unfortunate Edwards. He stared wildly for some time, then folding his orphan grand- children in his arms, "Oh! my children, my children,” he cried, “ have I found you thus? My poor Jack, art thou gone? I thought thou shouldst have carried thy father's grey hairs to the grave! and these little ones ”-his tears choked his utterance, and he fell again on the necks of the children. “My dear old man," said Harley, “Providence has sent you to relieve them; it will bless me if I can be the means of assisting you." “Yes, indeed, sir," answered the boy; "father, when he was a-dying, bade God bless us, and prayed that if grand- father lived he might send him to support us." “Where did they lay my boy ? " said Edwards. “In the Old Churchyard,” replied the woman, “hard by his mother.” "I will show it you," answered the boy, " for I have wept over it many a time when first I came among strange folks.” He took the old man's hand, Harley laid hold of his sister's, and they walked in silence to the churchyard. There was an old stone, with the corner broken off, and some letters, half-covered with moss, to denote the names of the dead : there was a cyphered R. E. plainer than the rest; it was the tomb they sought. "Here it is, grandfather," said the boy. Edwards gazed upon it without uttering a word: the girl, who had only sighed before, now wept outright; her brother sobbed, but he stifled his sobbing. “I have told sister,” said he, “that she should not take it so to heart; she can knit already, and I shall soon be able to dig, we shall not starve, sister, indeed we shall not, nor shall grandfather neither." The girl cried afresh; Harley kissed off her tears as they flowed, and wept between every kiss. 69 THE MAN OF FEELING Early next morning Harley stole into the room where Ed- wards lay: he expected to have found him a-bed, but in this he was mistaken: the old man had risen, and was leaning over his sleeping grandson, with the tears flowing down his cheeks. At first he did not perceive Harley; when he did, he en- deavoured to hide his grief, and crossing his eyes with his hand expressed his surprise at seeing him so early astir. "I was thinking of you," said Harley," and your children: I learned last night that a small farm of mine in the neigh- bourhood is now vacant: if you will occupy it I shall gain a good neighbour and be able in some measure to repay the notice you took of me when a boy, and as the furniture of the house is mine, it will be so much trouble saved.” Edwards' tears gushed afresh, and Harley led him to see the place he intended for him. The house upon this farm was indeed little better than a hut; its situation, however, was pleasant, and Edwards, as- sisted by the beneficence of Harley, set about improving its neatness and convenience. He staked out a piece of the green before for a garden, and Peter, who acted in Harley's family as valet, butler, and gardener, had orders to furnish him with parcels of the different seeds he chose to sow in it. I have seen his master at work in this little spot with his coat off, and his dibble in his hand: it was a scene of tranquil virtue to have stopped an angel on his errands of mercy! Harley had con- trived to lead a little bubbling brook through a green walk in the middle of the ground, upon which he had erected a mill in miniature for the diversion of Edwards' infant grandson, and made shift in its construction to introduce a pliant bit of wood that answered with its fairy clack to the murmuring of the rill that turned it. I have seen him stand, listening to these mingled sounds, with his eye fixed on the boy, and the smile of conscious satisfaction on his cheek, while the old man, with a look half turned to Harley and half to heaven, breathed an ejaculation of gratitude and piety. Father of mercies! I also would thank thee that not only hast thou assigned eternal rewards to virtue, but that, even in this bad world, the lines of our duty and our happiness are so frequently woven together. 71 THE MAN OF FEELING security and freedom to the regions of oppression and slavery? did he ende: the British name by examples of generosity, which the moss arbarous or most depraved are rarely able to resist ? did he ret in with the consciousness of duty discharged to his country, and humanity to his fellow-creatures? did he return with no lace on his coat, no slaves in his retinue, no chariot at his door, and no burgundy at his table?