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 ' 
 
The Vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 BY 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 
 1877- 
 
University Press: 
 Welch, Bigelow, and Company, 
 Cambridge. 
 
<g>'£.*5 
 
 Gr x o v \ v 
 
 THE 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY HIMSELF. 
 
 Sperate miseri, cavete felices. 
 Salisbury : 
 
 Printed by B. Collins, 
 
 For F. Newbery, in Pater-Noster-Row, London. 
 
 MDCCLXVI. 
 
 2 vols. 12 mo. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 HERE are an hundred faults in this 
 Thing, and an hundred things might he 
 said to prove them beauties. But it is 
 needless. A book may be amusing with numerous 
 errors, or it may be very dull without a single ab- 
 surdity. 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 
 humor, will find no wit in his harmless conversa- 
 tion ; and such as have been taught to deride reli- 
 gion, will laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort 
 arc drawn from futurity. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH* 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in 
 which a Kindred Likeness prevails, as well of 
 Minds as of Persons 1 
 
 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 11 
 
 IV. A Proof that even the humblest Fortune may • 
 grant Happiness, which depends not on Cir- 
 cumstances but Constitution 20 
 
 V. A new and great Acquaintance introduced. 
 What we place most Hopes upon, generally 
 proves most fatal 25 
 
 VI. The Happiness of a Country Fireside 30 
 
 VII. A Town Wit Described. The Dullest Fellows may 
 
 learn to be Comical for a Night or two ... 35 
 
 VIII. An Amour which promises little Good Fortune, 
 
 yet may be productive of much 41 
 
 IX. Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced. Su- 
 perior Finery ever seems to confer Superior 
 Breeding 49 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS . 
 
 X. The Family endeavors to cope with their Bet- 
 
 ters. — The Miseries of the Poor when they 
 attempt to appear above their Circumstances 54 
 
 XI. The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads 60 
 
 XII. Fortune seems resolved to humble the Family 
 
 of Wakefield. — Mortifications are often 
 more painful than real Calamities o . . 66 
 
 XIII. Mr. Burchell is found to be an Enemy •, for 
 
 he has the Confidence to give Disagree- 
 able Advice 73 
 
 XIY. Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration that 
 
 seeming Calamities may be real Blessings . 78 
 
 XV. All Mr. Burchell’s Yillany at once detected. 
 
 — The Folly of being Over-wise .... 86 
 
 XVI. The Family use Art, which is opposed with 
 
 still greater 93 
 
 XVII. Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the Power 
 
 of long and pleasing Temptation .... 100 
 
 XVIII. The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a Lost 
 
 Child to Virtue 110 
 
 XIX. The Description of a Person discontented with 
 the Present Government, and apprehensive 
 of the loss of our Liberties 116 
 
 XX. The History of a Philosophic Vagabond pur- 
 suing Novelty, but losing Content . . . 127 
 
 XXI. The short continuance of Friendship amongst 
 the Vicious, which is coeval only with Mu- 
 tual Satisfaction 145 
 
 XXII. Offences are easily pardoned where there is 
 
 Love at bottom 156 
 
 XXIII. None but the Guilty can be long and com- 
 pletely miserable 161 
 
 XXIV. Fresh Calamities 167 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 > 
 
 XXY. No Situation, however wretched it seems, but 
 
 has some sort of Comfort attending it . . 173 
 
 XXYI. A Reformation in the Gaol. — To make Laws 
 complete they should reward as well as 
 punish 179 
 
 XXVII. The same subject continued 186 
 
 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 
 trifling, and unworthy its Care in the dis- 
 tribution 192 
 
 XXIX. The Equal Dealings of Providence demonstrat- 
 ed with regard to the Happy and the Mis- 
 erable here below. That from the nature 
 of Pleasure and Pain, the Wretched must 
 be repaid the Balance of their Sufferings 
 in the Life hereafter 205 
 
 XXX. Happier Prospects begin to appear. Let us 
 be inflexible, and Fortune will at last 
 change in our Favor 211 
 
 XXXI. Former Benevolence now repaid with unex- 
 pected Interest 221 
 
 XXXII. The Conclusion 
 
 
 239 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The Description of the Family of Wakefield, 
 
 IN WHICH A KINDRED LlIvENESS PREVAILS, AS 
 
 well of Minds as of Persons. 
 
 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 seri- 
 ously 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 Eng- 
 lish book without much spelling ; but for pick- 
 ling, 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 contrivances. 
 
 However, we loved each other tenderly, and our 
 
 i 
 
2 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 fondness increased as we grew old. There was, 
 in fact, nothing that could make us angry with 
 the world or each other. We had an elegant 
 house, situated in a fine country, and a good 
 neighborhood. 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; ail 
 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 
 traveller or stranger visit us to taste our goose- 
 berry-wine, for which we had great reputation ; 
 and I profess, with the veracity of an historian, 
 that I never knew one of them find fault with it. 
 Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove, all 
 remembered their affinity, without any help from 
 the herald’s office, and came very frquently 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. How- 
 ever, 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 re- 
 lations was found to be a person of a very bad 
 character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired 
 to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I ever 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 3 
 
 took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of 
 boots, or sometimes a horse of small value, and I 
 always had the satisfaction of finding he never 
 came back to return them. By this the house 
 was cleared of such as we did not like ; but never 
 was the family of Wakefield known to turn the 
 traveller or the poor dependant out of doors. 
 
 Thus we lived several years in a state of much 
 happiness, not but that we sometimes had those 
 little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the 
 value of its favors. My orchard was often robbed 
 by school-boys, and my wife’s custards plundered 
 by the cats or the children. The ’Squire would 
 sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of 
 my sermon, or his lady return my wife’s civilities 
 at church with a mutilated courtesy. But we 
 soon got over the uneasiness caused by such acci- 
 dents, and usually in three or four days began to 
 wonder how they vexed us. 
 
 My children, the offspring of temperance, as they 
 were educated without softness, so they were at 
 once well formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and 
 active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. 
 When I stood in the midst of the little circle, 
 which promised to be the supports of my declining 
 age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story 
 of Count Abensberg, who, in Henry the Second’s 
 progress through Germany, while other courtiers 
 came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two 
 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 coun- 
 try, and consequently looked upon it as my debtor. 
 
4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 Gris- 
 sel ; but my wife, who during her pregnancy 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 godmother, the girl was, 
 by her directions, called Sophia : so that we had 
 two romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly 
 protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, 
 and after an interval of twelve years, we had two 
 sons more. 
 
 It would be fruitless to deny exultation when I 
 saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and 
 the satisfaction of my wife were even greater than 
 mine. When our visitors would say, “ Well, upon 
 my word, Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest child- 
 ren in the whole country”: — “ Ay, neighbor,” 
 she would answer, “ they are as Heaven made 
 them, handsome enough, if they be good enough ; 
 for handsome is that handsome does.” And then 
 she would bid the girls hold up their heads who, 
 to conceal nothing, were certainly very handsome. 
 Mere outside is so very trifling a circumstance 
 with me, that I should scarce have remembered to 
 mention it, had it not been a general topic of con- 
 versation in the country. Olivia, now about eigh- 
 teen, had that luxuriancy of beauty, with which 
 painters generally draw Hebe ; open, sprightly, 
 and commanding. Sophia's features were not so 
 striking at first, but often did more certain execu- 
 tion ; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 5 
 
 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 af- 
 fected from too great a desire to please. Sophia 
 even repressed excellence from her fears to offend. 
 The one entertained me with her vivacity when I 
 was gay, the other with her sense when I was seri- 
 ous. But these qualities were never carried to ex- 
 cess in either, and I have often seen them exchange 
 characters for a whole day together. A suit of 
 mourning has transformed my coquette into a 
 prude, and a new set of ribbons has given her 
 younger sister more than natural vivacity. My 
 eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended 
 him for one of the learned professions. My second 
 boy, Moses, whom I designed for business, received 
 a sort of miscellaneous education at home. But -it 
 is needless to attempt describing the particular 
 characters of young people that had seen but very 
 little of the world. In short, a family likeness 
 prevailed through all, and, properly speaking, they 
 had but one character, that of being all equally 
 generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 Family Misfortunes. — The Loss of Fortune 
 
 ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE 
 
 Worthy. 
 
 HE temporal concerns of our family 
 were chiefly committed to my wife’s 
 management ; as to the spiritual, I 
 took them entirely under my own di- 
 The profits of my living, which amount- 
 ed to but thirty-five pounds a year, I made over 
 to the orphans and widows of the clergy of our 
 diocese ; for, having a fortune of my own, I was 
 careless of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure 
 in doing my duty without reward. I also set a 
 resolution of keeping no curate, and of being ac- 
 quainted with every man in the parish, exhorting 
 the married men to temperance, and the bachelors 
 to matrimony ; so that in a few years it was a 
 common saying, that there were three strange 
 wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, 
 young men wanting wives, and alehouses want- 
 ing customers. 
 
 Matrimony was always one of my favorite top- 
 ics, and I wrote several sermons to prove its hap- 
 piness ; but there was a peculiar tenet which I 
 made a point of supporting : for I maintained, with 
 
 rcction. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 7 
 
 Whiston, that it was unlawful for a priest of the 
 Church of England, after the death of his first 
 wife, to take a second, or, to express it in one 
 word, I valued myself upon being a strict monog- 
 amist. 
 
 I was early initiated into this important dispute, 
 on which so many laborious volumes have been 
 written. I published some tracts upon the sub- 
 ject myself, which, as they never sold, I have the 
 consolation of thinking were read only by the 
 happy few. Some of my friends called this my 
 weak side ; but alas ! they had not like me made 
 it the subject of long contemplation. The more I 
 reflected upon it, the more important it 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 Whis- 
 ton, so I wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, 
 though still living, in which I extolled her pru- 
 dence, economy, and obedience till death ; and 
 having got it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it. 
 was placed over the chimney-piece, where it an- 
 swered several very useful purposes. It admon- 
 ished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to 
 her ; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and 
 constantly put her in mind of her end. 
 
 It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so 
 often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon 
 leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daugh- 
 ter of a neighboring clergyman, who was a digni- 
 tary in the Church, and in circumstances to give 
 her a large fortune : but fortune was her smallest 
 accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was 
 allowed by all, (except my two daughters,) to be 
 
8 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 completely pretty. Her youth, health, and inno- 
 cence were still heightened by a complexion so 
 transparent, and such a happy sensibility of look, 
 as even age could not gaze on with indifference. 
 As Mr. Wilmot knew that I could make a very 
 handsome settlement on my son, he was not averse 
 to the match ; so both families lived together in all 
 that 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 pe- 
 riod ; and the various amusements which the young 
 couple every day shared in each other’s company, 
 seemed to increase their passion. We were gener- 
 ally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine 
 days rode a hunting. The hours between break- 
 fast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and 
 study : they usually read a page, and then gazed 
 at themselves in the glass, which even philosophers 
 might own often presented the page of greatest 
 beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead ; for as 
 she always insisted upon carving everything her- 
 self, 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 ordered the table to be removed ; and 
 sometimes, with the music-master’s assistance, the 
 girls would give us a very agreeable concert. 
 Walking out, drinking tea, country dances, and 
 forfeits shortened the rest of the day, without the 
 assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gam- 
 ing, except backgammon, at which my old friend 
 and I sometimes took a twopenny hit. Nor can 
 I here pass over an ominous circumstance that 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 9 
 
 happened the last time we played together ; I only 
 wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce 
 ace five times running. 
 
 Some months were elapsed in this manner, till 
 at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for 
 the nuptials of the young couple, who seemed ear- 
 nestly to desire it. During the preparations for 
 the wedding, I need not describe the busy impor- 
 tance of my wife, nor the sly looks of my daugh- 
 ters : in fact, my attention was fixed on another 
 object, the completing a tract which I intended 
 shortly to publish in defence of my favorite princi- 
 ple. 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 appro- 
 bation ; but not till too late I discovered that ho 
 w'as most violently attached to the contrary opin- 
 ion, 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 ap- 
 pointed 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 re- 
 torted the charge; he replied, and I rejoined. 
 In the mean time, 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 be a husband, already driven 
 
IO 
 
 TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 to the very verge of absurdity. You might as 
 well advise me to give up my fortune, as my ar- 
 gument.” — “ Your fortune,” returned my friend, 
 “ I am now sorry to inform you is almost noth- 
 ing. The merchant in town, in whose hands 
 your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a 
 statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have 
 left a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling to 
 shock you or the family with the aecount till af- 
 ter the wedding : but now it may serve to moder- 
 ate 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 beg- 
 gar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce 
 me to disavow my principles. I’ll go this mo- 
 ment and inform the company of my circum- 
 stances ; 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 a 
 husband in any sense of the expression.” 
 
 It would be endless to describe the different 
 sensations of both families, when I divulged the 
 news of our misfortune; but what others felt was 
 slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. 
 Mr. Wilmot, who seemed before sufficiently in- 
 clined 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 PROCURING. 
 
 HE only hope of our family now was, 
 that the report of our misfortune might 
 be malicious or premature : but a let- 
 ter from my agent in town soon came 
 with a confirmation of every particular. The loss 
 of fortune to myself alone would have been tri- 
 fling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my fam- 
 ily, 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 consola- 
 tion is but the remembrancer 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 en- 
 joy my principles without molestation. With this 
 proposal I joyfully closed, having determined to 
 increase my salary by managing a little farm. 
 
 Having taken this resolution, my next care was 
 to get together the wrecks of my fortune : and, all 
 debts collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand 
 
12 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My 
 chief attention, therefore, was now to bring down 
 the pride of my family to their circumstances ; for 
 I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness 
 itself. “You cannot be ignorant, my children/’ 
 cried I, “ that no prudence of ours could have pre- 
 vented 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 re- 
 pining, give up those splendors with which num- 
 bers are wretched, and seek in humbler circum- 
 stances that peace with which all may be happy. 
 The poor live pleasantly without our help, why 
 then should not we learn to live without theirs ? 
 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 deter- 
 mined to send him to town, where his abilities 
 might contribute to our support and his own. 
 The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, 
 one of the most distressful circumstances attendant 
 on penury. The day soon arrived on which we 
 were to disperse for the first time. My son, after 
 taking leave of his mother and the rest, who min- 
 gled their tears with their kisses, came to ask a 
 blessing from me. This I gave him from my 
 heart, and which, added to five guineas, was all 
 the patrimony I had now to bestow. “You are 
 going, my boy,” cried I, “ to London on foot, in 
 the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled 
 there before you. Take from me the same horse 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 l 3 
 
 that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, this 
 staff, and take this book too, it will be your com- 
 fort on the way : these two lines in it are worth a 
 million, — (l have been young , and now am old ; yet never 
 saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging 
 their bread .J - Let this be your consolation as you 
 travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be thy fortune, 
 let me see thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, 
 and farewell.” As he was possessed of integrity 
 and honor, I was under no apprehensions from 
 throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life ; 
 for I knew he would act a good part whether van- 
 quished or victorious. 
 
 His departure only prepared the way for our 
 own, which arrived a few days afterwards. The 
 leaving a neighborhood in which we had enjoyed 
 so many hours of tranquillity was not without a 
 tear, which scarce fortitude itself could suppress. 
 Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family that 
 had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled 
 us with apprehension ; and the cries of the poor, 
 who followed us for some miles, contributed to in- 
 crease 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 vil- 
 lage by the way. When we were shown a room, 
 I desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us 
 have his company, with which he complied, as 
 what he drank would increase the bill next morn- 
 ing. He knew, however, the whole neighborhood 
 to which I was removing, particularly ’Squire 
 Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and who 
 lived within a few miles of the place. This gen- 
 tleman he described as one who desired to know 
 
14 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 little more of the world than its pleasures, being 
 particularly remarkable for his attachment to the 
 fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able to 
 resist his arts and assiduity, and that 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 vir- 
 tue. While our thoughts were thus employed, the 
 hostess entered the room to inform her husband 
 that the strange gentleman, who had been two 
 days in the house, wanted money, and could not 
 satisfy them for his reckoning. “ Want money ! ” 
 replied the host, “ that must be impossible; 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-steal- 
 ing.” The hostess, however, still persisting in 
 her first assertion, he was preparing to leave the 
 room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way 
 or another, when I begged the landlord would in- 
 troduce 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 th<i 
 room, I could not avoid expressing my concern to 
 the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circum- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 *5 
 
 stances, 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 over- 
 sight 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 or- 
 der to repay him as soon as possible. In this I 
 satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name 
 and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was 
 going to remove. “ This,” cried he, “ happens 
 still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going 
 the same way myself, having been detained here 
 two days by the floods, which I hope by to-morrow 
 will be found passable.” I testified the pleasure I 
 should have in his company, and my wife and 
 daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed 
 upon to stay supper. The stranger’s conversa- 
 tion, which was at once pleasing and instructive, 
 induced me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it 
 was now high time to retire and take refreshment 
 against the fatigues of the following day. 
 
 The next morning we all set forward together : 
 my family on horseback, while Mr. Burehell, our 
 new companion, walked along the footpath by the 
 roadside, observing with a smile, that as we were 
 ill-mounted, he would be too generous to attempt 
 leaving us behind. As the floods were not yet 
 subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who 
 trotted on before, Mr. Burehell 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 r that though he was a money-borrower, 
 
1 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 be- 
 longed that lay in our view as we travelled the 
 road. “ That,” cried he, pointing to a very mag- 
 nificent house which stood at some distance, “ be- 
 longs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who 
 enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent 
 on the will of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a 
 gentleman who, content with a little himself, per- 
 mits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly re- 
 sides 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 
 represented as one of the most generous, yet whim- 
 sical men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate 
 benevolence.” — “Something, perhaps, too much 
 so,” replied Mr. Burchell, “ at least he carried be- 
 nevolence to an excess when young ; for his pas- 
 sions were then strong, and as they were all upon 
 the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic ex- 
 treme. He early began to aim at the qualifica- 
 tions of the soldier and scholar ; was soon distin- 
 guished in the army, and had some reputation 
 among men of learning. Adulation ever follows 
 the ambitious ; for such alone receive most plea- 
 sure from flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, 
 who showed him only one side of their character ; 
 so that he began to lose a regard for private inter- 
 est in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind ; 
 for fortune prevented him from knowing that there 
 were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder, in 
 which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 17 
 
 that the slightest touch gives pain : what some 
 have thus suffered in their persons, this gentleman 
 felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether 
 real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and 
 his soul labored under a sickly sensibility of the 
 miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it 
 will be easily conjectured, he found numbers dis- 
 posed to solicit : his profusions began to impair 
 his fortune, but not his good nature ; that, indeed, 
 was seen to increase as the other seemed to decay ; 
 he grew 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 he drew round him 
 crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to disap- 
 point, yet wished to relieve. These hung upon 
 him for a time, and left him with merited re- 
 proaches and contempt. But in proportion as he 
 became contemptible to others, he became despica- 
 ble to himself. His mind had leaned upon their 
 adulation, and that support taken away, he could 
 find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which 
 he had never learnt to reverence. The world now 
 began to wear a different aspect; the flattery of 
 his friends began to dwindle into simple approba- 
 tion. 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 
 
 2 
 
1 8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 own heart must be ever given to gain that of an- 
 other. I now found, that — that — I forget what 
 I was going to observe : in short, Sir, he resolved 
 to respect himself, and laid down a plan of restor- 
 ing his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his 
 own whimsical manner, he travelled through Eu- 
 rope on foot, and now, though he has scarce at- 
 tained the age of thirty, his circumstances are 
 more affluent than ever. At present, his bounties 
 are more rational and moderate than before ; but 
 still he preserves the character of an humorist, and 
 finds most pleasure in eccentric virtues.” 
 
 My attention was so much taken up by Mr. 
 Burchell’s account, that I scarce looked forward as 
 he went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of 
 my family, when turning, I perceived my young- 
 est daughter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown 
 from her horse, and struggling with the torrent. 
 She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to 
 disengage myself in time to bring her relief. My 
 sensations were even too violent to permit my at- 
 tempting her rescue : she must have certainly per- 
 ished 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 far- 
 ther 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 con- 
 tinued 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 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at 
 the next inn, and had dined together, as Mr. Bur- 
 chell was going to a different part of the country 
 he took leave ; and we pursued our journey : my 
 wife observing as he 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 ;^1>ut I was never much di spleas ed 
 with those harmless d elusion s that tend to make 
 us n 
 
A Proof that even the humblest Fortune 
 may grant Happiness, which depends not 
 - on Circumstances but Constitution. 
 
 HE place of our retreat was in a little 
 neighborhood, consisting of farmers, 
 who tilled their own grounds, and were 
 equal strangers to opulence and pov- 
 erty. As they had almost all the conveniences of 
 life within themselves, they seldom visited towns 
 or cities, in search of superfluity. Remote from 
 the polite, they still retained the primeval simpli- 
 city of manners ; and frugal by habit, they scarce 
 knew that temperance 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, showed their wit on the first of April, 
 and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. 
 Being apprised of our approach, the whole neigh- 
 borhood 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. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 21 
 
 Our little habitation was situated at the foot of 
 a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful under- 
 wood behind, and a prattling river before : on one 
 side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm 
 consisted of about twenty acres of excellent land, 
 having given an hundred pound for my predeces- 
 sor’s good-will. Nothing could exceed the neat- 
 ness of my little enclosures ; the elms and hedge- 
 rows ' appearing with inexpressible beauty. My 
 house consisted of but one story, and was cov- 
 ered with thatch, which gave it an air of great 
 snugness ; the walls of 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 ceremony, 
 for I always thought fit to keep up some mechani- 
 cal 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 pur- 
 
22 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 sue our usual industry abroad, while my wife and 
 daughters employed themselves in providing break- 
 fast, 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 phil- 
 osophical arguments between my son and me. 
 
 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 pre- 
 pared for our reception. Nor were we without 
 guests ; sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talk- 
 ative neighbor, 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 re- 
 ceipt nor the reputation. These harmless people 
 had several ways of being good company ; while 
 one played, the other would sing some soothing 
 ballad, Johnny Armstrong’s Last Good Night, or 
 the Cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was 
 concluded in the manner we began the morning, 
 my youngest boys being appointed to read the les- 
 sons of the day, and he that read loudest, distinct- 
 est, 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 fin- 
 ery, which all my sumptuary edicts could not re- 
 strain. How well soever I fancied my lectures 
 against pride had conquered the vanity of my 
 daughters, yet I still found them secretly attached 
 to all their former finery : they still loved laces, 
 ribands, bugles, and catgut ; my wife herself re- 
 tained a passion for her crimson paduasoy, be- 
 cause I formerly happened to say it became her. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 *3 
 
 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 daughters, dressed out in all their 
 former splendor : their hair plastered up with po- 
 matum, their faces patched to taste, their trains 
 bundled up in an heap behind, and rustling at 
 every motion. I could not help smiling at their 
 vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I 
 expected more discretion. In this exigence, there- 
 fore, my only resource was to order my son, with 
 an important air to call our coach. The girls 
 were amazed at the command ; but I repeated it 
 with more solemnity than before. — “ Surely, my 
 dear, you jest/’ cried my wife, “ we can walk it 
 perfectly well : we want no coach to carry us now.” 
 — “ You mistake, child,” returned I, “ we do want 
 a coach ; for if we walk to church in this trim, the 
 very children in the parish will hoot after us.” — 
 “ Indeed,” replied my wife, “ I always imagined 
 that my Charles was fond of seeing his 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 ruffiings, and pink- 
 ings, and patchings will only make us hated by 
 all the wives of 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 
 
24 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 more satisfactory, the 
 gowns seemed improved by this curtailing. 
 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 A New and Great Acquaintance introduced. 
 — What we place most Hopes upon, gen- 
 erally PROVES MOST FATAL. 
 
 T a small distance from the house, my 
 predecessor had made a seat, over- 
 shaded 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 was now 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 ceremonv. On these occa- 
 
 %/ 
 
 sions our two little ones always read for us, and 
 they were regularly served after we had done. 
 Sometimes, to give a variety to our amusements, 
 the girls sung to the guitar ; and while they thus 
 formed a little concert, my wife and I would 
 stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished 
 with bluebells and eentaurv, 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 situ- 
 ation in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : 
 
26 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 every morning waked us to a repetition of toil ; 
 but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. 
 
 It was about the beginning of 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 sit- 
 ting, and by its panting it seemed pressed by the 
 hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon 
 the poor animal’s distress, when we perceived the 
 dogs and horsemen come sweeping along at some 
 distance behind, and making the very path it had 
 taken. I was instantly 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 fore- 
 most, passed us with great swiftness, followed by 
 four or five persons more, who seemed in equal 
 haste. At last, a young gentleman of more gen- 
 teel 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 care- 
 less superior air. He seemed to want no intro- 
 duction, but was going to salute my daughters as 
 one certain of a kind reception ; but they had 
 early learned the lesson of looking presumption 
 out of countenance. Upon which he let us know 
 his name was Thornhill, and that he was owner 
 of the estate that lay for some extent round us. 
 He again, therefore, offered to salute the female 
 part of the family, and such was the power of 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 27 
 
 fortune and fine clothes, that he found no second 
 repulse. As his address, though confident, was 
 easy, we soon became more familiar; and per- 
 ceiving musical instruments lying near, he begged 
 to be favored with a song. As I did not approve 
 of such disproportioned acquaintances, I winked 
 upon my daughters in order to prevent their com- 
 pliance; but my hint was 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 per- 
 formance and choice, and then took up the guitar 
 himself. He played but very indifferently ; how- 
 ever, my eldest daughter repaid his former ap- 
 plause 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 com- 
 mended his understanding : an age could not have 
 made them better acquainted : while the fond moth- 
 er, too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's 
 stepping in, and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. 
 The whole family seemed earnest to please him : 
 my girls attempted to entertain him with top- 
 ics 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 en- 
 deavors 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 permis- 
 
28 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 sion to renew his visit, which, as he was our land- 
 lord, we most readily agreed to. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, my wife called a coun- 
 cil on the conduct of the day. She was of opin- 
 ion, 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 rea- 
 son why the two Miss Wrinklers should marry 
 great fortunes, and her children get none. As this 
 last argument was directed to me, I protested I 
 could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mr. 
 Simkins got the ten thousand pound prize in the 
 lottery, and we sat down with a blank. “ I pro- 
 test Charles, cried my wife, “ this is the way you 
 always damp my girls and me when we are in 
 spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you 
 think of our new visitor'? Don’t you think he 
 seemed to be good natured ? ” — “ Immensely so, 
 indeed, mamma,” replied she. “ I think he has a 
 great deal to say upon everything, and is never at 
 a loss ; and the more trifling the subject, the more' 
 he has to say.” — “ Yes,” cried Olivia, u he is well 
 enough for a man ; but for my part, I don’t .much 
 like him, he is so extremely impudent and famil- 
 iar ; 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. — “ What- 
 ever may be your opinions of him, my children,” 
 cried I, “ to confess the truth, he has not prepos- 
 sessed me in his favor. Disproportioned friend- 
 ships ever terminate in disgust ; and I thought, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 29 
 
 notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed per- 
 fectly sensible of the distance between us. Let us 
 keep to companions of our own rank. There is 
 no character more contemptible than a man that is 
 a fortune-hunter; and I can see no reason why 
 fortune-hunting women should not be contemptible 
 too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if 
 his views are honorable ; but if they be otherwise ! 
 I should shudder but to think of that ! It is true I 
 have no apprehensions from the conduct of my 
 children, but I think there are some from his char- 
 acter.^ — I would have proceeded, but for the in- 
 terruption 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 
 having pointed out danger, and leaving it to their 
 own discretion to avoid it. ( That v irtu e which re- 
 quires to be evgr guarded, is scarce worth the sen- 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The Happiness of a Country Fireside. 
 
 S we carried on the former dispute with 
 some degree of warmth, in order to ac- 
 commodate matters, it was universally 
 agreed, that we should have a part of 
 the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the 
 task with alacrity. “ I am sorry,” cried I, “ that 
 we have no neighbor or stranger to take a 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 HI 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 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 3 * 
 
 the character of the poor Gentleman that would do 
 no good when he was young, though lie 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 harm- 
 less little men. He was famous, I found, for sing- 
 ing them ballads, and telling them stories ; and 
 seldom went out without something in his pockets 
 for them, a piece of gingerbread, or an half-penny 
 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 unforeseen difficulty started about lodging the 
 stranger, — all our beds were already taken up, and 
 it was too late to send him to the next alehouse.' 
 In this dilemma, little Dick offered him his part of 
 the bed, if his brother Moses would let him lie with 
 him ; “ and I,” cried Bill, “ will give Mr. Burchell 
 my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs.” — 
 “ Well done, my good children,” cried I, “ hospi- 
 tality is one of the first Christian duties. The 
 beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies to its 
 nest, but helpless man can only find refuge from 
 his fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this 
 world, was he that came to save it. He never had 
 an house, as if willing to see what hospitality was 
 left remaining amongst us. Deborah, my dear,” 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 3 * 
 
 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 fam- 
 ily to help at saving an after-growth 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 fore- 
 most, and the rest followed in due succession. I 
 could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity 
 of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia 
 in her part of the task. When he had finished his 
 own, he would join in hers and enter into a close 
 conversation : but I had too good an opinion of 
 Sophia’s understanding, and was too well con- 
 vinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness 
 from a man of broken fortune. When we were 
 finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited as 
 on the night before, but he refused, as he was to 
 lie that night at a 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 arc now the revellers, 
 the flatterers, that he could once inspire and com- 
 mand ! Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio 
 pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They 
 once praised him, and now they applaud the pan- 
 der : their former raptures at his wit are now con- 
 verted into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and 
 perhaps deserves poverty, for lie has neither the 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 33 
 
 ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be 
 useful.” Prompted perhaps by some secret rea- 
 sons, I delivered this observation with too much 
 acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved. 
 “ Whatsoever his former conduct may have been, 
 papa, his circumstances should exempt him from 
 censure now. His present indigence is a sufficient 
 punishment for former folly ; and I have heard my 
 papa himself say, that we should never strike our 
 unnecessary blow at a victim over whom Provi- 
 dence holds the scourge of its resentment.” — 
 “ You are right, Sophy,” cried my son Moses, 
 “ and one of the ancients finely represents so mali- 
 cious 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 in 
 their place. However dark the habitation 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 ex- 
 cited a blush, which she strove to cover by an af- 
 fected laugh, assuring him, that she scarce took 
 any notice of what he said to her, but that she be- 
 lieved he might once have been a very fine gentle- 
 man. The readiness with which she undertook to 
 vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms 
 I did not internally approve ; but I repressed my 
 suspicions. 
 
 3 
 
34 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 daugh- 
 ters seemed equally busy with the rest, and I ob- 
 served them for a good while cooking something 
 over the fire. I at first supposed they were assist- 
 ing their mother, but little Dick informed me in a 
 whisper, that they were making a wash for the face. 
 Washes of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to, 
 for I knew that instead of mending the complexion 
 they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair 
 by sly degrees to the fire, and grasping the poker, 
 as if it wanted mending, seemingly by accident, 
 overturned the whole composition, and it was too 
 late to begin another. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A Town Wit described. — The Dullest Fel- 
 lows MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NlGHT 
 OR TWO. 
 
 HEN the morning arrived on which we 
 were to entertain 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 servants, 
 who v^ere numerous, he politely ordered to the next 
 alehouse : but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, 
 insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by the 
 l>y, our family was pinched for three weeks after. 
 As Mr. Burchcll had hinted to us the day before, 
 that he was making some proposals of marriage to 
 Miss Wilmot, my son George’s former mistress, 
 this a good deal damped the heartiness of his re- 
 ception : but accident in some measure relieved our 
 embarrassment ; for one of the company happening 
 to mention her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with 
 an oath, that he never knew anything more absurd 
 than calling such a fright a beauty : “ For strike 
 me ugly,” continued lie, “ if I should not find as 
 
3 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 much pleasure in choosing my mistress by the in- 
 formation of a lamp under the clock at St. Dun- 
 stan’s.” At this he laughed, and so did we : — 
 
 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 suffocate me, but a fine girl is worth all 
 the priestcraft in the creation. For what are tithes 
 and tricks but an imposition, all a confounded im- 
 posture, and I can prove it.” — “I wish you 
 would,” cried my son Moses, “ and I think,” con- 
 tinued he, “ that I should be able to answer you.” 
 
 — “ Very well. Sir,” cried the Squire, who imme- 
 diately 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 subject, I am 
 ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether 
 are you for managing it analogically, or dialogi- 
 cally ? ” — “I am for managing it rationally,” cried 
 Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. 
 “ Good again,” cried the Squire, “ and firstly, of 
 the first, I hope you *11 not deny that whatever is, 
 is. If you don’t grant me that, I can go no fur- 
 ther.” — “ Why,” returned Moses, “ I think I may 
 
 ever s 
 
 successful J Olivia, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 37 
 
 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 hut just and reasonable.” — I hope,” 
 cried the Squire, “ you will not deny, that the two 
 angles of a triangle are equal to two right ones.” 
 — “ Nothing can be plainer,” returned t’ other, 
 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 concatenation of self-existence, 
 proceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally 
 produce a problematical dialogism, which in some 
 measure proves that the essence of spirituality may 
 be referred to the second predicable.” — “ Hold, 
 hold,” cried the other, “ I deny that : Ho 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?”- — “Undoubt- 
 edly,^ 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 secun- 
 dum quoad, or quoad minus ? and give me your 
 reasons : give me your reasons, I say, directly.” — - 
 “ I protest,” cried Moses, “ I don’t rightly com- 
 prehend the force of your reasoning ; but if it be 
 reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may 
 then have an answer.” — “ O, Sir,” cried the 
 Squire, “ I am your most humble servant ; I find 
 you want me to furnish you with argument and 
 intellects too. No, Sir, there I protest you are 
 
38 TEE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 too hard for me.” This effectually raised the 
 laugh against poor Moses, who sat the only dis- 
 mal figure in a group of merry faces ; nor did he 
 offer a single syllable more during the whole en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had 
 a very different 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 ingredients a 
 good figure, fine clothes, and fortune are in that 
 character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
 notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with 
 ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics 
 of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising 
 then that such talents should win the affections of 
 a girl, who by education was taught to value an 
 appearance in herself, and consequently to set a 
 value upon it in another. 
 
 Upon his departure, we again entered into a de- 
 bate 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 daughter’s victory, as if it 
 were her own. “And now, my dear,” cried she 
 to me, “ I’ 11 fairly own, that it was I that instruct- 
 ed my girls to encourage our landlord’s addresses. 
 I had always some ambition, and you now see that 
 I was right ; for who knows how this may end ? ” — 
 “Ay, who knows that indeed,” answered I, with 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 39 
 
 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 line 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 se- 
 vere in this ; for Heaven will never arraign him 
 for what he thinks, but for what he does. Every 
 man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise 
 without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of 
 religion may be involuntary with this gentleman ; 
 so that, allowing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as 
 he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to 
 be blamed for his errors, than the governor of a 
 city without walls for the shelter he is obliged to 
 afford an invading enemy.” 
 
 “ True, my son,” cried I ; “ but, if the governor 
 invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And 
 such is always the case with those who embrace 
 error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the 
 proofs they see ; but in being blind to many of the 
 proofs that offer. So that, though our erroneous 
 opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we 
 have been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in 
 forming them, we deserve punishment for our vice, 
 or contempt for our folly.” 
 
 My wife now kept up the conversation, though 
 not the argument : she observed, that several very 
 prudent men of our acquaintance were free-think- 
 ers, and made very good husbands ; and she knew 
 some sensible girls that had skill enough to make 
 converts of their spouses : “ And who knows, my 
 
 dear,” continued she, “ what Olivia may be able to 
 
40 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 cer- 
 tainly over-rate her merit.” — “ Indeed, papa,” re- 
 plied Olivia, “ she does not : I have read a great 
 deal of controversy. I have read the disputes be- 
 tween Thwackum and Square ; the controversy 
 between Robinson Crusoe and Friday the savage, 
 and I am now employed in reading the controversy 
 in Religious Courtship.” — “ Very well,” cried I, 
 “ that ’s a good girl, I find you are perfectly quali- 
 fied for making converts ; and so go help your 
 mother to make the gooseberry-pie.” 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 An Amour which promises little Good For- 
 tune, 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 requited his entertain- 
 ment ; for he wrought among us with vigor, and 
 either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself 
 foremost. Besides, he had always something amus- 
 ing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once 
 so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, 
 laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose 
 from an attachment he discovered to my daughter : 
 he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little 
 mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a 
 set of ribbons, hers was the finest. I knew not 
 how, but he every day seemed to become more ami- 
 able, his wdt to improve, and his simplicity to as- 
 sume 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 satis- 
 
42 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 faction, two blackbirds answered each other from 
 opposite hedges, the familiar red-breast came and 
 pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every 
 sound seemed but the echo of tranquillity. “ I 
 never sit thus,” says Sophia, “ but I think of the 
 two lovers so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who 
 were struck dead in each other’s arms. There is 
 something so pathetic in the description, that I 
 have read it an hundred times with new 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 better, and upon 
 that figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pa- 
 thetic 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 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 repre- 
 hend others, you ’ll think it just that I should give 
 them an opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have 
 made this remark only to have an opportunity of 
 introducing to the company a ballad, which, what- 
 ever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free 
 from those I have mentioned.” 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 43 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 “ Turn, gentle Hermit of the Dale, 
 And guide my lonely way, 
 
 To where you 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 j 
 Taught by that Power that pities me, 
 I learn to pity them : i 
 
 “ But from the mountain’s grassy side 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 
 A scrip with herbs and fruit supplied, 
 And water from the spring. 
 
 i “ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego 
 All earth-born cares are wrong $ 
 
 Man wants but little here belowj, 
 
 Nor wants that little long.” J \ 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends. 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
44 
 
 TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 * 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure, 1 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 
 A refuge to the neighboring 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 evening rest, 
 
 The Hermit trimmed his little fire, 
 And cheered his pensive guest : 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gayly pressed, and smiled $ 
 And skilled in legendary lore 
 The lingering hours beguiled. 
 
 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, 
 u The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 u From better habitations spurned, 
 Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturned, 
 
 Or unregarded love ? 
 
 “ Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, 
 
 Are trifling, and decay 5 
 And those who prize the paltry things, j 
 More trifling still than they.^ 
 
 ( “ And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 A charm that lulls to sleep j , 
 
 * 
 
45 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 liut leaves the wretch to weep ? f 
 
 44 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. 
 
 44 For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 And spurn the sex,” he said : 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest lie tray ed. 
 
 Surprised 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 contest 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 44 And ah l forgive a stranger rude, 
 
 A wretch forlorn,” she cried ; 
 
 44 Whose feet unhallowed thus intrude 
 Where Heaven and you reside. 
 
 u But let a maid thy pity share. 
 
 Whom love has taught to stray • 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 44 My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 
 A wealthy lord was he : 
 
 And all his wealth was marked as mine, 
 
 He had but only me. 
 
 44 To win me from his tender arms. 
 Unnumbered suitors came; 
 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, > 
 
 And felt or feigned a flame. 
 
 44 Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 
 Among the rest young Edwin bowed, 
 
 But never talked of love. 
 
46 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD , 
 
 “ In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 
 No wealth nor power had he ; 
 
 "Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 
 But these were all to me.) 
 
 “ And when, beside me in the dale, 
 
 He carolled lays of love, 
 
 His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
 
 And music to the grove. 
 
 “ The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 
 Could naught of purity display 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 * 41 The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 
 With charms inconstant shine 5 
 
 Their charms were Ijjs, but woe to me, 
 TheirVonstancy was mine, j 
 
 u For still I tried each fickle art, 
 Importunate and vain ; 
 
 And while his passion touched my heart, 
 
 I triumphed in his pain : 
 
 “ Till quite dejected with my scorn 
 He left me to my pride ; 
 
 And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 In secret where he died. 
 
 “ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
 
 And well my life shall pay *, 
 
 I ’ll seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 And stretch me where he lay : — 
 
 And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 
 I ’ll lay me down and die ; 
 
 ’T was so for me that Edwin did, 
 
 And so for him will I.” 
 
 u Forbid, it Heaven ! ” the Hermit cried, 
 And clasped her to his breast *. 
 
 The wondering fair one turned to chide, — 
 ’T was Edwin’s self that pressed. 
 
 u Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 My charmer, turn to see 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 47 
 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 Restored, to love and thee. 
 
 “ Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 Aud 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 5 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
 
 Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” 
 
 While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to 
 mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. 
 But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the re- 
 port 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 par- 
 don for having disturbed us, affirming that he was 
 ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat 
 down by my youngest daughter, and sportsman- 
 like, offered her what he had killed that morning. 
 She was going to refuse, but a private look from 
 her mother soon induced her to correct the mis- 
 take, and accept his present, though with some re- 
 luctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride 
 in a whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a 
 conquest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had 
 of the Squire. I suspected, however, with more 
 probability, that her affections were placed upon a 
 
48 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 different object. The chaplain’s errand was to in- 
 form us, that Mr. Thornhill had provided music 
 and refreshments, and intended that night giving 
 the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on the grass- 
 plat before our door. “ Nor can I deny,” contin- 
 ued 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.” 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 sup- 
 per. His refusal appeared to me a little extraor- 
 dinary, 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 distin- 
 guishing 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 inspec- 
 tion. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced. 
 — Superior Finery ever seems to confer 
 Superior Breeding. 
 