--these were laurels which princes might envy—which an honest man would not condemn!” “ Your maxims, Mr. Harley, are certainly right,” said Ed- wards. “I am not capable of arguing with you; but I imagine there are great temptations in a great degree of riches, which it is no easy matter to resist: those a poor man like me cannot describe, because he never knew them; and perhaps I have reason to bless God that I never did; for then, it is likely, I should have withstood them no better than my neighbours. For you know, sir, that it is not the fashion now, as it was in former times, that I have read of in books, when your great generals died so poor, that they did not leave wherewithal to buy them a coffin; and people thought the better of their memories for it: if they did so now-a-days, I question if any body, except yourself, and some few like you, would thank them." “I am sorry," replied Harley, “ that there is so much truth in what you say; but however the general current of opinion may point, the feelings are not yet lost that applaud benevo- lence, and censure inhumanity. Let us endeavour to strengthen them in ourselves; and we, who live sequestered from the noise of the multitude, have better opportunities of listening undisturbed to their voice." They now approached the little dwelling of Edwards. A maid-servant, whom he had hired to assist him in the care of his grandchildren, met them a little way from the house: “There is a young lady within with the children,” said she. Edwards expressed his surprise at the visit: it was however not the less true; and we mean to account for it. This young lady then was no other than Miss Walton. She had heard the old man's history from Harley, as we have already related it. Curiosity, or some other motive, made her desirous to see his grandchildren; this she had an opportunity 73 THE MAN OF FEELING of gratifying soon, the children, in some of their walks, having strolled as far as her father's avenue. She put several ques- tions to both; she was delighted with the simplicity of their answers, and promised, that if they continued to be good chil- dren, and do as their grandfather bid them, she would soon see them again, and bring some present or other for their re- ward. This promise she had performed now: she came at- tended only by her maid, and brought with her a complete suit of green for the boy, and a chintz gown, a cap, and a suit of ribands, for his sister. She had time enough, with her maid's assistance, to equip them in their new habiliments before Har- ley and Edwards returned. The boy heard his grandfather's voice, and, with that silent joy which his present finery in- spired, ran to the door to meet him : putting one hand in his, with the other pointing to his sister, “See," said he, “what Miss Walton has brought us?”—Edwards gazed on them. Harley fixed his eyes on Miss Walton; hers were turned to the ground ;-in Edwards' was a beamy moisture.—He folded his hands together—"I cannot speak, young lady,” said he, "to thank you." Neither could Harley. There were a thou- sand sentiments; but they gushed so impetuously on his heart, that he could not utter a syllable. * * falsaberet, Sentiment are more ing. than word word CHAPTER XL THE MAN OF FEELING JEALOUS. HE desire of communicating knowledge or intelligence, urally a social animal. It is indeed one of the earliest pro- pensities we discover; but it may be doubted whether the pleasure (for pleasure there certainly is) arising from it be not often more selfish than social: for we frequently observe the tidings of Ill communicated as eagerly as the annunciation of Good. Is it that we delight in observing the effects of the stronger passions ? for we are all philosophers in this respect; and it is perhaps amongst the spectators at Tyburn that the most genuine are to be found. Was it from this motive that Peter came one morning into 74 THE MAN OF FEELING “ In- grandfather of this Sir Harry Benson, who was knight of the shire in the reign of Charles the First, and one of the cavaliers of those times, was married to a daughter of the Walton family.” Harley answered drily, that it might be so; but that he never troubled himself about those matters. deed," said she," you are to blame, nephew, for not knowing a little more of them : before I was near your age I had sewed the pedigree of our family in a set of chair-bottoms, that were made a present of to my grandmother, who was a very notable woman, and had a proper regard for gentility, I'll assure you; but now-a-days it is money, not birth, that makes people re- spected; the more shame for the times." Harley was in no very good humour for entering into a dis- cussion of this question; but he always entertained so much filial respect for his aunt, as to attend to her discourse. “We blame the pride of the rich,” said he,“ but are not we ashamed of our poverty? “Why, one would not choose," replied his aunt,“ to make a much worse figure than one's neighbours; but, as I was say- ing before, the times (as my friend, Mrs. Dorothy Walton, observes) are shamefully degenerated in this respect. There was but t'other day at Mr. Walton's, that