 R. BURCHELL had scarce taken leave, 
 and Sophia consented to dance with 
 the chaplain, when my little ones came 
 running out to tell us that the Squire 
 was come with a crowd of company. Upon our 
 return, we found our landlord, with a couple of 
 under-gentlemen and two young ladies, richly 
 dressed, whom he introduced as women of very 
 great distinction and fashion from town. We 
 happened not to have chairs enough for the whole 
 company, but Mr. Thornhill immediately proposed 
 that every gentleman should sit in a lady’s lap. 
 This I positively objected to, notwithstanding a 
 look of disapprobation from my wife. Moses was 
 therefore despatched to borrow a couple of chairs ; 
 and as we were in want of ladies to make up a set 
 at country dances, the two gentlemen went with 
 him in quest of a couple of partners Chairs and 
 partners were soon provided. The gentlemen re- 
 turned with my neighbor Flamborough’s rosy 
 daughters, flaunting with red top-knots. But an 
 unlucky circumstance was not adverted to ; though 
 
 4 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 5 ° 
 
 the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the very 
 best of 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. Our music consisted of two fiddles, 
 with a pipe and tabor. The moon shone bright, 
 Mr. Thornhill and my eldest daughter led up the 
 ball, to the great delight of the spectators ; for the 
 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 Flambor- 
 ougli observed, that Miss Livy’s feet seemed as 
 pat to the music as its echo. After the dance 
 had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who 
 were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break 
 up the ball. One of them, I thought, expressed 
 her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse 
 manner, when she observed, that by the living 
 jingo she was all of a muck of sweat. Upon our re- 
 turn 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 com- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 5 1 
 
 pany, with other fashionable topics, such as pic- 
 tures, taste, Shakespeare, 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 that swearing is perfectly un- 
 fashionable). Their finery, however, threw a veil 
 over any grossness in their conversation. My 
 daughters seemed to regard their superior accom- 
 plishments with envy, and what appeared amiss 
 was ascribed to tip-top quality breeding. But the 
 condescension of the ladies was still superior to 
 their other accomplishments. One of them ob- 
 served, 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 little Sophia quite another 
 thing. My wife warmly assented to both, adding, 
 that there was nothing she more ardently wished 
 than to give her girls a single winter’s polishing. 
 To this I could not help replying, that their breed- 
 ing was already superior to their fortune; and 
 that greater refinement would only serve to make 
 their poverty ridiculous, and give them a taste for 
 pleasures they had no right to possess. — “ And 
 what pleasures,” cried Mr. Thornhill, “do they 
 not deserve to possess, who have so much in their 
 power to bestow ? As for my part,” continued 
 he, “ my fortune is pretty large, love, liberty, and 
 pleasure are my maxims ; but curse me, if a settle- 
 ment 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 my- 
 self to the benefit.” I was not such a stranger to 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 5 * 
 
 the world as to be ignorant that this was the fash- 
 ionable cant to disguise the insolence of the basest 
 proposal, but I made an effort to suppress my re- 
 sentment. “ 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 treas- 
 ure 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 far- 
 ther 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 him- 
 self was at last brought to confess a sense of sorrow 
 for his former excesses. We talked of the pleas- 
 ures of temperance, and of the sunshine in the 
 mind unpolluted with guilt. I was so well pleased, 
 that my little ones were kept up beyond the 
 usual time to be edified by so much good conversa- 
 tion. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, and 
 demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. 
 I joyfully embraced the proposal, and in this man- 
 ner the night was passed in a most comfortable 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 53 
 
 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 con- 
 ceived a particular affection, and joined in a re- 
 quest to have the pleasure of their company at 
 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 per- 
 plexity I made two or three excuses, which my 
 daughters as readily removed ; so that at last I 
 was obliged to give a peremptory refusal, for which 
 we had nothing but sullen looks and short answers 
 the whole day ensuing. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 The Family endeavors to cope with their 
 Betters. — The Miseries of the Boor when 
 
 THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIR- 
 CUMSTANCES. 
 
 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 awakened 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-modelling 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, taste, Shakespeare, and 
 the musical glasses. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 55 
 
 Bat we could have borne all this, had not a for- 
 tune-telling gypsy come to raise us into perfect 
 sublimity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, 
 than my girls came running to me for a shilling a- 
 piece to cross her hand with silver. To say the 
 truth, 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 ob- 
 served, that they never went without money them- 
 selves, as my wife always generously let them have 
 a guinea each, to keep in their pockets ; but with 
 strict injunctions never to change it. After they 
 had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for 
 some time, I knew by their looks, upon their re- 
 turning, 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 shil- 
 lings ? Only a Lord and a Squire for two shil- 
 lings ! 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 ex- 
 alted, and already anticipated our future grand- 
 eur. 
 
5 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 (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 for- 
 tunes as once more rising ; and as the whole par- 
 ish asserted that the Squire was in love with my 
 daughter, she was actually so with him ; for they 
 persuaded her into the passion. In this agreeable 
 interval my wife had the most lucky dreams in 
 the world, which she took care to tell us every 
 morning, with great solemnity and exactness. It 
 was one night a coffin and cross-bones, the sign of 
 an approaching wedding : at another time she 
 imagined her daughters’ pockets filled with far- 
 things, a certain sign 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 
 teacup. 
 
 Towards the end of the week we received a card 
 from the town ladies ; in which, with their com- 
 pliments, they hoped to see all our family at 
 church the Sunday following. All Saturday morn- 
 ing 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 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 57 
 
 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 com- 
 pany 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 com- 
 mendable. A decent behavior and appearance in 
 church is what charms me. We should be de- 
 vout 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 pro- 
 test I don’t like to see my daughters trudging up 
 to their pew all blowzed aud red with walking, 
 and looking for all the world as if they had been 
 winners at a smock race. Now, my dear, my 
 proposal is this : there are our two plough-horses, 
 the colt that has been in our family these nine 
 years, and his companion Blackberry, that has 
 
5 8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 scarce done an earthly thing for this month past. 
 They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should 
 not they do something as well as we ? And let 
 me tell you, when Moses has trimmed them up 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 Blackberry 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 pil- 
 lion in the whole house. All these objections, how- 
 ever were overruled ; so that I was obliged to 
 comply. The next morning I perceived them not 
 a little busy in collecting, such materials as might 
 be necessary for the expedition ; but as 1 found it 
 would be a business of time, I walked on to the 
 church before, and they promised speedily to fol- 
 low. I waited near an hour in the reading desk 
 for their arrival ; but not finding them come 
 as expected, I was obliged to begin, and went 
 through the service, not without some uneasiness 
 at finding them absent. This was increased when 
 all was finished, and no appearance of the family. 
 I therefore walked back by the 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 towards 
 the church ; my son, my wife, and the two little 
 ones exalted on one horse, and my two daughters 
 upon the other. I demanded the cause of their 
 delay ; but I soon found by their looks they had 
 met with a thousand misfortunes on the road. 
 The horses had at first refused to move from the 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 59 
 
 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 pil- 
 lion broke down, and they were obliged to stop 
 to repair them before they could proceed. After 
 that, one of the horses took it into his head to 
 stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could 
 prevail with him to proceed. He was just recov- 
 ering from this dismal situation when I found 
 them ; but perceiving 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. 
 
 ICHAELMAS eve happening on the 
 next day, we were invited to burn 
 nuts and play tricks at neighbor Elam- 
 
 borough’s. Our late mortifications had 
 
 humbled us a little, or it is probable we might 
 have rejected such an invitation 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 blind-man’s- 
 buff. My wife too was persuaded to join in the 
 diversion, and it gave me pleasure to think she 
 was not yet too old. In the mean time, my 
 neighbor and* I looked on, laughed at every feat, 
 and praised our own dexterity when .we were 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 61 
 
 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 pas- 
 time, it may be necessary to observe, that the com- 
 pany at this play plant themselves in a ring upon 
 the ground, all except one who stands in the mid- 
 dle, whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the 
 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 defence. It was in this manner that 
 my eldest daughter was hemmed in, and thumped 
 about, all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair 
 play, fair play, with a voice that might deafen a 
 ballad singer, when, confusion on confusion, who 
 should enter the room but our two great acquaint- 
 ances from town, Lady Blarney and Miss Carolina 
 Wilhelmina 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 atti- 
 tudes ! 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 
 
62 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 whole in a summary way, only saying, “ Wc 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 complai- 
 sance to my daughters ; their professions the last 
 evening were warm, but now they were ardent. 
 They protested a desire of having a more lasting 
 acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly at- 
 tached to Olivia ; Miss Carolina Wilhelmina 
 Amelia Skeggs (I love to give the whole name) 
 took a greater fancy to her sister. They sup- 
 ported the conversation between themselves, while 
 my daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted 
 breeding. But as every reader, however beggarly 
 himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with anec- 
 dotes 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 Duchess never told me a syllable of the 
 matter, and I believe her Grace would keep noth- 
 ing a secret from me. This you may depend on 
 as fact, that, the- next morning my Lord Duke 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 6 3 
 
 cried out three times to his valet-de-chambre, ‘ Jer- 
 nigan, 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 sentence 
 would cry out fudge, an expression which dis- 
 pleased us all, and in some measure damped the 
 rising spirit of the conversation. 
 
 “ Besides, my dear Skeggs,” continued our Peer- 
 ess, “ 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 seldom leaves anything out, as he writes 
 only for his own amusement. But can your Lady- 
 ship 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 Doc- 
 tor Burdock’s little pieces ; for except what he 
 does, and our dear Countess at Han over- 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 1 ” Fudge ! 
 
 “ Why, my dear,” says the Lady, “ you know 
 my reader and companion has left me, to be mar- 
 
64 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 ried 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 com- 
 pany ; as for the chits about town, there is no 
 bearing them about one.” Fudge ! 
 
 “ That I know,” cried Miss Skeggs, “ by expe- 
 rience. Tor of the three companions I had this 
 last half year, one of them refused to do plain 
 work an hour in the day, another thought twenty- 
 five guineas a year too small a salary, and I was 
 obliged to send away the third, because I suspected 
 an intrigue with the chaplain. Virtue, my dear 
 Lady Blarney, virtue is worth any price ; but 
 where is that to be found ? ” Fudge ! 
 
 My wife had been for a long time all attention 
 to this discourse ; but was particularly struck with 
 the latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty- 
 five guineas a year made fifty-six pounds five shil- 
 lings 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 Lady- 
 ships will pardon my present presumption. It is 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 65 
 
 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 ac- 
 counts ,* they understand their needle, broadstitch, 
 cross and change, and all manner of plain work ; 
 they can pink, point, and frill ; and know some- 
 thing 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 elo- 
 quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few 
 minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and impor- 
 tance. At last, Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia 
 Skeggs condescended to observe, that the young 
 ladies, from the opinion she could form of them 
 from so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for 
 such employments: “But a thing of this kind, 
 Madam,” cried she, addressing my spouse, “ re- 
 quires a thorough examination into characters, and 
 a more perfect knowledge of each other. Not, 
 Madam,” continued she, “ that I in the least sus- 
 pect the young ladies’ virtue, prudence, and dis- 
 cretion ; but there is a form in these things, Mad- 
 am, there is a form.” 
 
 Mv 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 : hut this our Peeress declined as un- 
 necessary, alleging that our cousin Thornhill’s 
 recommendation would be sufficient, and upon this 
 we rested our petition. 
 
 5 
 

 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Fortune seems resolved to humble the Fam- 
 ily of Wakefield. — Mortifications are 
 
 OFTEN MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMI- 
 TIES. 
 
 HEN we were returned home, the night 
 was dedicated to schemes of future con- 
 quest. Deborah exerted much sagacity 
 in conjecturing which of the two girls 
 was likely to have the best place, and most opportu- 
 nities of seeing good company. The only obsta- 
 cle to our preferment was in obtaining the Squire’s 
 recommendation ; but he had already shown us 
 too many instances of his friendship to doubt of it 
 now. Even in bed my wife kept up the usual 
 theme: “Well, faith, my dear Charles, between 
 ourselves, I think we have made an excellent day’s 
 work of it.” — “ Pretty well,” cried I, not know- 
 ing what to say. — “ What, only pretty well ? ” 
 returned she : “ I think it is very well. Suppose 
 the girls should come to make acquaintances of 
 taste in town ! This I am assured of, that Lon- 
 don is the only place in the world for all manner 
 of husbands. Besides, my dear, stranger things 
 happen every day : and as ladies of quality are so 
 taken with my daughters, what will not men of 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 67 
 
 quality be ! Entre nous, I protest I like my Lady 
 Blarney vastly, so very obliging. However, Miss 
 Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs has my 
 warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk of 
 places in town, you saw at once how I nailed 
 them. Tell me, my dear, don’t you think I did 
 for my children there ? ” — “ Ay,” returned I, not 
 knowing well what to think of the matter, “ heaven 
 grant they may be both the better for it this day 
 three months ! ” This was one of those observa- 
 tions 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 in- 
 deed I dreaded as much. This was nothing less 
 than, that as we were now to hold up our heads a 
 little higher in the world, it would be proper to 
 sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighbor- 
 ing fair, and buy us a horse that would carry sin- 
 gle or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty 
 appearance at church or upon a visit. This at 
 first I oj^posed stoutly; but it was as stoutly de- 
 fended. 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 pre- 
 vail upon her to permit me from home. “ No, my 
 dear,” said she, “ our son Moses is a discreet boy, 
 and can buy and sell to very good advantage ; you 
 know all our great bargains are of his purchasing. 
 
68 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 com- 
 mission ; 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 toi- 
 let being over, we had at last the satisfaction of 
 seeing him mounted upon the colt, with a deal box 
 before him to bring home groceries in. He had on 
 a coat made of that cloth they call thunder and 
 lightning, which, though grown too short, was 
 much too good to be thrown away. His waist- 
 coat was of gosling green, and his sisters had tied 
 his hair with a broad black ribbon. We all fol- 
 lowed him several paces from the door, bawling af- 
 ter him, “Good luck! good luck!” till we could 
 see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarce gone, when Mr. Thornhill’s but- 
 ler came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, 
 saying, that he overheard his young master men- 
 tion our names with great commendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. 
 Another footman from the same family followed, 
 with a card for my daughters, importing, that the 
 two ladies had received such pleasing accounts 
 from Mr. Thornhill of us all, that, after a few pre- 
 vious inquiries, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. 
 “ Ay,” cried my wife, “ I now see it is no easy 
 matter to get into the families of the great : but 
 when one once gets in, then, as Moses says, one 
 may go sleep.” To this piece of humor, for she 
 intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 69 
 
 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 ginger- 
 bread each, which my wife undertook 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 usu- 
 ally 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 communicating our happiness to him, 
 and asking his advice. Although we seldom fol- 
 lowed 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 demanded the utmost circumspection. This 
 air of diffidence highly displeased my wife. “ I 
 never doubted, Sir,” cried she, “ your readiness to 
 be against my daughters and me. You have more 
 circumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy 
 when we come to ask advice, we will apply to per- 
 sons who seem to have made use of it themselves.” 
 — “ Whatever my own conduct may have been, 
 Madam,” replied he, “ is not the present question ; 
 though, as I have made no use of advice myself, I 
 should in conscience give it to those that will.” 
 As I was apprehensive this answer might draw on 
 a repartee, making up by abuse what it wanted in 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. . 
 
 70 
 
 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 
 Avhat he is about. V 11 warrant we’ 11 never see 
 him sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him 
 buy such bargains as would amaze one. I’ 11 tell 
 you a good story about that, that will make you 
 split your sides with laughing. — But as I live, 
 yonder comes Moses, without an 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 pedlar. “ 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. — “ Ah, 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 our- 
 selves, three pounds five shillings and twopence 
 is no bad day’s work. Come, let us have it then.” 
 — “I have brought back no money,” cried Moses 
 again. “ I have laid it all out in a bargain, and 
 here it is,” pulling out a bundle from his breast : 
 “ here they are : a gross of green spectacles, with 
 silver rims and shagreen cases.” — “A gross of 
 green 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 pal- 
 try spectacles ! ” — “ Dear mother,” cried the boy, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 7 1 
 
 “ 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 sil- 
 ver, five shillings an ounce.” — “ You need be un- 
 der no uneasiness,” cried I, “ about selling the 
 rims ; for they are not worth sixpence, for I per- 
 ceive 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 unde- 
 ceived. He now saw that he had indeed been im- 
 posed upon by a prowling sharper, who, observing 
 his figure, had marked him for an easy prey. I 
 therefore asked the circumstances of his deception. 
 He sold the horse, it seems, and walked the fair 
 in search of another. A reverend looking man 
 brought him to a tent, under pretence of having 
 
72 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 one to sell. “ Here,” continued Moses, “ we met 
 another man, very well dressed, who desired to 
 borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying, that he 
 wanted money, and would dispose of them for a 
 third of the value. The first gentleman, who 
 pretended to be my friend, whispered me to buy 
 them, and 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 be- 
 tween us.” 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Mr. Burciiell is found to be an Enemy; for 
 
 HE HAS THE CONFIDENCE TO CIVE DISAGREE- 
 ABLE Advice. 
 
 UR family had now made several at- 
 tempts to be fine ; but some unforeseen 
 disaster demolished each as soon as 
 projected. I endeavored to take the 
 advantage of every disappointment, to improve 
 their good sense in proportion as they were frus- 
 trated in ambition. “ You see, my children/’ 
 cried I, “ how little is to be got by attempts to 
 impose upon the world, in coping with our betters. 
 Such as are poor and will associate with none but 
 the rich, are hated by those they avoid, and de- 
 spised by those they follow. Unequal combina- 
 tions 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 com- 
 pany.” 
 
 “ 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 for- 
 sake each other, but go seek adventures. The 
 
74 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 first battle they fought was with two Saracens ; 
 and the Dwarf, who was very courageous, dealt 
 one of the champions a most angry blow. It did 
 the Saracen very little injury, who, lifting up his 
 sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarfs arm. 
 He was now in a woful plight ; but the Giant 
 coming to his assistance, in a short time left the 
 two Saracens dead on the plain ; and the Dwarf 
 cut off the dead man’s head out of spite. They 
 then travelled on to another adventure. This was 
 against three bloody-minded Satyrs, who were 
 carrying away a damsel in distress. The Dwarf 
 was not quite so fierce now as before ; but for all 
 that struck the first blow, which was returned 
 by another, that knocked out his eye ; but the 
 Giant was soon up with them, and had they not 
 fled, would certainly have killed them every one. 
 They were all very joyful for this victory, and the 
 damsel who was relieved fell in love with the 
 Giant, and married him. They now travelled far, 
 and farther than I can tell, till they met with a 
 company of robbers. The Giant, for the first 
 time, was foremost now ; but the Dwarf was not 
 far behind. The battle was stout and long. 
 Wherever the Giant came all fell before him ; but 
 the Dwarf had liked to have been killed more than 
 once. At last the victory declared for the two ad- 
 venturers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf 
 was now without an arm, a leg, and an eye, while 
 the Giant was without a single 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 for 
 ever. No, cries the Dwarf, who was by this time 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 75 
 
 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. Burchell, upon my daughters’ 
 intended expedition to town. My wife very stren- 
 uously 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 displeasing to us 
 all : she knew, she said, of some who had their 
 own secret reasons for what they advised ; but,, for 
 her part, she wished such to stay away from her 
 house for the future. — “ Madam,” cried Mr. Bur- 
 chell with looks of great composure, which tended 
 to inflame her the more, “ as for secret reasons, you 
 are right : I have secret reasons, which I forbear 
 to mention, because you are not able to answer 
 those of which I make no secret : but I find my 
 visits here are become troublesome; I’ll take my 
 leave therefore now, and perhaps come once more 
 to take a final farewell when I am quitting the 
 country.” Thus saying, he took up his hat, nor 
 could the attempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed 
 to upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his going. 
 
 When gone, we all regarded each other for some 
 
7 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. _ 
 
 minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew her- 
 self to be the cause, strove to hide her concern 
 with a forced smile, and an air of assurance, which 
 I was willing to reprove : “ How, woman,” cried 
 I to her, “ is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it 
 thus we return their kindness ? Be assured, my 
 dear, that these were the harshest words, and to 
 me the most unpleasing that have escaped your 
 lips ! ” — “ Why would he provoke me then ? ” 
 replied she ; “ but I know the motives of his ad- 
 vice 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 conversa- 
 tion with me, sir,” replied my daughter, “ has 
 ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. As to 
 aught else, no, never. Once indeed, I remember 
 to have heard him say, he never knew a woman 
 who could find merit in a man that seemed poor.” 
 — “Such, my dear,” cried I, “is the common 
 cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope 
 you have been taught to judge properly of such 
 men, and that it would be even madness to expect 
 happiness from one who has been so very bad an 
 economist of his own. Your mother and I have 
 now better prospects for you. The next winter, 
 which you will probably spend in town, will 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 77 
 
 give you opportunities of making a more prudent 
 choice.” 
 
 What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occa- 
 sion I can’t pretend to determine ; but I was not 
 displeased, at the bottom, that we were rid of a 
 guest from whom I had much to fear. Our 
 breach of hospitality went to my conscience a 
 little ; but I quickly silenced that monitor by two 
 or three specious reasons, which served to satisfy 
 and reconcile me to myself. The pain which con- 
 science gives the man who has already done 
 wrong, is soon got over. Conscience is a cow- 
 ard, and those faults it has not strength enough 
 to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse. 
 
CHAPTER XI Y. 
 
 Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration 
 
 THAT SEEMING CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL 
 
 Blessings. 
 
 HE journey of my daughters to town 
 was now resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill 
 having kindly promised to inspect their 
 conduct himself, and inform us by let- 
 ter of their behavior. But it was thought indis- 
 pensably necessary that their appearance should 
 equal the greatness of their expectations, 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 plough, 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 mercantile transactions of my 
 life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself 
 with reputation. The opinion a man forms of his 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 79 
 
 own prudence is measured by that of the company 
 he keeps ; Jand as mine was mostly in the family 
 way, I had conceived 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 ey? 
 that he had the botts : a fifth wondered what a 
 plague I could do at the fair with a blind, spav- 
 ined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up 
 for a dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a 
 most hearty contempt for the poor animal myself, 
 and was almost ashamed at the approach of every 
 customer ; for though I did not entirely believe all 
 the fellows told me, yet I reflected that the num- 
 ber of witnesses was a strong presumption 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 at the fair, came up, and shaking 
 me by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public- 
 house, and taking a glass of whatever we could 
 get. I readily closed with the offer, and entering 
 
8o 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. - 
 
 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 dis- 
 coursed on the various turns of fortune we had 
 met, the Whistonian controversy, my last pam- 
 phlet, the archdeacon’s reply, and the hard meas- 
 ure that was dealt me. But our attention was in 
 a short time taken off by the appearance of a 
 youth, who, entering the room, respectfully said 
 something softly to the old stranger. “ Make no 
 apologies, my child,” said the old man, “to do 
 good is a duty we owe to all our fellow-creatures : 
 take this, I wish it were more ; but five pounds 
 will relieve your distress, and you are welcome.” 
 The modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet 
 his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. I could 
 have hugged the good old man in my arms, his 
 benevolence pleased me so. He continued to read, 
 and we resumed our conversation, until my com- 
 panion, after some time, recollecting that he had 
 business to transact in the fair, promised to be 
 soon back, adding, that he always desired to have 
 as much of Dr. Primrose’s company as possible. 
 The old gentleman, hearing my name mentioned, 
 seemed to look at me with attention for some 
 time, and when my friend was gone, most respect- 
 fully demanded if I was in any way related to the 
 great Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 8 1 
 
 had been the bulwark of the church. Never did 
 my heart feel sincerer rapture than at that mo- 
 ment. “ Sir/’ cried I, the applause of so good a 
 man, as I atn sure you are, adds to that happiness 
 in my breast which your benevolence has already 
 excited. You behold before you, Sir, that Dr. 
 Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have been 
 pleased to call great. You here see that unfortu- 
 nate divine, who has so long, and it would ill be- 
 come me to say, successfully, fought against the 
 deuterogamy of the age.” — “ Sir,” cried the stran- 
 ger, 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 displeasing me by your fa- 
 miliarity that I must beg you ’ll accept my friend- 
 ship, 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 un- 
 shaken orthodoxy.” And do I behold — ” I here 
 interrupted what he was going to say ; for though, 
 as an author, I could digest no small share of flat- 
 tery, yet now my modesty would permit no more. 
 However, no lovers in romance ever cemented a 
 more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon 
 several subjects. At first I thought he seemed 
 rather devout than learned, and began to think he 
 despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this 
 no way lessened him in my esteem, for I had for 
 some time begun privately to harbor such an opin- 
 ion myself. I therefore took occasion to observe, 
 that the world in general began to be blameably 
 indifferent as to doctrinal matters, and followed 
 human speculations too much. — “Av, Sir,” re- 
 6 
 
82 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD: 
 
 plied he, as if he had reserved all his learning to 
 that moment, “ Ay, Sir, the world is in its dotage, 
 and yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has 
 puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medley 
 of opinions have they not broached upon the crea- 
 tion of the world 1 Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Be- 
 rosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted it 
 in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon ara 
 hai atelutaion to pan, which imply that things have 
 neither beginning nor end. Manetho also, who 
 lived after 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, eh to biblion 
 hubernetes, which implies that books will never teach 
 the world ; so he attempted to investigate — But, 
 Sir, I ask pardon, I am straying from the ques- 
 tion.” 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 pro- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 83 
 
 duccd, and, in fine, we struck a bargain. Nothing 
 now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly 
 pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me change it. 
 Not being in a capacity of complying with his 
 demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, 
 who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. 
 “ Here, Abraham/’ cried he, “ go and get gold for 
 this; you’ll do it at neighbor Jackson’s, or any- 
 where.” While the fellow was gone, he enter- 
 tained me with a pathetic harangue on the great 
 scarcity of silver, which I undertook to improve, 
 by deploring also the great scarcity of gold ; so 
 that by the time Abraham returned, we had both 
 agreed that money was never so hard to be come 
 at as now. Abraham returned to inform us that 
 he had been over the whole fair, and could not 
 get change, though he had offered half a crown for 
 doing it. This was a very great disappointment 
 to us all ; but the old gentleman having paused a 
 little, asked me if I knew one Solomon Flam- 
 borough, in my part of the country. Upon reply- 
 ing that he was my next door neighbor, — “ If that 
 be the case, then,” replied he, “ I believe we shall 
 deal. You shall have a draft upon him, pay- 
 able 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 far- 
 ther 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 signed 
 and put into my hands, and Mr. Jenkinson, the 
 old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, 
 
84 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 tak- 
 ing a draft from a stranger, and so prudently re- 
 solved upon following the purchaser, and having 
 back my horse. But this was now too late ; I 
 therefore made directly homewards, resolving to 
 get the draft changed into money at my friend’s 
 as fast as possible. I found my honest 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 sup- 
 pose,” 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. “ Ay,” continued he, “ he has but 
 that one piece of learning in the world, and he 
 always talks it away whenever he finds a scholar 
 in company ; but I know the rogue, and will catch 
 him yet.” 
 
 Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my 
 greatest 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 deter- 
 mined, however, to anticipate their fury, by first 
 falling into a passion myself. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 85 
 
 But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no 
 way disposed for battle. My wife and girls were 
 all in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that 
 day to inform them, that their journey to town 
 was entirely over. The two ladies having heard 
 reports of us from some malieious person about 
 us, were that day set out for London. He eould 
 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 disappoint- 
 ment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in 
 the greatness of their own. But what perplexed 
 us most was to think who could be so base as to 
 asperse the character of a family so harmless as 
 ours, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffen- 
 sive to create disgust. 
 
CHAPTER XY. 
 
 All Mr. Burchell’s Villany at once detect- 
 ed. — The Folly of being Over-wise. 
 
 HAT evening and a part of the follow- 
 ing day were employed in fruitless 
 attempts to discover our enemies : 
 scarcely a family in the neighborhood 
 but incurred our suspicions, and each of us ha(J 
 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 examination, 
 contained some hints upon different subjects ; but 
 what particularly engaged our attention was a 
 sealed note, superscribed, The copy of a letter to he 
 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 broke 
 open. I was against it ; but Sophia, who said 
 she was sure that of all men he would be the last 
 to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its 
 being read. In this she was seconded by the rest 
 of the family, and, at their joint solicitation, I read 
 as follows : — 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 87 
 “ Ladies, — 
 
 “ The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to 
 the person from whom this comes : one at least 
 the friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its 
 being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that 
 you have some intention of bringing two young 
 ladies to town, whom I have some knowledge of 
 under the character of companions. As I would 
 neither have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue 
 contaminated, I must offer it as my opinion, that 
 the impropriety of such a step will be attended 
 with dangerous consequences. It has never been 
 my way to treat the infamous or the lewd with 
 severity ; nor should I now have taken this method 
 of explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not 
 aim at guilt. Take, therefore, the admonition of 
 a friend, and seriously reflect on the consequences 
 of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where 
 peace and innocence have hitherto resided.” 
 
 Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed, 
 indeed, something applicable to both sides in this 
 letter, and its censures might as well be referred to 
 those to whom it was written, as to us ; but the 
 malicious meaning was obvious, and we went 
 no farther. My wife had scarce patience to 
 hear me to the end, but railed at the writer with 
 unrestrained resentment. Olivia was equally se- 
 vere, and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his 
 baseness. As for my part, it appeared to me one 
 of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude I 
 had met with. Nor could I account for it in any 
 other manner than by imputing it to his desire of 
 detaining my youngest daughter in the country, 
 
88 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 to have the more frequent opportunities of an in- 
 terview. In this manner we all sat ruminating 
 upon schemes of vengeance, when our other little 
 boy came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell 
 was approaching at the other end of the field. 
 It is easier to conceive than describe the compli- 
 cated sensations which are felt from the pain of a 
 recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching 
 vengeance. Though our intentions were only to 
 upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was re- 
 solved to do it in a manner that would be perfectly 
 cutting. Tor this purpose we agreed to meet him 
 with our usual smiles, to chat in the beginning 
 with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him 
 a little ; and then, in the midst of the flattering 
 calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, and 
 overwhelm him with the sense of his own base- 
 ness. This being resolved upon, my wife under- 
 took 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 pro- 
 test I should not have thought it a joke had you 
 not told me.” — “ Perhaps not, Sir,” cried my 
 wife, winking at us, “ and yet I dare say you can 
 tell us how many jokes go to an ounce.” — “I 
 fancy, madam,” returned Burchell, “you have 
 been reading a jest-book this morning, that ounce 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 89 
 
 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 smil- 
 ing at us, though the laugh was against her ; 
 “ and vet I have seen some men pretend to under- 
 standing that have very little.” — “ And no doubt,” 
 replied her antagonist, u vou 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 integ- 
 rity ; it is that which gives value to every charac- 
 ter. (The ignorant peasant, without fault, is 
 greater than the philosopher with many ; for 
 what is genius or courage without an heart 1 An 
 honest man is the noblest work of God.” ) 
 
 “ I always held that hackneyed madam of Pope,” 
 returned Mr. Burchell, “ as very unworthy of a 
 man of genius, and a base desertion of his own 
 superiority. As the reputation of books is raised, 
 not by their 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 
 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 Homan pencil.” 
 
 “ Sir,” replied I, “ your present observation is 
 just, when there are shining virtues and minute 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 90 
 
 defects ; but when it appears that great vices are 
 opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary vir- 
 tues, such a character deserves con tempt.” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” cried he, “ there may be some such 
 monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to 
 great virtues ; j et, 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 under- 
 standing where the heart is corrupt, and diminish 
 the power where there is the will to do mischief. 
 This rule seems to extend even to other animals : 
 the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, 
 and cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength 
 and power, are generous, brave, and gentle.” 
 
 “ These observations sound well,” returned I, 
 “ and yet it would be easy this moment to point out 
 a man,” and I fixed my eye steadfastly upon him, 
 “ whose head and heart form a most detestable 
 contrast. Ay, Sir,” continued I, raising my 
 voice, “ and I am glad to have this opportunity of 
 detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. 
 Do you know this, Sir, this pocket-book?” — 
 “ Yes, Sir,” returned he, with a face of impenetra- 
 ble assurance, “ that pocket-book is mine, and I 
 am glad you have found it.” — “ And do you 
 know,” cried I, “ this letter ? Nay, never falter 
 man, but look me full in the face ; I say, do you 
 know this letter ? ” — “ That letter,” returned he, 
 “ yes, it was I that wrote that letter.” — “ And 
 how could you,” said I, “ so basely, so ungrate- 
 fully, presume to write this letter ? ” — “ And how 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 9i 
 
 came you,” replied he, with looks of unparalleled 
 effrontery, “ so basely to presume to break open 
 this letter ? Don’t you know, now, I could hang 
 you all for this ? All that I have to do is to 
 swear at the next justice’s, that you have been 
 guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket- 
 book, and so hang you all up at his door.” This 
 piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a 
 pitch, that I could scarcely govern my passion. 
 “ Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and no longer pol- 
 lute my dwelling with thy baseness : begone, and 
 never let me see thee again. Go from my door ; 
 and the only punishment I wish thee is an alarmed 
 conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor ! ” 
 So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he 
 took up with a smile, and shutting the clasps with 
 the utmost composure, left us, quite astonished at 
 the serenity of his assurance. My wife was par- 
 ticularly enraged that nothing could make him 
 angry, or make him seem ashamed of his villanies. 
 “ My dear,” cried I, willing to calm those passions 
 that had been raised too high among us, “ we are 
 not to be surprised that bad men want shame; 
 they only blush at being detected in doing good, 
 but glory in their vices. 
 
 “ Guilt and Shame, says the allegory, were at 
 first companions, and in the beginning of their 
 journey inseparably kept together. But their un- 
 ion was soon found to be disagreeable and incon- 
 venient to both ; Guilt gave Shame frequent unea- 
 siness, and Shame often betrayed the secret con- 
 spiracies of Guilt. After long disagreement, there- 
 fore, they at length consented to part for ever. 
 Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake 
 
92 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 Fate, that went before in the shape of an execu- 
 tioner : but Shame being naturally timorous, re- 
 turned back to keep company with Virtue, which, 
 in the beginning of their journey, they had left be- 
 hind. Thus my children, after men have travelled 
 through a few stages in vice, Shame forsakes them, 
 and returns back to wait upon the few virtues they 
 have still remaining.” 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The Family use Art, which is opposed with 
 
 STILL GREATER. 
 
 HATEVER might have been Sophia’s 
 sensations, the rest of the family was 
 easily consoled for Mr. Burchell’s ab- 
 sence by the company of our landlord, 
 whose visits now became more frequent and longer. 
 Though he had been disappointed in procuring my 
 daughters the amusements of the town as he de- 
 signed, he took every opportunity of supplying them 
 with those little recreations which our retirement 
 would admit of. He usually came in the morn- 
 ing, and while my son and I followed our occupa- 
 tions abroad, he sat with the family at home, and 
 amused them by describing the town, with every 
 part of which he was particularly acquainted. He 
 could repeat all the observations that were retailed 
 in the atmosphere of the play-houses, and had all 
 the good things of the high wits by rote long be- 
 fore they made way into the jest books. The in- 
 tervals between conversation were employed in 
 teaching my daughters piquet, or sometimes in 
 setting my two little ones to box, to make them 
 sharp, as he called it ; but the hopes of having him 
 for a son-in-law, in some measure blinded us to all 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 94 
 
 his imperfections. It must be owned 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 eat short 
 and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; if the goose- 
 berry-wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of 
 her gathering ; it was her fingers which gave the 
 pickles their peculiar green ; and in the composi- 
 tion of a pudding, it was her judgment that mixed 
 the ingredients. Then the poor woman would 
 sometimes tell the Squire, that she thought him 
 and Olivia extremely of a size, and would bid both 
 stand up to see which was tallest. These instan- 
 ces of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, 
 yet which every body saw through, were very pleas- 
 ing to our benefactor, who gave every day some 
 new proofs of his passion, which, though they had 
 not arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought 
 fell but little short of it ; and his slowness was at- 
 tributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and some- 
 times to his fear of offending his uncle. An oc- 
 currence, 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 ab- 
 solute 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 travelled the country, and took likenesses for 
 fifteen shillings a head. As this family and ours 
 had long a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our 
 spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us, 
 and notwithstanding all I could say, and I said 
 much, it was resolved that we should have our pic- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 95 
 
 tures clone too. Having, therefore, engaged 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 an unanimous resolution 
 of being drawn together in one large historical fam- 
 ily 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 contented each with being drawn as inde- 
 pendent 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 stoma- 
 cher 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 Whisto- 
 nian 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 noth- 
 ing ; 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 bv us all as 
 
 «/ 
 
 an indication of his desire to be introduced into 
 the family, nor could we refuse his request. The 
 
96 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD: 
 
 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 en- 
 comiums. We were all perfectly satisfied with his 
 performance ; but an unfortunate circumstance 
 had not occurred till the picture was finished, 
 which now struck us with dismay. It was so very 
 large that we had no place in the house to fix it. 
 How we all came to disregard so material a point 
 is inconceivable ; but certain it is, we had been all 
 greatly remiss. The picture, therefore, instead of 
 gratifying our vanity, as we hoped, leaned, in a 
 most mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, 
 where the canvas was stretched and painted, much 
 too large to be got through any of the doors, and 
 the jest of all our neighbors. One compared it to 
 Robinson Crusoe’s long-boat, too large to be re- 
 moved ; 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 ex- 
 pense, and our tranquillity was continually dis- 
 turbed by persons who came as friends to tell us 
 what was said of us by enemies. These reports 
 we always resented with becoming spirit; but 
 scandal ever improves bv opposition. 
 
 We once again, therefore, entered into a consul- 
 tation upon obviating the malice of our enemies, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 97 
 
 and at last came to a resolution which had too 
 much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It 
 was this. As our principal object was to discover 
 the honor of Mr. Thornhill’s addresses, my wife 
 undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his 
 advice in the choice of a husband for her eldest 
 daughter. If this was not found sufficient to in- 
 duce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to 
 terrify him with a rival. To this last step, how- 
 ever, I would by no means give my consent, till 
 Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that 
 she would marry the person provided to rival him 
 upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it by tak- 
 ing her himself. Such was the scheme laid, which, 
 though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not en- 
 tirely approve. 
 
 The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill 
 came to see us, my girls took care to be out of the 
 way, in order to give their mamma an opportunity 
 of putting her scheme in execution ; but they only 
 retired to the next room, from whence they could 
 overhear the whole conversation. My wife artfully 
 introduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss 
 Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match 
 of it in Mr. Spanker. To this the Squire assent- 
 ing, 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 
 
 7 
 
98 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 justice as well as the novelty of your remarks, and 
 if I were a king, it should be otherwise. It should 
 then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without 
 fortunes : our two young ladies should be the first 
 for whom I would provide.” 
 
 “ Ah, Sir,” returned my wife, “ you are pleased 
 to be facetious : 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, can’t you 
 recommend me a proper husband for her'? She is 
 now nineteen years old, well grown and well edu- 
 cated, 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 accom- 
 plishment that can make an angel happy. One 
 with prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such, 
 madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper hus- 
 band.” — “ Ay, Sir,” said she, “ but do you know 
 of any such person ? ” — u No, madam,” returned 
 he, “ it is impossible to know any person that de- 
 serves to be her husband : she ’s too great a treas- 
 ure for one man’s possession : she ’s a goddess. 
 Upon my soul, I speak what I think, she ’s an an- 
 gel.” — “ 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) ; “ hut, Sir,” conducted she, “ I 
 should be glad to have your approbation of our 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 99 
 
 choice.” — “ How, Madam ! ” replied he, “ my ap- 
 probation ! My approbation of such a choice ! 
 Never. What ! sacrifice so much beauty, and 
 sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of the 
 blessing ! Excuse me, I can never approve of 
 such a piece of injustice ! And I have my rea- 
 sons ! ” — “ Indeed, Sir,” cried Deborah, “ if you 
 have your reasons, that ’s another affair ; but I 
 should be glad to know those reasons.” — “ Ex- 
 cuse me, Madam,” returned he, “ they lie too deep 
 for discovery ”: (laying his hand upon his bosom) 
 “ they remain buried, rivetted here.” 
 
 After he was gone, upon general consultation, 
 we could not tell what to make of these fine senti- 
 ments. Olivia considered them as instances of the 
 most exalted passion; but I was not quite so san- 
 guine : it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had 
 more of love than matrimony in them : yet, what- 
 ever they might portend, it was resolved to prose- 
 cute the scheme of farmer Williams, who, from my 
 daughter’s first appearance in the country, had 
 paid her his addresses. 
 
CHAPTER - XVII. 
 
 Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the 
 Power of Long and Pleasing Temptation. 
 
 S I only studied my child’s real happi- 
 ness, the assiduity of Mr. Williams 
 pleased me, as he was in easy circum- 
 stances, prudent, and sincere. It re- 
 quired but very little encouragement ro revive his 
 former passion ; so that in an eveniug 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 re- 
 garded his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted 
 the coquette to perfection, if that might be called 
 acting which was her real character, pretending to 
 lavish all her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. 
 Thornhill appeared quite dejected at this prefer- 
 ence, 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 honor- 
 able passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed 
 to endure, it could easily be perceived that Olivia’s 
 anguish was still greater. After any of these in- 
 terviews between her lovers, of which there were 
 several, she usually retired to solitude, and there 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 IOI 
 
 indulged her grief. It was in such a situation I 
 found her one evening, after she had been for some 
 time supporting a fictitious gayety. — “ You now 
 see, my child, ” said I, “ that your confidence in 
 Mr. Thornhill’s passion was all a dream : he per- 
 mits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, 
 though he knows it lies in his power to secure you 
 to himself by a candid declaration.” — “ Yes, pa- 
 pa,” returned she, “ but he has his reasons for this 
 delay : I know he has. The sincerity of his looks 
 and words convince me of his real esteem. A short 
 time, I hope, will 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 declara- 
 tion, has been proposed and planned by yourself, 
 nor can you in the least say that I have constrained 
 you. But you must not suppose, my dear, that I 
 will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest 
 rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. 
 Whatever time you require to bring your fancied 
 admirer to an explanation shall be granted ; but 
 at the expiration of that term, if he is still regard- 
 less, I must absolutely insist that honest Mr. Wil- 
 liams shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The char- 
 acter which I have hitherto supported in life de- 
 mands this from me, and my tenderness as a par- 
 ent shall never influence my integrity as a man. 
 Name then your day, let it be as distant as you 
 think proper, and in the mean time take care to 
 let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which I 
 design delivering you up to another. If he really 
 loves you, his own good sense will readily suggest 
 
102 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 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 oppor- 
 tunity, in Mr. Thornhill’s presence, that day month 
 was fixed upon for her nuptials with his rival. 
 
 Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble 
 Mr. Thornhill’s anxiety : but what Olivia really 
 felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle 
 between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite 
 forsook her, and every opportunity of solitude was 
 sought, and spent in tears. One week passed 
 away; but Mr. Thornhill made no efforts to re- 
 strain 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 ex- 
 pected, 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 contin- 
 uance of competence and peace, and frequently 
 applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness 
 to ostentation. 
 
 It was within about four days of her intended 
 nuptials, that my little family at night were gath- 
 ered round a charming fire, telling stories of the 
 past, and laying schemes for the future. Busied 
 in forming a thousand projects, and laughing at 
 whatever folly came uppermost, “ Well, Moses,” 
 cried I,” “ we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding 
 in the family ; what is your opinion of matters 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 103 
 
 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 
 I, “ then let us have it : where ’s little Dick ? let 
 him up with it boldly.” — “ My brother Dick,” 
 cried Bill, my youngest, “ is just gone out with 
 sister Livy ; but Mr. Williams has taught me 
 two songs, and I Ml 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 So- 
 phy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the 
 boy a little.” 
 
 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 
 
 Good people all of every sort, 
 
 Give ear unto my song, 
 
 And if you find it wondrous short, 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man, 
 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran, 
 
 Whene’er he went to pray. 
 