fat fellow's daugh- ter, the London merchant, as he calls himself, though I have heard that he was little better than the keeper of a chandler's shop. We were leaving the gentlemen to go to tea. She had a hoop, forsooth, as large and as stiff—and it showed a pair of bandy legs, as thick as two I was nearer the door by an apron's length, and the pert hussy brushed by me, as who should say, Make way for your betters, and with one of her London bobs—but Mrs. Dorothy did not let her pass with it; for all the time of drinking tea, she spoke of the precedency of family, and the disparity there is between people who are come of something and your mushroom gentry who wear their coats of arms in their purses.” Her indignation was interrupted by the arrival of her maid with a damask table-cloth, and a set of napkins, from the loom, which had been spun by her mistress's own hand. There was the family crest in each corner, and in the middle a view of the battle of Worcester, where one of her ancestors had been a captain in the king's forces; and with a sort of poetical li- 76 THE MAN OF FEELING 66 Peter to fetch a bottle of his aunt's best dram. The bottle was brought: “You shall drink the king's health,” said Har- ley, “in a bumper."-" The king and your honour.”— “Nay, you shall drink the king's health by itself; you may drink mine in another." Peter looked in his master's face, and filled with some little reluctance. “Now to your mis- tress,” said Harley; "every soldier has a mistress.” The man excused himself—“ To your mistress ! you cannot refuse it." 'Twas Mrs. Margery's best dram! Peter stood with the bottle a little inclined, but not so as to discharge a drop of its contents : Fill it, Peter,” said his master, “ fill it to the brim.” Peter filled it; and the soldier having named Suky Simpson, dispatched it in a twinkling. “Thou art an honest fellow," said Harley," and I love thee;" and shaking his hand again desired Peter to make him his guest at dinner, and walked up into his room with a pace much quicker and more springy than usual. This agreeable disappointment, however, he was not long suffered to enjoy. The curate happened that day to dine with him : his visits, indeed, were more properly to the aunt than the nephew; and many of the intelligent ladies in the parish, who, like some very great philosophers, have the happy knack at accounting for everything, gave out that there was a par- ticular attachment between them, which wanted only to be matured by some more years of courtship to end in the ten- derest connection. In this conclusion, indeed, supposing the premises to have been true, they were somewhat justified by the known opinion of the lady, who frequently declared her- self a friend to the ceremonial of former times, when a lover might have sighed seven years at his mistress's feet before he was allowed the liberty of kissing her hand. 'Tis true Mrs. Margery was now about her grand climacteric; no matter : that is just the age when we expect to grow younger. But I verily believe there was nothing in the report; the curate's connection was only that of a genealogist; for in that charac- ter he was no way inferior to Mrs. Margery herself. He dealt also in the present times; for he was a politician and a news-monger. He had hardly said grace after dinner, when he told Mrs. Margery that she might soon expect a pair of white gloves, as 78 THE MAN OF FEELING Sir Harry Benson, he was very well informed, was just going to be married to Miss Walton. Harley spilt the wine he was carrying to his mouth : he had time, however, to recollect him. self before the curate had finished the different particulars of his intelligence, and summoning up all the heroism he was master of, filled a bumper, and drank to Miss Walton. “With all my heart," said the curate, “the bride that is to be." Harley would have said bride too; but the word bride stuck in his throat. His confusion, indeed, was manifest; but the curate began to enter on some point of descent with Mrs. Margery, and Harley had very soon after an opportunity of leaving them, while they were deeply engaged in a question, whether the name of some great man in the time of Henry the Seventh was Richard or Humphrey. He did not see his aunt again till supper; the time between he spent in walking, like some troubled ghost, round the place where his treasure lay. He went as far as a little gate, that led into a copse near Mr. Walton's house, to which that gentle- man had been so obliging as to let him have a key. He had just begun to open it when he saw, on a terrace below, Miss Walton walking with a gentleman in a riding-dress, whom he immediately guessed to be Sir Harry Benson. He stopped of a sudden; his hand shook so much that he could hardly turn the key; he opened the gate, however, and advanced a few paces. The lady's lap-dog pricked up its ears, and barked; he stopped again- "The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see they bark at me!” His resolution failed; he slunk back, and, locking the gate as softly as he could, stood on tiptoe looking over the wall till they were gone. At that instant a shepherd blew his horn: the romantic melancholy of the sound quite overcame him!