104 TllE 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 some 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 seemed both sore and sad 
 To every Christian eye *, 
 
 And while they swore the dog was mad, 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light 
 That showed the rogues they lied, 
 
 The man recovered from 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 Hugginsons blow out a candle ; 
 that there were none of the Grograms but could 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 io 5 
 
 sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could tell a 
 story/’ — “ However that be,” cried I, “ the most 
 vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases me bet- 
 ter than the fine modern odes, and things that 
 petrify us in a single stanza ; productions that we 
 at once detest and praise. Put the glass to your 
 brother, Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts 
 is, that they are in despair for griefs that give the 
 sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady 
 loses her muff, her fan, or her lapdog, and so the 
 silly poet runs home to versify the disaster.” 
 
 “ That may be the mode,” cried Moses, “ in 
 snblimer compositions ; but the Ranelagh songs 
 that come down to us are perfectly familiar, and 
 all cast in the same mould : Colin meets Dolly, 
 and they hold a dialogue together ; he gives her 
 a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him 
 with a nosegay ; and than 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 excellent market, my boy, where we are told 
 what we want, and supplied with it when want- 
 ing.” 
 
 “ Yes, Sir,” returned Moses, “ and I know but 
 of two such markets for wives in Europe, Rane- 
 lagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The 
 Spanish market is open once a year, but our Eng- 
 lish wives are saleable every night.” 
 
io6 TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 “ 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, Mo- 
 ses, give us a good song. What thanks do we not 
 owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity, 
 health, and competence. 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 they live they will be 
 our support and our pleasure here, aud when we 
 die they will transmit our honor untainted to pos- 
 terity. 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 sweet- 
 est in the concert.” — 
 
 Just as I spoke Dick came running in, “ O 
 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 post-chaise, and one of them kissed 
 her, and said he would die for her ; and she cried 
 very much, and was for coming back ; but he 
 persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise, 
 and said, 1 0 what will my poor papa do when 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 107 
 
 he knows I am undone ! ’” — “ Now then/’ cried 
 I, “ my children, go and be miserable ; for we 
 shall never enjoy one hour more. And O, may 
 heaven’s everlasting 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 miser- 
 able and infamous ; for inv 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 pertidious vil- 
 lain ! ” 
 
 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 curst him, villain as he is.” — “ I 
 did not curse him child, did I ? ” — “ Indeed, Sir, 
 you did; you curst him twice.” — “ Then may 
 heaven forgive me and him if I did. And now, 
 my son, I sec it was more than human benevo- 
 
io8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 lence 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 dar- 
 ling ! May confusion seize — Heaven forgive me, 
 what am I about to say ! You may remember, 
 my love, how good she was, and how charming ; 
 till this vile moment all her care was to make us 
 happy. Had she but died ! But she is gone, the 
 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: perhaps he 
 forced her away. If he forced her, she may yet 
 be innocent.” — “ Ah, no, Sir ! ” cried the child ; 
 “ he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and 
 she wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and 
 they drove off very fast.” — “ She *s an ungrateful 
 creature,” cried my wife, who could scarce speak 
 for weeping, “ to use us thus. She never had the 
 least constraint put upon her affections. The vile 
 strumpet has basely deserted her parents without 
 any provocation, thus to bring your 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 com- 
 plaint, 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 cheerful- 
 ness to us all. My wife, as before, attempted to 
 ease her heart by reproaches. “ Never,” cried she, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 109 
 
 “ shall that vilest stain of our family again darken 
 these harmless doors. I will never call her daugh- 
 ter more. No, let the strumpet live with her vile 
 seducer . she may bring us to shame, but she shall 
 never more deceive us.” 
 
 “ Wife,” said I, “ do not talk thus hardly : my 
 detestation 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 
 shall she be to me Tor the first time the very 
 best may err ; art may persuade, and novelty spread 
 out its charm. The first fault is the child of sim- 
 plicity; but every other the offspring of guilt. 
 Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this 
 heart and this house, though stained with ten 
 thousand vices. I will again hearken to the music 
 of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her bos- 
 om, 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 sus- 
 picions fell entirely upon our young 
 landlord, whose character for such intrigues was 
 hut too well known. I therefore directed my steps 
 towards Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid 
 him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter ; 
 but before I had reached his seat, I was met by one 
 of my parishioners, who said he saw a young lady 
 resembling my daughter in a post-chaise with a 
 gentleman, whom, by the description, I could only 
 guess to be Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very 
 fast. This information, however, did by no means 
 satisfy me. I therefore went to the young Squire’s, 
 and, though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing 
 him immediately. He soon appeared with the most 
 open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at 
 my daughter’s elopement, protesting upon his hon- 
 or that he was quite a stranger to it. I now there- 
 fore condemned my former suspicions, and could 
 turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, 
 had of late several private conferences with her; 
 
TEE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 1 1 1 
 
 but the appearance of another witness left me no 
 room to doubt of his villany, who averred, that he 
 and my daughter were actually gone towards the 
 Wells, about thirty miles otf, where there was a 
 great deal of company. 
 
 Being driven to that state of mind in which we 
 are more ready to act precipitately than to reason 
 right, I never debated with myself whether these 
 accounts might not have been given by persons 
 purposely placed in my way, to mislead me, but 
 resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied 
 deluder thither. I walked along with earnestness, 
 and inquired of several bv the way ; but received 
 no accounts, till, entering the town, I was met by 
 a person on horseback, whom I remembered to 
 have seen at the Squire’s, and he assured me, that 
 if I followed them to the races, which were but 
 thirty miles farther, I might depend upon overtak- 
 ing 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 afternoon 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 reclaim- 
 ing a lost child to virtue ! I thought I perceived 
 Mr. Burchell at some distance from me ; but, as if 
 he dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him, 
 he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no more. 
 
 I now reflected that it would be to no pur- 
 pose to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved 
 to return home to an innocent family, who wanted 
 my assistance. But the agitations of my mind, 
 
I 12 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into a 
 fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I 
 came off the course. This was another unexpected 
 stroke, as I was more than seventy miles distant 
 from home : however, I retired to a little alehouse 
 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 mv consti- 
 tution prevailed, though I was unprovided with 
 money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. 
 It is possible the anxiety from this last circumstance 
 alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not 
 been supplied by a traveller, who stopped to take 
 a cursory refreshment. This person was no other 
 than the philanthropic . bookseller in St. Paul’s 
 Churchyard, who has written so many little books 
 for children : he called himself their friend ; but 
 he was the friend of all mankind. He was no 
 sooner alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; 
 for he was ever on business of the utmost impor- 
 tance, and was at that time actually compiling ma- 
 terials for the history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. 
 I immediately recollected this good-natured man’s 
 red pimpled face ; for he had published for me 
 against the Deuterogamists of the age, and from 
 him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my re- 
 turn. 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 tran- 
 quillity were almost restored, and I now condemned 
 that pride which had made me refractory to the 
 hand of correction. Man little knows what calam- 
 ities are beyond his patience to bear till he tries 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 1 1 3 
 
 them ; ias, in ascending the heights of ambition, 
 which look bright from below, every step we rise 
 shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden 
 disappointment ; so, in oar 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 appear to' 
 brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to 
 its gloomy situation. ) 
 
 I now proceeded forward, and had walked about 
 two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a 
 distance like a wagon, which I was resolved to over- 
 take ; but when I came up with it found it to be a 
 strolling company’s cart, that was carrying their 
 scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next 
 village, where they were to exhibit. The cart was 
 attended only by the person who drove it and one 
 of the company, as the rest of the players were to 
 follow the ensuing day. Good company upon the 
 road, says the proverb, is the shortest cut, I there- 
 fore entered into conversation with the poor player ; 
 and as I once had some theatrical powers myself, 
 
 I disserted on such topics with my usual freedom . 
 but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the 
 present state of the stage, I demanded who were 
 the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the 
 Drydens and Otways of the day. — “I fancy, Sir,” 
 cried the player, “ few of our modern dramatists 
 would think themselves much honored by being 
 compared to the writers you mention. Dryden’s 
 and Rowe’s manner, Sir, are quite out of fashion ; 
 our taste has gone back a whole century ; Fletcher, 
 
 8 
 
1 1 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 Ben Jonson, and all the plays of Shakespeare 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 mention ? ” — “ Sir,” returned my 
 companion, “ the public think nothing about dia- 
 lect, 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 pan- 
 tomime, under the sanction of Jonson’s or Shake- 
 speare’s name.” — “ So then, I suppose,” cried I, 
 “ that our modern dramatists are rather imitators 
 of Shakespeare than of nature.” — “ To say the 
 truth,” returned my companion, “ I don’t know 
 that they imitate anything at ail : 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 
 natural.” 
 
 By this time the equipage of the strolling com- 
 pany was arrived at the village, which, it seems, 
 had been apprised of our approach, and was come 
 out to gaze at us ; for my companion observed, 
 that strollers always have more spectators without 
 doors than within. I did not consider the impro- 
 priety of my being in such company till I saw a 
 mob gather about me. I therefore took shelter, as 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 JI 5 
 
 fast as possible, in the first alehouse that offered, 
 and being shown into the common room, was ac- 
 costed by a very well-dressed gentleman, who de- 
 manded whether I was the real chaplain of the 
 company, or whether it was only to be my mas- 
 querade character in the play. Upon informing 
 him of the truth, and that I did not belong in any 
 sort to the company, he was condescending enough 
 to desire me and the player to partake in a bowl 
 of punch, over which he discussed modern politics 
 with great earnestness and interest. I set him 
 down in my own mind for nothing less than a 
 parliament-man at least; but was almost confirmed 
 in my conjectures, 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 appre- 
 hensive OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES. 
 
 HE house where we were to be enter-r 
 tained 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 conversa- 
 tion began with some sprightliness. Politics, 
 however, were the subject on which our enter- 
 tainer chiefly expatiated : for he asserted that lib- 
 erty 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 V strange, 
 very strange,” replied my entertainer. “ Now, I 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 117 
 
 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 noth- 
 ing. 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 advis- 
 ers were fixed in the pillory. It should be the 
 duty of honest men to assist the weaker side of 
 our constitution, that sacred power that has for 
 some years been every day declining, and losing 
 its due share of influence in the state. But these 
 ignorants still continue the 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 advo- 
 
Ii8 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 cates 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 gods ! Glorious liberty ! that theme 
 of modem declamation. I would have all men 
 kings. I would be a king myself. We have all 
 naturally an equal right to the throne : we are all 
 originally equal. This is my opinion, and was 
 once the opinion of a set of honest men who were 
 called Levellers. They tried to erect themselves 
 into a community, where all should be equally 
 free. But, alas ! it would' never answer ; for there 
 were some among them stronger, and some more 
 cunning than others, and these became masters of 
 the rest ; for as sure as your groom rides your 
 horses, because he is a cunninger animal than they, 
 so surely will the animal that is cunninger or 
 stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. 
 Since, then, it is entailed upon humanity to sub- 
 mit, 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 far- 
 ther 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 of my way of thinking, and have unanimously 
 created one king, whose election at once dimin- 
 ishes 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 natu- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 119 
 
 rally averse to a power raised over them, and 
 whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the sub- 
 ordinate 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 undermine the single 
 tyrant, by which they resume their primeval au- 
 thority. Now the state may be so circumstanced, 
 or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opu- 
 lence 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, how- 
 ever, must necessarily be the consequence, when, 
 as at present, more riches flow in from external 
 commerce than arise from internal industry ; for 
 external commerce can only be managed to advan- 
 tage by the rich, and they have also at the same 
 time all the emoluments arising from internal in- 
 dustry ; so that the rich, with us, have two sources 
 of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For 
 this reason, wealth, in all commercial states, is 
 found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto in 
 time become aristocratical. 
 
 “ Again, the very laws also of this country may 
 contribute to the accumulation of wealth ; as when 
 by their means the natural ties that bind the rich 
 and poor together are broken, and it is ordained, 
 that the rich shall only marry with the rich ; or 
 when the learned are held unqualified to serve 
 their country as counsellors merely from a defect of 
 
120 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 fur- 
 nished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, 
 has no other method to employ the superfluity of 
 his fortune but in purchasing power. That is, 
 differently speaking, in making dependants, by 
 purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, pf 
 men who are willing to bear the mortification of 
 contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very op- 
 ulent 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 
 Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its 
 own. Those, however, who are willing to move 
 in a great man’s vortex, are only such as must be 
 slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and 
 whose education are adapted to servitude, and who 
 know nothing of liberty except the name. 
 
 “ But, there must still be a large number of the 
 people without the sphere of the opulent man’s 
 influence, namely, that order of men which sub- 
 sists between the very rich and the very rabble ; 
 those men who are possessed of too large fortunes 
 to submit to the neighboring man in power, and 
 yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. 
 In this middle order of mankind are generally to 
 be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of soci- 
 ety. This order alone is known to be the true 
 preserver of freedom, and may be called the Peo- 
 ple. 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 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 1ZI 
 
 the rabble; for if the fortune sufficient for qualify- 
 ing- 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 intro- 
 duced into the political system, and they, ever mov- 
 ing in the vortex of the great, will follow where 
 greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, 
 all that the middle order has left, is to preserve 
 the prerogative and privileges of the one principal 
 governor, with the most sacred circumspection. 
 For he divides the power of the rich, and calls off 
 the great from falling with tenfold weight on the 
 middle order placed beneath them. The middle 
 order may be compared to a town, of which the 
 opulent are forming the siege, and of which the gov- 
 ernor from without is hastening the relief. While 
 the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over them, 
 it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most 
 specious terms ; to Hatter 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 defence to its inhabitants. 
 What they may then expect, may be seen by turn- 
 ing our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where 
 the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the 
 law. I am then for, and would die for, monarchy, 
 sacred monarchy ; for if there be anything sacred 
 amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign 
 of his people, and every diminution of his power, 
 in war or in peace, is an infringement upon the 
 real liberties of the subject. The sounds of liberty, 
 patriotism, and Britons, have already done much ; 
 it is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will 
 
122 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 prevent their ever doing more. I have known 
 many of those pretended champions for liberty in 
 my time, yet do I not remember one that was not 
 in his heart and in his family a tyrant.” 
 
 My warmth I found had lengthened this ha- 
 rangue beyond the rules of good breeding ; but 
 the impatience of my entertainer, 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 Wilkinson.” I now 
 found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for 
 the warmth with which I had spoken. “ Pardon ! ” 
 returned he, in a 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 im- 
 mediately, to prevent worse consequences. Sir, I 
 insist upon it.” I was going to repeat my remon- 
 strances ; 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 gentleman and his lady 
 enter ; nor was their surprise at finding such com- 
 pany and good cheer, less than ours. “Gentle- 
 men,” cried the real master of the house to me and 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 123 
 
 my companion, “ my wife and I are your most hum- 
 ble servants ; but I protest this is so unexpected a 
 favor, that we almost sink under the obligation.” 
 However unexpected our company might be to 
 them, theirs, I am sure, was still more so to us, 
 and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of 
 my own absurdity, when, whom should I next see 
 enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, 
 who was formerly designed to be married to my 
 son George ; but whose match was broken off, as 
 alreadv related. As soon as she saw me, she flew 
 to my arms with the utmost joy. “ My dear sir,” 
 cried she, “ to what happy accident is it that we 
 owe so unexpected a visit ? I am sure my uncle 
 and aunt will be in raptures when they find they 
 have the good Dr. Primrose for their guest.” 
 Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and 
 lady very politely stept up, and welcomed me 
 with most cordial hospitality. Nor could they 
 forbear smiling upon being informed of the nature 
 of my present visit : but the unfortunate butler, 
 whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, 
 was at my intercession forgiven. 
 
 Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house 
 belonged, now insisted upon having the pleasure 
 of my stay for some days, and as their niece, my 
 charming pupil, whose mind in some measure had 
 been formed under my own instructions, joined in 
 their 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 point- 
 ing out the beauties of the place, she inquired, 
 
124 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard 
 from my son George. “ Alas ! Madam,” cried I, 
 “ he has now been near three years absent, with- 
 out 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 pov- 
 erty 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 forebore 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 from every object a hint for some 
 new question relative to my son. 
 
 In this manner we spent the forenoon, till the 
 bell summoned us in to dinner, where we found 
 the manager of the strolling company that I men- 
 tioned 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 perform- 
 er, and averred, that he never saw any who bid so 
 fair for excellence. “ Acting,” he observed, was 
 not learned in a day ; “ but this gentleman,” con- 
 tinued he, “seems born to tread the stage. Ilis- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 I2 5 
 
 voice, his figure, and attitudes, are all admirable. 
 We caught him up accidentally in our journey 
 down.” This account, in some measure, excited 
 our curiosity, and at the entreaty of the ladies, I 
 was prevailed upon to accompany them to the 
 play-house, which was no other than a barn. As 
 the company with which I went was incontestably 
 the chief of the place, we were received with the 
 greatest respect, and placed in the front seat of the 
 theatre; where we sat for some time with no small 
 impatience to see Horatio make his appearance. 
 The new performer advanced at last ; and let par- 
 ents think of my sensations by their own, when I 
 found it was my unfortunate son. He was going 
 to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audience, 
 he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at 
 once speechless and immoveable. The actors be- 
 hind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his nat- 
 ural timidity, attempted to encourage him; but 
 instead of going on, he burst into a flood of tears, 
 and retired off the stage. I don’t know what were 
 my feelings on this occasion ; for they succeeded 
 with too much rapidity for description ; 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 got home, Mr. Arnold, who was as yet a 
 stranger to our extraordinary behavior, being in- 
 formed that the new performer was my son, sent 
 his coach and an invitation for him ; and, as he 
 persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the 
 stage, the players put another in his place, and we 
 soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him the 
 kindest reception, and I received him with my 
 
126 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit false 
 resentment. Miss Wilmot’s reception was mixed 
 with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she 
 acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind 
 seemed not yet abated ; she said twenty giddy 
 things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud 
 at her own want of meaning. At intervals she 
 would take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in 
 the consciousness of unresisted beauty, and often 
 would ask questions without giving any manner of 
 attention to the answers. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The History of a Philosophic Vagabond pur- 
 suing Novelty, but losing Content. 
 
 FTER we had supped, Mrs. Arnold po- 
 litely 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, ay, my son,” cried I, “ you left me but 
 poor, and poor I find you are come back ; and yet 
 I make no doubt you have seen a great deal of the 
 world.” — “ Yes, Sir,” replied my son, “ but trav- 
 elling after fortune is not the way to secure her ; 
 and indeed, of late I have desisted from the pur- 
 suit.” — “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 
 
128 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 at 
 another, and being now at the bottom of her wheel, 
 every new revolution might lift, but could not de- 
 press me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London 
 in a fine morning, no way uneasy about to-mor- 
 row, but cheerful as the birds that carolled by the 
 road, and comforted myself with reflecting, that 
 London was the mart where abilities of every kind 
 were sure of meeting distinction and reward. 
 
 “ 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 cir- 
 cumstances than I. My first scheme you know, 
 Sir, was to be usher at an academy, and I asked 
 his advice on the affair. Our cousin received the 
 proposal with a true sardonic grin. ‘Ay / cried he, 
 ‘ this is indeed a very pretty career that has been 
 chalked out for you. I have been an usher at a 
 boarding-school myself, and may I die by an ano- 
 dyne necklace, but I had rather be an under-turn- 
 key 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 ex- 
 amine 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 ? 9 — ‘ No.’ 
 — ‘ Then you won’t do for a school. Haye you lmd 
 the small-pox V — ‘ No.’ — ‘ Then you won’t do for 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 1 29 
 
 a school. Can you lie three in a bed V — ‘ 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 ge- 
 nius starving at the trade ; at present 1 ’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 poli- 
 tics, 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 gen- 
 tilitv affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved 
 to accept his proposal, and having the highest re- 
 spect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub 
 Street with reverence. I thought it my glory to 
 pursue a track which Dry den and Otway trod be- 
 fore me. I considered the goddess of this region 
 as the parent of excellence, and, however an inter- 
 course with the world might give us good sense, 
 the poverty she granted I supposed to be the nurse 
 of genius. Big with these reflections, I sat down, 
 and 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 
 some paradoxes with ingenuity. They were false, 
 indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth 
 have been so often imported by others, that noth- 
 
 9 
 
1-0 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 J t 
 
 ing was left for me to import, bat 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 sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against 
 every opposer.” 
 
 “ Well said, my boy,” cried I, “and what sub- 
 ject did you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass 
 over the importance of monogamy. But I inter- 
 rupt, go on ; you published your paradoxes ; well, 
 and what did the learned world say to your para- 
 doxes ? ” 
 
 “ 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 
 crudest mortification, neglect. 
 
 “ As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house 
 on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man happen- 
 ing to enter the room, placed himself in the box 
 before me, and after some preliminary discourse, 
 finding me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of 
 proposals, begging me to subscribe to a new edi- 
 tion he was going to give to the world of Proper- 
 tius, with notes. This demand necessarily pro- 
 duced a reply that I had no money ; and that con- 
 cession led him to inquire into the nature of my 
 expectations. Finding that my expectations were 
 just as great as my purse, ‘ I see/ cried he, * you are 
 unacquainted with the town ; I 'll teach you a part 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 * 3 * 
 
 of it. Look at these proposals ; upon these very 
 proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for 
 twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns 
 from his travels, a Creoliau arrives from Jamaica, 
 or a dowager from her country-seat, I strike for a 
 subscription. I first besiege their hearts with flat- 
 tery, 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 dis- 
 tinction has just returned from Italy ; my face is 
 familiar to his porter ; but if you bring this copy of 
 verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide 
 the spoil.’ ” 
 
 “ Bless us, George,” cried I, “ and is this the 
 employment of poets now? Do men of their ex- 
 alted talents thus stoop to beggary ? Can they so 
 far disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic 
 of praise for bread ? ” 
 
 “ O no, Sir,” returned he, “ a true poet can never 
 be so base ; for wherever there is genius there is 
 pride. The creatures I now describe are only 
 beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves 
 every hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward 
 to contempt, and none but those who are unwor- 
 thy protection condescend to solicit it.” 
 
 “ Having a mind too proud to stoop to such in- 
 dignities, 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 
 
1 3 2 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 was unqualified for a profession where mere indus- 
 try alone was to ensure success. I could not sup- 
 press 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 fruitful mediocrity. Mv little piece 
 would therefore come forth in the midst of periodi- 
 cal publication, unnoticed and unknown. The 
 public were more importantly employed, than to 
 observe the easy simplicity of my style, or the har- 
 mony 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 
 bide of a mad dog; while Philautos, Philalethes, 
 Phileleutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote better, 
 because they wrote faster, than I. 
 
 “ Now, therefore, I began to associate with none 
 but disappointed authors, like myself, who praised, 
 deplored, and despised each other. The satisfac- 
 tion we found in every celebrated writer’s attempts, 
 was inversely as their merits. I found that no 
 genius in another could please me. My unfortu- 
 nate 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. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 133 
 
 and I afraid of a repulse. But my suspicions 
 soon vanished ; for Ned Thornhill was at the bot- 
 tom a very good-natured fellow.” 
 
 “ What did you say, George ? ” interrupted I. 
 “ Thornhill, was not that his name ? It can cer- 
 tainly 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 sat for his picture, to take 
 the left hand in his chariot when not filled by an- 
 other, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase 
 was, when we had a mind for a frolic. Besides 
 this, I had twenty other little employments in the 
 family. I was to do many small things without 
 bidding : to carry the corkscrew, to stand god- 
 father 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 laun- 
 dress to a man of quality, and thus he early ac- 
 quired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this 
 gentleman made it the study of his life to be ac- 
 quainted with lords, though he was dismissed from 
 several for his stupidity, yet he found many of 
 
i 3 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 them, who were as dull as himself, that permitted 
 his assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he prac- 
 tised 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 de- 
 fects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus 
 I was once more fairly going to give up the field 
 to the captain, when my friend found occasion for 
 my assistance. This was nothing less than to 
 fight a duel for him, with a gentleman whose sis- 
 ter 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 undertook 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 fel- 
 low her bully and a sharper. This piece of ser- 
 vice 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 of serving 
 me, but by recommending me to his uncle, Sir 
 William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great 
 distinction, who enjoyed a post under the govern- 
 ment. When he was gone, my first care was to 
 carry his recommendatory letter to his uncle, a 
 man whose character for every virtue was univer- 
 sal, 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 delivered my message 
 and letter, which he read, and after pausing some 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 *35 
 
 minutes, ‘Pray, Sir/ cried he, ‘ inform me what you 
 have done for mv 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 in- 
 strument of his vices ? I wish, sincerely wish, that 
 my present refusal may be some punishment for 
 your guilt; but still more, that it may be some in- 
 ducement 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 nobil- 
 ity are almost ever beset with beggars, all ready to 
 thrust in some sly petition, I found it no easy mat- 
 ter to gain admittance. However, after bribing the 
 servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last 
 shown into a spacious apartment, my letter being 
 previously sent up for his lordship’s inspection. 
 During this anxious interval I had full time to 
 look round me. Everything was grand and of 
 happy 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 unfathom- 
 able ! During these awful reflections I heard a 
 step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great 
 man himself! No, it was only a chambermaid. 
 Another foot was heard soon after. This must be 
 he ! No, it was only the great man’s valet de 
 chambre. At last his lordship actually made his 
 appearance. ‘ Are you,’ cried he , 4 the bearer of this 
 
136 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 i 
 
 here letter ? 3 I answered with a bow. 4 I learn by 
 this/ continued he, ‘as bow 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 foot- 
 man 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, 
 however, went too fast for us, and was gaining his 
 chariot-door with large strides, when I hallooed 
 out to know if I was to have any reply. He was 
 by this time got in, and muttered an 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 pos- 
 ture of one that was listening to catch the glorious 
 sounds, till looking round me, I found myself 
 alone at his lordship’s gate. 
 
 “ My patience,” continued my son, “ was now 
 quite exhausted. Stung with the thousand indig- 
 nities 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 left, and of that I 
 thought nature herself should not deprive me ; but, 
 in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go in- 
 stantly and spend it while I had it, and then trust 
 to occurrences for the rest. As I was going along 
 with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Crispe’s 
 office seemed invitingly open to give me a wel- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 137 
 
 come reception. In this office Mr. Crispe kindly 
 offers all his majesty’s subjects a generous promise 
 of 30/. a-year, for which promise all they give in 
 return is their liberty for life, and permission to 
 let him transport them to America as slaves. 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 crea- 
 tures, all in circumstances like myself, expecting 
 the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epit- 
 ome of English impatience. Each untractable 
 soul at variance with Fortune, wreaked her injuries 
 on their own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at last came 
 down and all our murmurs were hushed. He 
 deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar ap- 
 probation, and indeed he was the first man who 
 for a month past talked to me with smiles. After 
 a few questions, he found I was fit for everything 
 in the world. He paused awhile upon the proper- 
 est 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 In- 
 dians, 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 pleas- 
 ure, 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 pound, and with the other half I re- 
 solved to go to the next tavern to be there more 
 happy than he. 
 
 “ As I was going out with that resolution, I 
 
1 38 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 1 
 
 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 
 very point of ruin in listening to the office-keeper’s 
 promises ; for that he only designed to sell me to 
 the plantations. ‘ But/ continued he, ‘ I fancy you 
 might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily 
 put into a genteel way of' bread. Take my advice. 
 My ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam. What 
 if you go in her as a passenger % The moment 
 you land all you have to do is to teach the Dutch- 
 men English, and I’ll warrant you’ll get pupils 
 and money enough. I suppose you understand 
 English,’ added he, ( by this time, or the deuse is in 
 it.’ I confidently assured him of that ; but ex- 
 pressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be wil- 
 ling 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 Am- 
 sterdam. In this situation I was unwilling to let 
 any time pass unemployed in teaching. I ad- 
 dressed myself, therefore, to two or three of those 
 I met, whose appearance seemed most promising ; 
 but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually 
 understood. It was not till this very moment I 
 recollected, that, in order to teach Dutchmen En- 
 glish, it was necessary that they should first teach 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 139 
 
 me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious 
 an objection is to me amazing ; but certain it is I 
 overlooked it. 
 
 “ This scheme thus blown up, I had some 
 thoughts of fairly shipping back to England 
 again ; but falling into company with an Irish 
 student, who was returning from Louvain, our 
 conversation turning upon topics of literature 
 (for by the way it may be observed that I always 
 forgot the meanness of my circumstances when I 
 could converse upon such subjects), from him I 
 learned that there were not two men in his whole 
 university who understood Greek. This amazed 
 me. I instantly resolved to travel to Louvain, 
 and there live hy teaching Greek ; and in this de- 
 sign I was heartened by my brother student, who 
 threw out some hints that a fortune might be got 
 by it. 
 
 “ I set boldly forward the next morning. Every 
 day lessened the burthen of my movables, like 
 JEsop and his basket of bread ; for I paid them 
 for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on. 
 When I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to 
 go sneaking to the lower professors, but openly 
 tendered my talents to the 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 this university. 
 The principal seemed at first to doubt of my abili- 
 ties ; hut 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 
 
1 4 o THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 with- 
 out Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and in 
 short,’ continued he, ‘ as I don’t know Greek, I do 
 not believe there is any good in it.’ . 
 
 “ I was now too far from home to think of return- 
 ing ; so I resolved to go forward. I had some 
 knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and 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 pro- 
 portion to their wants. Whenever I approached 
 a peasant’s house towards 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 perform- 
 ance 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 com- 
 pany, when playing was my amusement, my mu- 
 sic never failed to throw them into raptures, and 
 the ladies especially ; hut, 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 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 141 
 
 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, passing through one of 
 the principal streets, whom should I meet but our 
 cousin to whom you first recommended me. This 
 meeting was very agreeable to me, and I believe 
 not displeasing to him. He inquired into the 
 nature of my journey to Paris, and 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 cognoscento 
 so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was 
 more easy. The whole secret consisted in a strict 
 adherence to two rules : the one always to observe, 
 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 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 
 
142 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 assurance. 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 acci- 
 dentally lying by, and rub it over the piece with 
 great composure before all the company, and then 
 ask if he had not improved the tints. 
 
 “ When he had finished his commission in Paris, 
 he left me strongly recommended to several men 
 of distinction, as a person very proper for a trav- 
 elling tutor ; and after some time I was employed 
 in that capacity by a gentleman who brought his 
 ward to Paris, in order to set him forward on his 
 tour through Europe. I was to be the young 
 gentleman’s governor, but with a proviso, that he 
 should always be permitted to govern himself. 
 My pupil, in fact, understood the art of guiding 
 in money 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 manage- 
 ment of it, had bound him apprentice to an attor- 
 ney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion : 
 all his questions on the road were, how money 
 might be saved ; which was the least expensive 
 course of travel ; whether anything could be 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 143 
 
 bought that would turn to account when dis- 
 posed 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 amaz- 
 ingly expensive travelling was, and all this though 
 he was not yet twenty-one. When arrived at 
 Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the port 
 and shipping, he inquired the expense of the pas- 
 sage by sea home to England. This he was in- 
 formed was but a trifle compared to his returning 
 by land, he was therefore unable to withstand the 
 temptation ; so paying me the small part of my 
 salary that was due, he took leave, and embarked 
 with only one attendant for London. 
 
 “ I now therefore was left once more upon the 
 world at large ; 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 pur- 
 pose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. 
 In all the foreign universities and convents there 
 are upon certain days philosophical theses main- 
 tained against every adventitious disputant: for 
 which, if the champion opposes with any dexterity, 
 he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and 
 a bed for one night. In this manner therefore I 
 fought my way towards England, walked along 
 from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, 
 and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the 
 picture. My remarks, however, are but few ; I 
 
i 4 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 found that monarchy was the best government for 
 the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the 
 rich. I found that riches in general were in every 
 country another name for freedom ; and that no 
 man is so fond of liberty himself as not to be desir- 
 ous of subjecting the will of some individuals in 
 society to his own. 
 
 “ Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to 
 pay my respects first to you, and then to enlist as 
 a volunteer in the first expedition that was going 
 forward ; but on my journey down my resolutions 
 were changed, by meeting an old acquaintance, 
 who I found belonged to a company of comedians 
 that were going to make a summer campaign in 
 the country. The company seemed not much to 
 disapprove of me for an associate. They all, how- 
 ever, apprised me of the importance of the task at 
 which I aimed ; that the public was a many-headed 
 monster, and that only such as had very good 
 heads could please it ; that acting was not to be 
 learnt 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 pre- 
 tend 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 XXL 
 
 The short continuance of Friendship amongst 
 the Vicious, which is coeval only with 
 Mutual Satisfaction. 
 
 Y son’s account was too long to be deliv- 
 ered at once ; the first part of it was 
 begun that night, and he was conclud- 
 ing the rest after dinner the next day, 
 when the appearance 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 whis- 
 per, that the Squire had already made some over- 
 tures to Miss Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle 
 seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr. 
 Thornhill’s entering, he seemed at seeing my son 
 and me to start back; but I readily imputed that 
 to surprise and not displeasure. However, upon 
 our advancing to salute him, he returned our greet- 
 ing 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 unsuccessful, he seemed greatly sur- 
 prised: adding, that he had been since frequently 
 io 
 
146 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 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 interrupted by a servant, 
 who came to ask the Squire in, to stand up at 
 country dances ; so that he left me quite pleased 
 with the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. 
 His addressed, however, to Miss Wilmot, were too 
 obvious to be mistaken ; and yet she seemed not 
 perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compli- 
 ance to the will of her aunt than from real inclina- 
 tion. 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 composure, 
 however, not a little surprised me ; we had now 
 continued here a week at the pressing instances of 
 Mr. Arnold ; but each day the more tenderness 
 Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thornhill’s 
 friendship seemed proportionably to increase for 
 him. 
 
 He had formerly made us the most kind assur- 
 ances 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 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 147 
 
 his having procured him an ensign’s commission 
 in one of the regiments that was going to the 
 West Indies, for which he had promised but one 
 hundred pounds, his interest having been sufficient 
 to get an abatement of the other two. “ As for 
 this trifling piece of service,” continued the young 
 gentleman, “ I desire no other reward but the 
 pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for 
 the hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable 
 to raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you 
 shall repay me at your leisure.” This was a favor 
 we wanted words to express our sense of ; I readily 
 therefore gave my bond for the money, and testi- 
 fied 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 gener- 
 ous patron’s directions, who judged it highly expe- 
 dient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time 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 misfor- 
 tunes, if it was a misfortune to die with Lord Falk- 
 
148 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 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 fam- 
 ily, 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 to- 
 wards home, despairing of ever finding my daugh- 
 ter more, but sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and 
 forgive her. I was now come within about twenty 
 miles of home, having hired an horse to carry me, 
 as I was yet but weak, and 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 
 sat beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room 
 in the house, and chatted on politics and the news 
 of the country. We happened, among other top- 
 ics, 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 perceiving that her husband was enjoying a 
 pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 149 
 
 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 towards my good health, “ Sir,” resumed 
 she, “ it is not so much for the value of the liquor 
 I am angry, but one cannot help it, when the 
 house is going out of the windows. If the cus- 
 tomers or guests are to be dunned all the burthen 
 lies upon my back ; he ’d as lief eat that glass as 
 budge after them himself. There now above stairs, 
 we have a young woman who has come to take up 
 her 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 fortnhrht, 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.” — a In a lump ! ” cried the other, 
 “ I hope we may get it any way; and that I am 
 resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, 
 bag and baggage.” — “ Consider, my dear,” cried 
 the husband, “ she is a gentlewoman, and deserves 
 more respect.” — “ As for the matter of that,” re- 
 
1 5 o THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 turned the hostess, “ gentle or simple, out she 
 shall pack with a sussarara. Gentry may be good 
 things where they take ; but for my part I never 
 saw much good of them at the sign of the Har- 
 row.” 
 
 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 honest house without cross 
 or coin to bless yourself with ! come along I 
 say.” — “O dear madam,” cried the stranger, 
 “ pity me, pity a poor abandoned creature for one 
 night, and death will soon do the rest.” I in- 
 stantly knew the voice of my poor ruined child 
 Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the woman was 
 dragging her along by her hair, and I caught the 
 dear forlorn wretch in my arms. “ Welcome, 
 any way, welcome, my dearest lost one, my treas- 
 ure, to your poor old father’s bosom. Though the 
 vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the world 
 that will never forsake thee ; though thou hadst 
 ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget 
 them all.” — “Omv 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, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. i 5I 
 
 from my heart I do forgive thee ! Only repent, 
 and we both shall yet be happy. We shall sec 
 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'? Surely you have too much 
 wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon 
 yourself.” — “Our wisdom, young woman,” re- 
 plied 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 dar- 
 ling,” returned I ; “ but I was going to observe, 
 that wisdom makes but a slow defence 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 as- 
 senting, we were shown a room where we could 
 converse more freely. After we had talked our- 
 selves into some degree of tranquillity, I could not 
 avoid desiring some account of the gradations that 
 led to her present Avretched 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. Burcheirs 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. Bu rehell never 
 attempted to deceive me ; instead of that he took 
 every opportunity of privately admonishing me 
 
1 52 TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 against the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who I now 
 find was even worse than he represented him.” — 
 “ Mr. Thornhill ! ” interrupted I, “ can it be? ” — 
 “ Yes, Sir,” returned she, “ it was Mr. Thornhill 
 who seduced me, who employed the two ladies, as 
 he called them, but who in fact were abandoned 
 women of the town, without breeding or pity, to 
 decoy us up to London. Their artifices, you may 
 remember, would have 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 base- 
 ness were too well grounded : but he can triumph 
 in security ; for he is rich, and we are poor. But 
 tell me, my child, sure it was no small temptation 
 that could thus obliterate all the impressions of 
 such an education, and so virtuous a disposition 
 as thine ? ” 
 
 “ Indeed, Sir,” replied she, “ he owes all his tri- 
 umph to the desire I had of making him, and not 
 myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our 
 marriage, which was privately performed 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, and in orders ? ” — “ Indeed, Sir, we were,” 
 replied she, “ though we were both sworn to con- 
 ceal his name.” — “ Why then, my child, come to 
 my arms again ; and now you are a thousand times 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 153 
 
 more welcome than before ; for you are now his 
 wife to all intents and purposes ; nor can all the 
 laws of man, though written upon tables of ada- 
 mant, lessen the force of that sacred connection.' ” 
 
 “Alas! papa/’ replied she, “you are but little 
 acquainted with his villanies ; he has been mar- 
 ried already by the same priest to six or eight 
 wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and 
 abandoned.” 
 
 “ Has he so 1 ” cried I, “ then we must hang 
 the priest, and you shall inform against him to- 
 morrow.” — “ But, Sir,” returned she, “will that 
 be right, when I am sworn to secrecy ? ” — “ My 
 dear,” I replied, “ if you have made such a prom- 
 ise, 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 institu- 
 tions 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 in- 
 curred, in expectation of contingent advantage. 
 And though the advantage should certainly follow, 
 yet the interval between commission and advan- 
 tage, 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 
 
i 5 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 found what little expectations I was to have from 
 his sincerity. That very morning he introduced 
 me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, 
 he had deceived, but who lived in contented pros- 
 titution. 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 un- 
 happy. The gentlemen who visited there told me 
 every moment of the power of my charms, and 
 this only contributed to increase my melancholy, 
 as I had thrown all their power quite away. 
 Thus, each day I grew more pensive, and he more 
 insolent, till at last the monster had the assurance 
 to offer me to a young baronet of his acquaintance. 
 Need I describe, Sir, how his ingratitude stung 
 me ? My answer to this proposal was almost 
 madness. I desired to part. As I was going he 
 offered me a purse, but I flung it at him with 
 indignation, and burst from him in a rage, that 
 for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of 
 my situation. But I soon looked round me, and 
 saw myself a vile, abject, guilty thing, without one 
 friend in the world to apply to. 
 
 “ Just in that interval a stage-coach happening 
 to pass by, I took a place, it being my only aim 
 to be driven at a distance from a wretch I despised 
 and detested. I was set down here, where, since 
 my arrival, my own anxiety and this woman’s 
 unkindness have been my only companions. The 
 hours of pleasure that I have passed with my 
 mamma and sister, now grow painful to me. 
 Their sorrows are much ; but mine are greater 
 than theirs; for mine are mixed w»th guilt and 
 infamy.” 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 155 
 
 “ Have patience, my child/’ cried I, “ and I 
 hope things will yet be better. Take some repose 
 to-night, and to-morrow I ’ll carry you home to 
 your mother and the rest of the family, from 
 whom you will receive a kind reception. Poor 
 woman ! this has gone to her heart : but she loves 
 you still, Olivia, and will forget it.” 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Offences are easily pardoned where there 
 is Love at bottom. 
 
 HE next morning I took my daughter 
 behind me, and set out on my return 
 home. As we travelled along, I strove 
 by every persuasion to calm her sor- 
 rows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to 
 bear the presence of her offended mother. I took 
 every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine 
 country, through which we passed, to observe how 
 much kinder Heaven was to us, than we to each 
 other, and that the misfortunes of nature’s mak- 
 ing w r ere 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 ths censures of the w r orld, 
 showed her that books were sweet unreproaching 
 companions to the miserable, and that if they 
 could not bring us to enjoy life, they would at 
 least teach us to endure it. 
 
 The hired horse that we rode was to be put up 
 that night at an inn by the way, within about five 
 miles from my house, and as I was willing to pre- 
 pare my family for my daughter’s reception, I de- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 J 57 
 
 termined to leave her that night at the inn, and to 
 return for her, accompanied by my daughter So- 
 phia, 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 re- 
 freshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards 
 home. And now my heart caught new sensations 
 of pleasure the nearer I approached that peace- 
 ful mansion. As a bird that had been frighted 
 from its nest, my affections outwent my haste, and 
 hovered round my little fireside with all the rap- 
 ture 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- 
 mouthed wateh-dog at hollow distance. I ap- 
 proached my abode of pleasure, and before I was 
 within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff 
 came running to welcome me. 
 