- it was the very note that wanted to be touched-he sighed ! he dropped a tear and returned. At supper his aunt observed that he was graver than usual; but she did not suspect the cause: indeed, it may seem odd that she was the only person in the family who had no suspicion of his attachment to Miss Walton. It was frequently matter of 79 THE MAN OF FEELING discourse amongst the servants : perhaps her maiden coldness - but for those things we need not account. In a day or two he was so much master of himself as to be able to rhyme upon the subject. The following pastoral he left, some time after, on the handle of a tea-kettle, at a neigh- bouring house where we were visiting; and as I filled the tea- pot after him, I happened to put it in my pocket by a similar act of forgetfulness. It is such as might be expected from a man who makes verses for amusement. I am pleased with somewhat of good nature that runs through it, because I have commonly observed the writers of those complaints to bestow epithets on their lost mistresses rather too harsh for the mere liberty of choice, which led them to prefer another to the poet himself: I do not doubt the vehemence of their passion; but, alas ! the sensations of love are something more than the re- turns of gratitude. LAVINIA. A PASTORAL Why steals from my bosom the sigh? Why fixed is my gaze on the ground? Come, give me my pipe, and I'll try To banish my cares with the sound. Erewhile were its notes of accord With the smile of the flow'r-footed Muse; Ah! why by its master implored Shou'd it now the gay carol refuse? 'Twas taught by LAVINIA's smile, In the mirth-loving chorus to join: Ah, me! how unweeting the while ! LAVINIA cannot be mine! Another, more happy, the maid By fortune is destin'd to bless- 'Tho' the hope has forsook that betray'd, Yet why should I love her the less ? Her beauties are bright as the morn, With rapture I counted them o'er; Such virtues these beauties adorn, I knew her, and prais'd them no more. 80 THE MAN OF FEELING I term'd her no goddess of love, I call'd not her beauty divine: These far other passions may prove, But they could not be figures of mine. It ne'er was apparel'd with art, On words it could never rely; It reign'd in the throb of my heart, It spoke in the glance of my eye. Oh fool! in the circle to shine That Fashion's gay daughters approve You must speak as the fashions incline; Alas! are there fashions in love? -ho tha Yet sure they are simple who prize The tongue that is smooth to deceive; Yet sure she had sense to despise, The tinsel that folly may weave. When I talk'd, I have seen her recline, With an aspect so pensively sweet, Tho' I spoke what the shepherds opine, A fop were ashamed to repeat. She is soft as the dew-drops that fall From the lip of the sweet-scented pea; Perhaps when she smild upon all, I have thought that she smild upon me. But why of her charms should I tell? Ah me! whom her charms have undone Yet I love the reflection too well, The painful reflection to shun. Ye souls of more delicate kind, Who feast not on pleasure alone, Who wear the soft sense of the mind, 'To the sons of the world still unknown. Ye know, tho' I cannot express, Why I foolishly doat on my pain; Nor will ye believe it the less, That I have not the skill to complain. I lean on my hand with a sigh, My friends the soft sadness condemn; Yet, methinks, tho' I cannot tell why, I should hate to be merry like them. 81 THE MAN OF FEELING When I walk'd in the pride of the dawn, Methought all the region look'd bright: Has sweetness forsaken the lawn? For, methinks, I grow sad at the sight. When I stood by the stream, I have thought There was mirth in the gurgling soft sound; But now 'tis a sorrowful note, And the banks are all gloomy around! I have laugh'd at the jest of a friend; Now they laugh, and I know not the cause, Tho' I seem with my looks to attend, How silly! I ask what it was. They sing the sweet song of the May, They sing it with mirth and with glee; Sure I once thought the sonnet was gay, But now 'tis all sadness to me. Oh! give me the dubious light That gleams thro' the quivering shade; Oh! give me the horrors of night, By gloom and by silence array'd ! Let me walk where the soft-rising wave, Has pictur'd the moon on its breast; Let me walk where the new cover'd grave Allows the pale lover to rest ! When shall I in its peaceable womb, Be laid with my sorrows asleep! Should LAVINIA chance on my tomb- I could die if I thought she would weep. Perhaps, if the souls of the just Revisit these mansions of care, It may be my favourite trust To watch o'er the fate of the fair. Perhaps the soft thought of her breast, With rapture more favour'd to warm; Perhaps, if with sorrow oppress'd, Her sorrow with patience to arm. Then, then, in the tenderest part May I whisper, “ Poor Colin was true," And mark if a heave of her heart The thought of her Colin pursue. 