 It was now near midnight that I came to knock 
 at my door : all was still and silent : my heart 
 dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my 
 amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a 
 blaze of fire, and every aperture red with confla- 
 gration ! 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 
 
I 5 S THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 with apprehension, recalled me to life with ' their 
 anguish. But it was only to objects of new ter- 
 ror ; 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 misery ! “ 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 con- 
 fined; “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 snatch- 
 ing 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. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 1 59 
 
 It was therefore out of my power to give my son 
 any assistance, either in attempting to save our 
 goods, or preventing the flames spreading to our 
 corn. By this time the neighbors were alarmed, 
 and came running to our assistance ; but all they 
 could do was to stand, like us, spectators of the ca- 
 lamity. My goods, among which were the notes I 
 had reserved for my daughters’ fortunes, were en- 
 tirely 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 contrib- 
 uted, however, what they could to lighten our dis- 
 tress. They brought us clothes, and furnished one 
 of our out-houses with kitchen utensils ; so that 
 by daylight 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, cu- 
 riosity to know the cause of my long stay began 
 to take place : having therefore informed them of 
 every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for 
 the reception of our lost one. and though we had 
 nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was 
 willing to procure her a 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 poignant afflictions. 
 Being unable to go for my poor child myself, as 
 my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and 
 daughter, who soon returned, supporting the 
 
1 60 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 wretched delinquent, who had not the courage to 
 look up at her mother, whom no instructions of 
 mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation ; 
 for women have a much stronger sense of female 
 error than men. “ Ah, madam/’ cried her moth- 
 er, “ 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 suf- 
 fered very much of late ; but I hope Heaven will 
 forgive you.” During this reception the unhappy 
 victim stood pale and trembling, unable to weep 
 or to reply ; but I could not continue a silent 
 spectator of her distress, wherefore, assuming a de- 
 gree of severity in my voice and manner, which 
 was ever followed with instant submission, — “ I en- 
 treat, woman, that my words may be now marked 
 once for all : I have here brought you back a poor 
 deluded wanderer ; her return to duty demands 
 the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships 
 of life are now coming fast upon us, let us not 
 therefore increase them by dissension among each 
 other. If we live harmoniously together we may 
 yet be contented, as there are enough of us to shut 
 out the censuring world and keep each other in 
 countenance. The kindness of Heaven is prom- 
 ised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by 
 the example. Heaven, we are assured, is much 
 more pleased to view a repentant sinner than 
 ninety-nine persons who have supported a course 
 of undeviating rectitude. And this is right : for 
 that single effort by which we stop short in the 
 down-hill path to perdition, is itself a greater ex- 
 ertion of virtue than an hundred acts of justice.” 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 None but the Guilty can be long and com- 
 pletely MISERABLE. 
 
 OME assiduity was now required to 
 make our present abode as convenient 
 as possible, and we were soon again 
 qualified to enjoy our former serenity. 
 Being disabled myself from assisting my son in 
 our usual occupations, I read to my family from 
 the few books that were saved, and particularly 
 from such as, by amusing the imagination, con- 
 tributed to ease the heart. Our good neighbors 
 too came every day with the kindest condolence, 
 and fixed a time in which they were all to assist 
 at repairing my former dwelling. Honest Earmer 
 Williams was not last among these visitors ; but 
 heartily offered his friendship. He would even 
 have renewed his addresses to my daughter ; but 
 she rejected him in such a manner as totally re- 
 pressed his future solicitations. Her grief seemed 
 formed for continuing, and she was the only person 
 of our little society that a week did not restore to 
 cheerfulness. She now lost that unblushing inno- 
 cence which once taught her to respect herself, and 
 to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had 
 taken strong possession of her mind, her beauty 
 
1 62 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 began to be impaired with her constitution, 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/ 5 I would say, “ is in 
 the power of One who can bring it about in a thou- 
 sand unforeseen ways that mock our foresight. If 
 example be necessary to prove this, I hi give you 
 a story, my child, told us by a grave, though some- 
 times a romancing, historian. 
 
 “ Matilda was married very young to a Neapol- 
 itan nobleman of the first quality and found her- 
 self 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 dif- 
 ficulty escaped to the opposite shore, just when 
 some French soldiers w^ere plundering the country 
 on that side, who immediately made her their 
 prisoner. 
 
 “ As the war was then carried on between the 
 French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 163 
 
 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 ut- 
 most 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. Thev were married : he rose to the 
 highest posts ; they lived long together and were 
 happy. But the felicity of a soldier can never be 
 called permanent : after an interval of several 
 years, the troops which he commanded having met 
 with a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in 
 the city where he had lived with his wife. Here 
 they suffered a siege, and the city at length was 
 taken. Few histories can produce more various 
 instances of cruelty, than those which the French 
 and Italians at that time exercised upon each 
 other. It was resolved by the victors, upon this 
 occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ; 
 but particularly the husband of the unfortunate 
 Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in pro- 
 tracting the siege. Their determinations were in 
 general executed almost as soon as resolved upon. 
 The captive soldier was led forth, and the execu- 
 tioner with his sword stood ready, while the spec- 
 tators in gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, 
 which was only suspended till the general, who pre- 
 sided as judge, should give the signal. It was in 
 this interval of anguish and expectation, that Ma- 
 tilda came to take her last farewell of her husband 
 and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, 
 and the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from 
 perishing by a premature death in the river Yol- 
 
1 64 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 \ 
 
 turna, to be the spectator of still greater calamities. 
 The general, who was a young man, was struck 
 with surprise at her beauty, and pity at her distress ; 
 but with still stronger emotions when he heard her 
 mention her former dangers. He was her son, 
 the infant for whom she had encountered so much 
 danger. He acknowledged her at once as his 
 mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be 
 easily supposed : the captive was set free, and all 
 the happiness that love, friendship, and duty could 
 confer on each, were united.” 
 
 In this manner I would attempt to amuse my 
 daughter ; but she listened with divided attention : 
 for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she 
 once had for those of another, and nothing gave 
 her ease. In company she dreaded contempt ; and 
 in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the 
 color of her wretchedness, when we received cer- 
 tain 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, how- 
 ever, to get more certain information, and to de- 
 feat if possible the completion of his designs, by 
 sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot’s, with instruc- 
 tions to know the truth of the report, and to deliver 
 Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. ThornhiU’s 
 conduct in my family. My son went, in pursu- 
 ance of my directions, and in three days returned, 
 assuring us of the truth of the account ; but that 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 165 
 
 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 attended by six young ladies, and he by 
 as many gentlemen. Their approaching nuptials 
 filled the whole country with rejoicing, and they 
 usually rode out together in the grandest equipage 
 that had been seen in the country for many years. 
 All the friends of both families, he said, were there, 
 particularly the Squire’s uncle, Sir William Thorn- 
 hill, 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 mouldering walls and humid floor; my 
 Avretched body thus disabled by fire, and my chil- 
 dren 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. O, 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 splendor of the worthless. Almost all men 
 have been taught to call life a passage, and them- 
 
1 66 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 selves the travellers. The similitude still may be 
 improved when we observe that the good are joyful 
 and serene, like travellers that are going towards 
 home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like 
 travellers that are going into exile.” 
 
 My compassion for my poor daughter, over- 
 powered by this new disaster, interrupted what I 
 had farther to observe. I bade her mother support 
 her, and after a short time she recovered. She ap- 
 peared 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, charitably sent us by my kind parish- 
 ioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness amongst 
 the rest of the family, nor was I displeased at see- 
 ing them once more sprightly and at ease. It 
 would have been unjust to damp their satisfactions, 
 merelv to condole with resolute melancholv, or to 
 burthen them with a sadness they did not feel. 
 Thus once more the tale went round, and the song 
 was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended 'to 
 hover round our little habitation. 
 
CHAPTER XX I Y. 
 
 Fresh Calamities. 
 
 HE next morning the sun arose with pe- 
 culiar warmth for the season ; so that 
 we agreed to breakfast together on the 
 honeysuckle bank : where, while we sat, 
 my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her 
 voice to the concert on the trees about us. It was 
 in this place my poor Olivia first met her seducer, 
 and every object served to recall her sadness. But 
 that melancholy which is excited by objects of 
 pleasure, or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes 
 the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too, 
 upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, 
 and loved her daughter as before. “ Do, my pretty 
 Olivia,” cried she, “ let us have that little melan- 
 choly 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 man- 
 ner so exquisitely pathetic, as moved me. 
 
 / 
 
 When lovely Woman stoops to folly, 
 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 
 A ud wring his bosom — is to die. 
 
1 68 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 As she was concluding the last stanza, to which 
 an interruption in her voice fVom sorrow gave pe- 
 culiar softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill’s 
 equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particu- 
 larly increased the uneasiness of my eldest daugh- 
 ter, who, desirous of shunning her betrayer, re- 
 turned to the house with her sister. In a few min- 
 utes he was alighted from his chariot, and making 
 up to the place where I was still sitting, inquired 
 after my health with his usual air of familiarity. 
 “ Sir,” replied I, “ your present assurance only 
 serves to aggravate the baseness of your character ; 
 and there was a time when I would have chastised 
 your insolence, for presuming thus to appear be- 
 fore me. But now you are safe ; for age has cooled 
 my passions, and my calling restrains them.” 
 
 “ I vow, my dear Sir,” returned he, “ I am 
 amazed at all this ; nor can I understand what it 
 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 piti- 
 ful wretch, and every way a liar; but your mean- 
 ness secures you from my anger. Yet, Sir, I am 
 descended from a family that would not have borne 
 this ! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momen- 
 tary passion, thou hast made one poor creature 
 wretched for life, and polluted a family that had 
 nothing but honor for their portion.” 
 
 “ If she or you,” returned he, “ are resolved to 
 be miserable, I cannot help it. But you may still 
 be happy ; and whatever opinion you may have 
 formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to con- 
 tribute to it. We can marry her to another in a 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 169 
 
 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 de- 
 grading proposal ; for though the mind may often 
 be calm under great injuries, little villany can at 
 any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. 
 — “ Avoid my sight, thou reptile,” cried I, “ nor 
 continue to insult me with thy presence. Were 
 my brave son at home, he would not suffer this ; 
 but I am old and disabled, and every way un- 
 done.” 
 
 “ I find,” cried he, “ you are bent upon obliging 
 me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. 
 But as I have shown you what may be hoped from 
 my friendship, it may .not be improper to repre- 
 sent what may be the consequences of my resent- 
 ment. My attorney, to whom your late bond has 
 been transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know 
 how to prevent the course of justice, except by 
 paying the money myself, which, as I have been 
 at some expenses lately, previous to my intended 
 marriage, is not so easy to be done. And then 
 my steward talks of “ driving ” for the rent : it is 
 certain he knows his duty ; for I never trouble my- 
 self 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 daugh- 
 ter, that I never will consent to ; and though your 
 
i 7 o THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 friendship could raise me to a throne, or your re- 
 sentment sink me to the grave, yet would I despise 
 both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably de- 
 ceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honor, 
 and have found its baseness. Never more, there- 
 fore, expect friendship from me. Go, and possess 
 what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, 
 and pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, 
 disease, and sorrow. Yet humbled as I am, shall 
 my heart still vindicate its dignity, and though 
 thou hast my forgiveness thou shalt ever have my 
 contempt.” 
 
 “ If so,” returned he, “ depend upon it you 
 shall feel the 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 inter- 
 view, 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. 
 
 We soon, however, found that he had not threat- 
 ened in vain ; for the very next morning his stew- 
 ard 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 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 I 7 I 
 
 their value. My wife and children now therefore 
 entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather than 
 incur certain destruction. They even begged of 
 me to admit his visits once more, and used all their 
 little eloquence to paint the calamities I was 
 going to endure ; — the terrors of a prison in so 
 rigorous a season as the present, with the danger 
 that threatened my health from the late accident 
 that happened by the tire. But I continued in- 
 flexible. 
 
 “ 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 con- 
 tinually 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 he knew to be officers 
 of justice, were making towards the house. 
 
 Just as he spoke they came in, and, approaching 
 the bed where I lay, after previously informing me 
 
172 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 of their employment and business, made me their 
 prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to 
 the county gaol, which was eleven miles off. 
 
 “ My friends,” said I, “ this is severe weather 
 on which you have come to take me to a prison ; 
 and it is particularly unfortunate at this time, as 
 one of my arms has lately been burnt in a ter- 
 rible 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 leav- 
 ing this place. I entreated them to be expedi- 
 tious, and desired my son to assist his eldest sister, 
 who, from a consciousness that she was the cause 
 of all our calamities, was fallen, and had lost an- 
 guish in insensibility. I encouraged my wife, who, 
 pale and trembling, clasped our affrighted little 
 ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in 
 silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. 
 In the mean time my youngest daughter prepared 
 for our departure, and as she received several 
 hints to use dispatch, 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. 
 
 E set forward from this peaceful neigh- 
 borhood, and walked on slowly. My 
 eldest daughter being enfeebled by a 
 slow fever, which had begun for some 
 days to undermine her constitution, one of the 
 officers, who had an horse, kindly took her 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, consisting of about fifty of my 
 poorest parishioners. These, with dreadful im- 
 precations, soon seized upon the two officers of 
 justice, and swearing they would never see their 
 minister go to a gaol while they had a drop of 
 blood to shed in his defence, were going to use them 
 with great severity. The consequence might have 
 been fatal, had I not immediately interposed, and 
 with some difficulty rescued the officers from the 
 
 
 \ 
 
i 7 4 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 hands of the enraged multitude. My children, 
 who looked upon my delivery now as certain, 
 appeared transported with joy, and were incapable 
 of containing their raptures. But they were soon 
 undeceived, upon hearing me address the poor 
 deluded people, who came, as they imagined, to 
 do me service. 
 
 “ What ! my friends,” cried I, “ and is this the 
 way you love me ? Is this the manner you obey 
 the instructions I have given you from the pulpit ? 
 Thus to fly in the face of justice, and bring down 
 ruin on yourselves and me ? Which is your ring- 
 leader ? Show me the man that has thus seduced 
 you. As sure as he lives he shall feel my resent- 
 ment. 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 com- 
 fort 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 meet- 
 ing 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 superiority but the gaol. 
 
 Upon entering we put up at an inn, where we 
 had such refreshments as could most readily be 
 procured, and 1 supped with my family with my 
 usual cheerfulness. After seeing them properly 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 *75 
 
 accommodated for that 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 apartment, strongly grated and paved 
 with stone, common to both felons and debtors at 
 certain hours in the four-and-twenty. Beside this, 
 every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was 
 locked in for the night. 
 
 I expected upon my entrance to find nothing 
 hut lamentations and various sounds of misery ; 
 but it was very different. The prisoners seemed 
 all employed in one common design, that of for- 
 getting 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 money I had was 
 very near being all exhausted. This was imme- 
 diately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison 
 soon was filled with riot, laughter, and profane- 
 ness. 
 
 “ 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 cheer- 
 ful ; but cheerfulness was never yet produced by 
 effort, which is itself painful. \ As I was sitting 
 therefore in a corner of the gaol in a pensive pos- 
 ture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sit- 
 ting by me, entered into conversation. It was my 
 constant rule in life never to avoid the conversa- 
 tion of any man who seemed to desire it ; for if 
 good I might profit by his instruction ; if bad he 
 might be assisted by mine. I found this to be a 
 
176 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 knowing man, of strong unlettered sense ; but a 
 thorough knowledge of the world, as it is called, 
 or, more properly speaking, of human nature on 
 the wrong side. He asked me if I had taken care 
 to provide myself with a bed, which was a circum- 
 stance I had never once attended to. 
 
 “ That ’s unfortunate,” cried he, “ as you are 
 allowed here nothing but straw, and your apart- 
 ment is very large and cold. However, you seem 
 to be something of a gentleman, and, as I have 
 been one myself in my time, part of my bed- 
 clothes are heartily at your service.” 
 
 I thanked him, professing my surprise at find- 
 ing such humanity in a gaol, in misfortunes ; ad- 
 ding, 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 Jcosmon 
 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 fel- 
 low-prisoner : “ the world is in its dotage, and 
 yet the cosmogony or creation of the world has 
 puzzled the philosophers of every age. What a 
 medley of opinions have they not broached upon the 
 creation of the world. Sanchoniathon, Manetho, 
 Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus have all attempted 
 it in vain. The latter has these words, Anarchon 
 ara kai atelutaion to pan, which implies — ” a I ask 
 pardon, Sir,” cried I, for interrupting so much 
 learning; but I think I have heard all this before. 
 Have I not had the pleasure of once seeing you at 
 Welbridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim 
 Jenkinson ? ” At this demand he only sighed. 
 “ I suppose you must recollect,” resumed I, “ one 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 177 
 
 Doctor Primrose, from whom you bought a 
 horse ? ” 
 
 He now at once recollected me ; for the gloom- 
 iness of the place and the approaching night had 
 prevented his distinguishing my features before. — 
 “ Yes, Sir,” returned Mr. Jenkinson, “ I remember 
 you perfectly well ; I bought a 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,” 
 continued he, showing his shackles, “ what my 
 tricks have brought me to.” 
 
 “ Well, Sir,” replied I, “your kindness in offer- 
 ing me assistance when you could expect no re- 
 turn, 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 bed-clothes to-night, and I ’ll take care to 
 stand your friend in the prison, where I think I 
 have some influence.” 
 
 I thanked him., and could not avoid being sur- 
 prised at the present youthful change in his as- 
 pect ; for at the time I had seen him before he 
 appeared at least sixty. — “ Sir,” answered he, 
 “ you are little acquainted with the world ; I had 
 at that time false hair, and have learnt the art of 
 12 
 
>1 
 
 1 78 the VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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. f 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 conversa- 
 tion by the arrival of the gaoler’s servants, who 
 came to call over the prisoners’ names, and lock 
 up for the night. A fellow also with a bundle of 
 straw for my bed attended, who led me along a 
 dark narrow passage into a room paved like the 
 common prison, and in one corner of this I spread 
 my bed, and the clothes given me by my fellow- 
 prisoner ; which done, my conductor, who was civil 
 enough, bade me a good night. After my usual 
 meditations, and having praised my heavenly cor- 
 rector, I laid myself down and slept with the ut- 
 most tranquillity till morning. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 A Reformation in the Gaol. — To make Laws 
 
 COMPLETE THEY SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS 
 PUNISH. 
 
 HE 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, as- 
 suring them I had never slept with greater tran- 
 quillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter, 
 who was not among them. They informed me 
 that yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had in- 
 creased 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 apart- 
 ment, which was hired at a small expense for his 
 mother and sisters, the gaoler with humanity con- 
 senting to let him and his two little brothers lie in 
 the prison with me. A bed was therefore pre- 
 pared for them in a corner of the room, which I 
 thought answered very conveniently. I was wil- 
 ling, however, previously to know whether my little 
 children chose to lie in a place which seemed to 
 fright them upon entrance. 
 
 / 
 
i8o THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 “ 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 do. My daughter was particularly 
 directed to watch her declining sister’s health ; my 
 wife was to attend me ; my little boys were to read 
 to me: “And as for you, my son,” continued I, 
 “ it is by the labor of your hands we must all hope 
 to be supported. Your wages as a day-laborer will 
 be fully sufficient, with proper frugality, to main- 
 tain us all, and comfortably too. Thou art now 
 sixteen years old, and hast strength, and it was 
 given thee, my son, for very useful purposes ; for 
 it must save from famine your helpless parents and 
 family. Prepare then this evening to look out for 
 work against to-morrow, and bring home every 
 night what money you earn, for our support.” 
 Having thus instructed him and settled the rest, 
 I walked down to the common prison, where I 
 could enjoy more air and room. But I was not 
 long there when the execrations, lewdness, and 
 brutality that invaded me on every side, drove me 
 back to my apartment again. Here I sat for some 
 time, pondering 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 compas- 
 sion, and blotted my own uneasiness from my 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 181 
 
 nind. It even appeared a duty incumbent upon 
 me to attempt to reclaim them. I resolved there- 
 fore once more to return, and, in spite of their con- 
 tempt, to give them my advice, and conquer them 
 by perseverance. 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 de- 
 rived from ridicule or debauchery. 
 
 I therefore read them a portion of the service 
 with a loud unaffected voice, and found my audi- 
 ence perfectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd 
 whispers, groans of contrition burlesqued, winking 
 and coughing, alternately excited laughter. How- 
 ever, I continued with my natural solemnity to read 
 on, sensible that what I did might mend some, but 
 could itself receive no contamination from any. 
 
 After reading I entered upon my exhortation, 
 which was rather calculated at first to amuse them 
 than to reprove. I previously observed, that no 
 other motive but their welfare could induce me to 
 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 noth- 
 ing by it, but might lose a great deal : “ For, be 
 assured, my friends,” cried I, “ for yon 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 
 
1 82 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 the greatest who, 
 after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for 
 protection. And yet how are you more wise ? 
 You are all seeking comfort from one that has 
 already .betrayed you, applying to a more mali- 
 cious 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 compli- 
 ments 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 ac- 
 quaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my 
 lecture next day, and actually conceived some hopes 
 of making 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 pleas- 
 ure, as he was kind enough to express it, of my 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 183 
 
 conversation. He had not yet seen my family ; 
 for as they came to my apartment by a door in the 
 narrow passage already described, by this means 
 they avoided the common prison. Jenkinson, at 
 the first interview therefore, seemed not a little 
 struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, 
 which her pensive air 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 heav- 
 en 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 dun- 
 geon seem a palace. There is but one way in this 
 life of wounding my happiness, and that is by in- 
 juring them.” 
 
 “ I am afraid then, sir,” cried he, “ that I am 
 in some measure culpable ; for I think I see here,” 
 looking at my son Moses, “ one that I have in- 
 jured, and by whom I wish to be forgiven.” 
 
 My son immediately recollected his voice and 
 features, though he had before seen him in dis- 
 guise, 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 
 
1 84 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 your face, but your white stockings and the black 
 ribbon in your hair, that allured me. But, no dis- 
 paragement to your parts, I have deceived wiser 
 men than you in my time; and yet, with all my 
 tricks, the blockheads have been too many for me 
 at last.” 
 
 “ I suppose,” cried my son, “ that the narrative 
 of such a life as yours must be extremely instruc- 
 tive and amusing.” 
 