82 THE MAN OF FEELING THE PUPIL A FRAGMENT. BºT UT as to the higher part of education, Mr. Har- ley, the culture of the mind let the feelings be awakened, let the heart be brought forward to its object, placed in the light in which nature would have it stand, and its decisions will ever be just. The world Will smile, and smile, and be a villain; and the youth, who does not suspect its deceit, will be content to smile with it. His teachers will put on the most forbidding aspect in nature, and tell him of the beauty of virtue. “I have not, under these grey hairs, forgotten that I was once a young man, warm in the pursuit of pleasure, but mean- ing to be honest as well as happy. I had ideas of virtue, of honour, of benevolence, which I had never been at the pains to define; but I felt my bosom heave at the thoughts of them, and I made the most delightful soliloquies. It is impossible, said I, that there can be half so many rogues as are imagined. “I travelled, because it is the fashion for young men of my fortune to travel. I had a travelling tutor, which is the fash- ion too; but my tutor was a gentleman, which it is not always the fashion for tutors to be. His gentility, indeed, was all he had from his father, whose prodigality had not left him a shilling to support it. “I have a favor to ask of you, my dear Mountford,' said my father, which I will not be refused. You have travelled as became a man; neither France nor Italy have made any- thing of Mountford, which Mountford, before he left Eng- land, would have been ashamed of. My son Edward goes abroad, would you take him under your protection?' “He blushed; my father's face was scarlet. He pressed his hand to his bosom, as if he had said, my heart does not mean to offend you. Mountford sighed twice. “I am a proud fool,' said he, and you will pardon it. There! (he sighed again) I can hear of dependence, since it is dependence on my Sedley.' “Dependence!? answered my father; there can be no 83 THE MAN OF FEELING pailu DIA OLUN VOIE schare mety TAY friend the son of Count Respino, glowed with the warmth of honour, and softened into the tenderness of feeling. Mount- ford was charmed with his companions. When we parted, he made the highest eulogiums upon them. 'When shall we see them again?' said he. I was delighted with the demand, and promised to reconduct him on the morrow. "In going to their place of rendezvous, he took me a little out of the road, to see, as he told me, the performances of a young statuary. When we were near the house in which Mountford said he lived, a boy of about seven years old crossed us in the street. At sight of Mountford he stopped, and grasping his hand, "My dearest sir,' said he, 'my father is likely to do well. He will live to pray for you, and to bless you. Yes, he will bless you, though you are an Englishman, and some other hard word that the monk talked of this morning, which I have forgot, but it meant that you should not go to heaven; but he shall go to heaven, said I, for he has saved my father. Come and see him, sir, that we may be happy.' My dear, I am engaged at present with this gentleman.' “ ' But he shall come along with you; he is an Englishman, too, I fancy. He shall come and learn how an Englishman may go to heaven.' Mountford smiled, and we followed the boy together. “ After crossing the next street, we arrived at the gate of a prison. I seemed surprised at the sight; our little conductor observed it. 'Are you afraid, sir?' said he. ‘I was afraid once too, but my father and mother are here, and I am never afraid when I am with them.' “ He took my hand, and led me through a dark passage that fronted the gate. When we came to a little door at the end, he tapped. A boy, still younger than himself, opened it to receive us. Mountford entered with a look in which was pictured the benign assurance of a superior being. I followed in silence and amazement. “On something like a bed, lay a man, with a face seemingly emaciated with sickness, and a look of patient dejection. A bundle of dirty shreds served him for a pillow, but he had a better support—the arm of a female who kneeled beside him, Tat hi OÍ 20 thoi TERET inte of ou 85 THE MAN OF FEELING TC excess. pleasure, and will feel no disappointment from the want of those parts which I have been unable to procure. To such as may have expected the intricacies of a novel, a few incidents in a life undistinguished, except by some features of the heart, cannot have afforded much entertainment. Harley's own story, from the mutilated passages I have mentioned, as well as from some inquiries I was at the trouble of making in the country, I found to have been simple to His mistress, I could perceive, was not married to Sir Harry Benson; but it would seem, by one of the following chapters, which is still entire, that Harley had not profited on the occasion by making any declaration of his own passion, after those of the other had been unsuccessful. The state of his health, for some part of this period, appears to have been such as to forbid any thoughts of that kind : he had been seized with a very dangerous fever, caught by attending old Edwards in one of an infectious kind. From this he had recovered but imperfectly, and though he had no formed complaint, his health was manifestly on the decline. It appears that the sagacity of some friend had at length pointed out to his aunt a cause from which this might be sup- posed to proceed, to wit, his hopeless love for Miss Walton; for, according to the conceptions of the world, the love of a man of Harley's fortune for the heiress of £4,000 a year is indeed desperate. Whether it was so in this case may be gathered from the next chapter, which, with the two subse- quent, concluding the performance, have escaped those acci- dents that proved fatal to the rest.] TIK CHAPTER LV HE SEES MISS WALTON, AND IS HAPPY. Jor the of 1, olence of fortune had yet left me; I could not there- fore but be sensibly concerned for his present indisposition; there seldom passed a day on which I did not make inquiry about him. The physician who attended him had informed me the even- dle 89 THE MAN OF FEELING ing before, that he thought him considerably better than he had been for some time past. I called next morning to be confirmed in a piece of intelligence so welcome to me. When I entered his apartment, I found him sitting on a couch, leaning on his hand, with his eye turned upwards in the attitude of thoughtful inspiration. His look had always an open benignity, which commanded esteem; there was now something more—a gentle triumph in it. He rose, and met me with his usual kindness. When I gave him the good accounts I had had from his physician, “I am foolish enough," said he, "to rely but little, in this instance, upon physic: my presentiment may be false; but I think I feel myself approaching to my end, by steps so easy, that they woo me to approach it. “There is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time, when the infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This world, my dear Charles, was a scene in which I never much delighted. I was not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the dissipation of the gay; a thousand things occurred, where I blushed for the impropriety of my conduct when I thought on the world, though my reason told me I should have blushed to have done otherwise. It was a scene of dissimula- tion, of restraint, of disappointment. I leave it to enter on that state which I have learned to believe is replete with the genuine happiness attendant upon virtue. I look back on the tenor of my life, with the consciousness of few great offences to account for. There are blemishes, I confess, which deform in some degree the picture. But I know the benignity of the Supreme Being, and rejoice at the thoughts of its exercises in my favour. My mind expands at the thought I shall enter into the society of the blessed, wise as angels, with the sim- plicity of children.” He had by this time clasped my hand, and found it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon it.- His eye began to moisten too—we sat for some time silent.-- At last, with an attempt to a look of more composure, “ There are some remembrances," said Harley," which rise involun- tarily on my heart, and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind. I recollect, with the tenderest emotion, the scenes of pleasure I have passed among them; but we shall meet 90 feeling nie stue!—but i Ach an air oi! at, as to the i 1 1 1 THIS BOOK IS DUE ON THE LAST DATE STAMPED BELOW RENEWED BOOKS ARE SUBJECT TO IMMEDIATE RECALL 1962 QUE JE bila REY. MAY 2 19654 MAR 1 9 1996 NOV 5 001 BRARY NOV 27 1962 UCO LIBRARY QUE JUN 11 1973 JAN 8 1963 JUN 1 6 REC'D UCD LIBRARY CER JUN 5 RECO JUN 1 0 1965 APR - 8 1996 RECY داده و با دارا با DUE JAN 30 1970 JAN 2 8 RECO LIBRARY, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS Book Slip-35m-7,'62 (D29684)458 1 Addison PR1297 A4 61138 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, DAVIS 3 1175 02050 9736