 “ Not much of either,” returned Mr. Jenkinson. 
 “ Those relations which describe the tricks and 
 vices only of mankind, by increasing our suspi- 
 cion in life retard our success. The traveller that 
 distrusts every person he meets, and turns back up- 
 on the appearance of every man that looks like a 
 robber, seldom arrives in time at his journey’s 
 end. 
 
 “ Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that 
 the knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. 
 I was thought cunning from my very childhood ; 
 when but seven years old the ladies would say that 
 I was a perfect little man ; at fourteen I knew the 
 world, cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at 
 twenty, though I was perfectly honest, yet every 
 one thought me so cunning that not one would 
 trust me. Thus I was at last obliged to turn 
 sharper in my own defence, and have lived ever 
 since, my head throbbing with schemes to deceive, 
 and my heart palpitating with fears of detection. 
 I used often to laugh at your honest simple neigh- 
 bor Flamborough, and one way or another gener- 
 ally cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest 
 man went forward without suspicion, and grew 
 rich, while I still continued tricksy and cunning, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 185 
 
 and was poor, without the consolation of being 
 honest. However,” continued he, “ let me know 
 your case, and what has brought you here ; per- 
 haps, though I have not skill to avoid a gaol my- 
 self, I may extricate my friends.” 
 
 In compliance with this 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 min- 
 utes, he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit upon 
 something material, and took his leave, saying, he, 
 would try what could be done. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 The same Subject continued. 
 
 HE next morning I communicated to 
 my wife and children the scheme I had 
 planned of reforming the prisoners, 
 which they received with universal dis- 
 approbation, alleging the impossibility and impro- 
 priety of it ; adding, that my endeavors would no 
 way contribute to their amendment, but might 
 probably disgrace my calling. 
 
 “ Excuse me,” returned I, “ these people, how- 
 ever fallen, are still men, and that is a very good 
 title to my affections. Good counsel rejected re- 
 turns to enrich the giver’s bosom ; and though the 
 instruction I communicate may not mend them, 
 yet it will assuredly mend myself. If these 
 wretches, my children, were princes, there would 
 be thousands ready to offer their ministry ; but 
 in my opinion, the heart that is buried in a dun- 
 geon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. 
 Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them I will ; per- 
 haps 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 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 187 
 
 common prison, where I found the prisoners very 
 merry, expecting my arrival ; and each prepared 
 with some gaol trick to play upon the doctor. 
 Thus, as I was going to begin, one turned my wig 
 awry, as if by accident, and then asked my par- 
 don. A second, who stood at some distance, 
 had a knack of spitting through his teeth, which 
 fell in showers upon my book. A third would cry 
 amen in such an affected tone, as gave the rest 
 great delight. A fourth had slyly picked my 
 pocket of my spectacles. But there was one 
 whose trick gave more universal pleasure than all 
 the rest ; for, observing the manner in which I 
 had disposed my books on the table before me, he 
 very dexterously displaced one of them, and put 
 an obscene jest-book of his own in the place. 
 However, I took no notice of all that this mis- 
 chievous group of little beings could do, but went 
 on, perfectly sensible that what was ridiculous in 
 my attempt would excite mirth only the first or 
 second time, while what was serious would- be 
 permanent. My design succeeded, and in less 
 than six days some were penitent, and all atten- 
 tive. 
 
 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 services also, by 
 rendering their situation somewhat more comfort- 
 able. Their time had hitherto been divided be- 
 tween famine and excess, tumultuous riot and bit- 
 ter repining. Their only employment was quar- 
 relling among each other, playing at cribbage, and 
 cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this last mode 
 
1 88 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 of idle industry I took the hint of setting such as 
 chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists and 
 shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a 
 general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold 
 by my appointment ; so that each earned some- 
 thing every day ; a trifle indeed, but sufficient to 
 maintain him. 
 
 I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the 
 punishment of immorality, and rewards for pecu- 
 liar industry. Thus, in less than a fortnight, I 
 had formed them into something social and hu- 
 mane, 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 reforma- 
 tion than severity. That it would seem convinced 
 that the work of eradicating crimes is not by mak- 
 ing punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, 
 instead of our present prisons, which find or make 
 men guilty, which enclose wretches for the com- 
 mission of one crime, and return them, if returned 
 alive, fitted for the perpetration of thousands ; we 
 should see, as in other parts of Europe, places of 
 penitence and solitude, where the accused might be 
 attended by such as could give them repentance if 
 guilty, or new motives to virtue if innocent. And 
 this, but not the increasing punishments, is the 
 way to mend a state ; nor can I avoid even ques- 
 tioning the validity of that right, which social 
 combinations have assumed, of capitally punishing 
 offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder 
 their right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, 
 from the law of self-defence, to cut off that man 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 189 
 
 who has shown a disregard for the life of another. 
 Against such, all nature rises in arms ; but it is 
 not so against him who steals my property. 
 Natural law gives me no right to take away his 
 life, as by that the horse he steals is as much his 
 property as mine. If, then, I have any right, it 
 must be from a compact made between us, that he 
 who deprives the other of his horse shall die. But 
 this is a false compact ; because no man has a 
 right to barter his life, any more than to take it 
 away, as it is not his own. And besides, the 
 compact is inadequate, and would be set aside 
 even in a court of modern equity, as there is a 
 great penalty for a very trifling convenience, since 
 it is far better that two men should live than that 
 one man should ride. But a compact that is false 
 between two men, is equally so between an hun- 
 dred, or an hundred thousand ; for as ten millions 
 of circles can never make a square, so the united 
 voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest founda- 
 tion to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, 
 and untutored nature says the same thing. Sav- 
 ages that are directed by natural law alone, are 
 very tender of the lives of each other ; they seldom 
 shed blood but to retaliate former cruelty. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in 
 war, had but few executions in times of peace ; 
 and in all commencing governments, 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 
 
i 9 d THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 age ; and, as if our property were become dearer 
 in proportion as it increased, as if the more enor- 
 mous 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 dissimilar degrees of guilt, from perceiv- 
 ing 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 ven- 
 geance, it were to be wished that we tried the 
 restrictive arts of government, and made law the 
 protector, hut not the tyrant of the people. We 
 should then find that creatures, whose souls are 
 held as dross, only wanted the hand of a refiner ; 
 we should then find that creatures, now stuck up 
 for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a mo- 
 mentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to 
 sinew the state in times of danger; that, as their 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. i 9 i 
 
 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 with- 
 out dying for it ; and that very little blood will 
 serve to cement our security. 
 
CHAPTER XX Y III. 
 
 Happiness and Misery rather the result of 
 Prudence than of Virtue in this Life. — 
 Temporal Evils or Felicities being re- 
 garded by Heaven as Things merely in 
 themselves trifling, and unworthy its 
 Care in the distribution. 
 
 HAD now been confined more than a 
 fortnight, but had not since my arrival 
 been visited by dear Olivia, and I 
 greatly longed to see her. Having 
 communicated my wishes to my wife, the next 
 morning the poor girl entered my apartment lean- 
 ing on her sister’s arm. The change which I saw 
 in her countenance struck me. The numberless 
 graces that once resided there were now fled, and 
 the hand of death seemed to have moulded every 
 feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, 
 her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat 
 upon her cheek. 
 
 “ I am glad to see thee, my dear,” cried I ; 
 “ but why this dejection, Livy? I hope, my love, 
 you have too great a regard for me to permit dis- 
 appointment 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 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 J 93 
 
 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, in- 
 duce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in 
 dying.” 
 
 “ Never, child,” replied I, “ never will I be 
 brought to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute ; 
 for though the world may look upon your offence 
 with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark 
 of credulity, not of guilt. My dear, I am no 
 way 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 marrying 
 another.” 
 
 After the departure of my daughter, my fellow- 
 prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly 
 enough expostulated upon my obstinacy, in refus- 
 ing a submission, which promised to give me free- 
 dom. 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. “ Be- 
 side,” added he, “I don’t know if it be just thus 
 to obstruct the union of man and wife, which you 
 do at present, by refusing to consent to a match 
 you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy.” 
 
 “ Sir,” replied I, “ you are unacquainted with 
 the man that oppresses us. I am very sensible 
 that no submission I can make could procure me 
 liberty, even for an hour. I am told that even in 
 
 *3 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 194 
 
 this very room a debtor of his, no later than last 
 year, died for want. But though my submission 
 and approbation 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 daugh- 
 ter’s life was already too much wasted to keep me 
 long a prisoner. “ However,” continued he, 
 “ though you refuse to submit to the nephew, I 
 hope you have no objections to laying your case 
 before the uncle, who has the first character in the 
 kingdom for everything that is just and good. 
 I would advise you to send him a letter by the 
 post, intimating all his nephew's ill-usage, and my 
 life for it, that in three days you shall have an 
 answer.” 1 thanked him for the hint, and instantly 
 set about complying: but I wanted paper, and 
 unluckily all our money had been laid out that 
 morning in provisions : however, he supplied me. 
 
 For the three ensuing days I was in a state of 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 195 
 
 anxiety to know what reception my letter might 
 meet with ; hut in the mean time was frequently 
 solicited by my wife to submit to any conditions 
 rather than remain here, and every hour received 
 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 mv 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 in- 
 crease 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 was expir- 
 ing, 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 
 
196 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 2 ” cried the eldest, “ and why, then, 
 are you sorry for her 2 I wish I were an anjel, 
 out of this frightful place, if my papa were with me.” 
 — “ Yes,” added my youngest darling, “Heaven, 
 where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and 
 there are none but good people there, and the 
 people here are very bad.” 
 
 Mr. Jcnkinson interrupted their harmless prat- 
 tle by observing, that now my daughter was no 
 more, I should seriously think of the rest of my 
 family, and attempt to save my own life, which was 
 every day declining for want of necessaries and 
 wholesome air. He added, that it was now in- 
 cumbent on me to sacrifice any pride or resent- 
 ment of my own, to the welfare of those who de- 
 pended on me for support ; and that I was now, 
 both by reason and justice, obliged to try to recon- 
 cile 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 oppressor has been once 
 my parishioner, I hope one day to present him up 
 an unpolluted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, 
 Sir, I have no 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 mar- 
 riage, and if this submission can do him any pleas- 
 ure, let him know, that if I have done him any 
 injury, I am sorry for it.” 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 197 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote 
 down mv submission nearly as I have expressed it, 
 to which I signed my name. My son was em- 
 ployed 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 an- 
 swer. 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 con- 
 tinued to inform us, that he stepped up in the 
 lnimblest^manner and delivered the letter, which, 
 when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all sub- 
 mission 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, how- 
 ever, that as he had a very good opinion of 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 discover 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. I am now 
 drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as I 
 approach it ; this expectation cheers my afflictions, 
 and though I leave an helpless family of orphans 
 behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken ; 
 some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them 
 for the sake of their poor father, and some may 
 charitably relieve them for the sake of their Heav- 
 enly Father.” 
 
198 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 submis- 
 sions 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,” re- 
 turned 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 can- 
 not be ? ” 
 
 She could only answer with a fixed look and a 
 flood of tears. But one of the prisoner’s wives, 
 who was present, and came in with her, gave us a 
 more distinct account : she informed us that as my 
 my wife, my daughter, and herself were taking a 
 walk together on the great road a little way out of 
 the village, a post-chaise and pair drove up to 
 them, and instantly stopped. Upon which, a well 
 dressed man, but not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, 
 clasped my daughter round the waist, and forcing 
 her in, bid the postilion drive on, so that they 
 were out of sight in a moment. 
 
 “Now,” cried I, “the sum of my miseries is 
 made up, nor is it in the power of anything on 
 earth to give me another pang. What ! not one 
 left ! not to leave me one ! the monster ! The child 
 that was next my heart ! she had the beauty of an 
 angel, and almost the wisdom of an angel. But 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 199 
 
 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 chil- 
 dren, and all the world, if they leave me but you.” 
 
 My son, who was present, endeavored to mod- 
 erate our grief ; he bade us take comfort, for he 
 hoped that we might still have reason to be thank- 
 ful. — “ My child,” cried I, “ look round the world, 
 and see if there be any happiness left me now. Is 
 not every ray of comfort shut out ; while all our 
 bright prospects only lie beyond the grave ! ” — 
 “ My dear father,” returned he, “ I hope there is 
 still something that will give you an interval of 
 satisfaction, for I have a letter from my brother 
 George.” — “ What of him, child,” interrupted I, 
 does he know our misery ? I hope my boy is ex- 
 empt from any part of what his wretched family 
 suffers ? ” — “ Yes, Sir,” returned he ; “ he is per- 
 fectly 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, 
 “ are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my 
 boy ? ” — “ Nothing indeed, Madam,” returned my 
 son, “you shall see the letter, which will give you 
 the highest pleasure ; and if anything can procure 
 you comfort I am sure that will.” — “But are 
 you sure,” still repeated she, “ that the letter is 
 from himself, and that he is really so happy ? ” — 
 “ Yes, Madam,” replied he, “ it is certainly his, 
 
200 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 mis- 
 carried. — Yes, my dear/’ continued she, turning 
 to me, “ I will now confess, that though the hand 
 of Heaven is sore upon us in other instances, it 
 has been favorable here. By the last letter I 
 wrote my son, which was in the bitterness of an- 
 ger, I desired him, upon his mother’s blessing, and 
 if he had the heart of a man, to see justice done 
 his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But 
 thanks be to him that directs all tilings, 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 end- 
 less 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 com- 
 plain of being stripped of every comfort, when 
 still I hear that lie is happy and insensible of our 
 afflictions ; still kept in reserve to support his 
 widowed mother, and to protect his brothers and 
 sisters. But what sisters has he left, he has no 
 sisters now, they are all gone, robbed from me, 
 and I am undone! ” — “Father,” interrupted my 
 son, “ I beg you will give me leave to read this 
 letter, I know it will please you.” Upon which, 
 with my permission, he read as fallows : — 
 
 “ Honored Sir, — 
 
 “ I have called off my imagination a few mo- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 201 
 
 ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix 
 it upon objects that are still more pleasing, the 
 dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that 
 harmless group as listening to every line of this 
 with great composure. I view those faces with 
 delight, which never felt the deforming hand of 
 ambition or distress ! But whatever your happi- 
 ness 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 com- 
 panies where he is acquainted, and after my first 
 visit I generally find myself received with increased 
 respect upon repeating it. I danced last night 
 with Lady G — , and could I forget you know 
 whom, I might be perhaps successful. But it is 
 my fate still to remember others, while I am my- 
 self forgotten by most of my absent friends, and in 
 this number I fear, Sir, that I must consider y.ou ; 
 for I have long expected the pleasure of a letter 
 from home to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia, 
 too, promised to write, but seem to have forgotten 
 me. Tell them they are two arrant little bag- 
 gages, and that I am this moment in a most vio- 
 lent passion with them : yet still, I know not how, 
 though I want to bluster a little, my heart is re- 
 spondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, 
 Sir, that after all, I love them affectionately, and 
 be assured of my ever remaining 
 
 “ Your dutiful son.” 
 
 “ In all our miseries,” cried I, “ what thanks 
 
202 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 have we not to return, that one at least of our 
 family is exempted from what we suffer. Heaven 
 be his guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to be 
 the support of his widowed mother, and the father 
 of these two babes, which is all the patrimony I 
 can now bequeath him. May he keep their inno- 
 cence 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 tu- 
 mult 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 apart- 
 ment. 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 ? Wound- 
 ed ! Fettered ! Is this thy happiness ? Is this 
 the manner you return to me ? O 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. “O my boy, my heart weeps to be- 
 hold thee thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In 
 the moment that I thought thee blest, and prayed 
 for thy safety ; to behold thee thus again ! Chained, 
 wounded ! And yet, the death of the youthful is 
 happy. But I am old, a very old man, and have 
 lived to see this day. To see my children all 
 untimely falling about me, while I continue a 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 203 
 
 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 de- 
 scend to crush thy own gray head with destruction ! 
 No, Sir, let it be your care now to fit me for that 
 vile death I must shortly suffer, to arm me with 
 hope and resolution, to give me courage to drink 
 of that bitterness which must shortly be my por- 
 tion.” 
 
 “My child, you must not die: I am sure no 
 offence of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. 
 My George could never be guilty of any crime to 
 make his ancestors ashamed of him.” 
 
 “Mine, Sir,” returned my son, “is, I fear, an 
 unpardonable one. When I received my mother’s 
 letter from home, I immediately came down, de- 
 termined to punish the betrayer of our honor, and 
 sent him an order to meet me, which he answered 
 not in person, but by his dispatching 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 coward is deter- 
 mined to put the law in execution against me ; 
 the proofs are undeniable ; I have sent a challenge, 
 and as I am the first transgressor upon the statute, 
 I see no hopes of pardon. But you have often 
 charmed me with your lessons of fortitude, let me 
 now, Sir, find them in your example.” 
 
 “ And, my son, you shall find them. I am now 
 
204 TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 niggardly in our exhortation, but let all our 
 fellow-prisoners have a share; good gaoler, let 
 them be permitted to stand here while I attempt 
 to improve them.” Thus saying, I made an ef- 
 fort to rise from my straw, but wanted strength, 
 and was able only to recline against the wall. 
 The prisoners assembled themselves according to 
 my directions, for they loved to hear my counsel ; 
 my son and his mother supported me on either 
 side : I looked and saw that none were wanting, 
 and then addressed them with the following ex- 
 hortation. 
 
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 Sufferings in the Life hereafter. 
 
 Y friends, my children, and fellow- 
 sufferers, when I reflect on the dis- 
 tribution 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, wd" shall not find 
 one man so happy as to have nothing left to wish 
 for ; but we daily see thousands who by suicide 
 show us they have nothing left to hope. In this 
 life then it appears that we cannot be entirely blest, 
 but yet we may be completely miserable. 
 
 “ Why man should thus feel pain, why our 
 wretchedness should be requisite in the formation 
 of universal felicity ; why, when all other systems 
 are made perfect by the perfection of their subor- 
 dinate parts, the great system should require for 
 its perfection parts that are not only subordinate 
 to others, but imperfect in themselves ; these arc 
 questions that never can be explained, and might 
 be useless if known. On this subject Providence 
 
206 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied 
 with granting us motives to consolation. 
 
 “ In this situation, man has called in the friendly 
 assistance of philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the 
 incapacity of that to console him, has given him 
 the aid of religion. The consolations of philoso- 
 phy 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 he misery, and 
 if it be long our griefs are protracted. Thus phi- 
 losophy is weak ; but religion comforts in an higher 
 strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his 
 mind, and preparing it lor another abode. When 
 the good man leaves the body and is all a glorious 
 mind, he will find he has been making himself 
 a heaven of happiness here, while the wretch that 
 has been maimed and contaminated by his vices, 
 shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that 
 he has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To 
 religion then we must hold, in every circumstance 
 of life, for our truest 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 continuance of bliss, to the wretched a change 
 from pain. 
 
 “ But though religion is very kind to all men, 
 it has promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy ; 
 the sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 207 
 
 and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises 
 in our sacred law. The author of our religion 
 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 partiality, as a preference 
 without merit to deserve it. But they never re- 
 flect, 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 blessing, since at 
 most it but increases what they already possess. 
 To the latter it is a double advantage ; for it di- 
 minishes 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 pos- 
 sessions to regret, and but few ties to stop his de- 
 parture : 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 de- 
 gree of pain, every new breach that death opens in 
 the constitution, nature kindly covers with insensi- 
 bility. 
 
 “ Thus Providence has given the wretched two 
 advantages over the happy in this life, greater 
 felicity in dying, and in heaven all that superior- 
 ity of pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoy- 
 ment. And this superiority, my friends, is no 
 small advantage, and seems to be one of the pleas- 
 
208 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 ures of the poor man in the parable ; for though 
 he was already in heaven, and felt all the raptures 
 it could give, yet it was mentioned as an addition 
 to his happiness, that he had once been wretched, 
 and now was comforted ; that he had known what 
 it was to be miserable, and now felt what it was to 
 be happy. 
 
 “ Thus, my friends, you see religion does what 
 philosophy could never do : it shows the equal 
 dealings of Heaven to the happy and the unhappy, 
 and levels all human enjoyments to nearly the 
 same standard. It, gives to both rich and poor 
 the same happiness hereafter, and equal hopes to 
 aspire after it ; but if the rich have the advantage 
 of enjoying pleasure here, the poor have the end- 
 less satisfaction of knowing what it w r as once to be 
 miserable, when crowned with endless felicity here- 
 after ; and even though this Should be called a 
 small advantage, 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 
 thev are above the rest of mankind ; in other re- 
 spects they are below them. They who would 
 know the miseries of the poor, must see life and 
 endure it. To declaim on the temporal advan- 
 tages 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 re- 
 fined imagination can soothe the wants of nature, 
 can give elastic sweetness to the dank vapor of a 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 209 
 
 dungeon, or ease to the throbbings of a broken 
 heart. Let tbe philosopher from his couch of 
 softness tell us that we can resist all these. Alas ! 
 the effort by which we resist them is still the 
 greatest pain ! Death is slight, and any man may 
 sustain it ; but torments are dreadful, and these 
 no man can endure. 
 
 “ To us, then, my friends, the promises of happi- 
 ness 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, 0, my friends, what a glorious ex- 
 change would heaven be for these. To fly 
 through regions 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 having ; 
 when I think of these things, what is there that 
 should not be spurned away ! Kings in their pal- 
 aces should groan for such advantages; but we, 
 humbled as we are, should yearn for them. 1 
 
 “ And shall these things be ours ? Ours they 
 will certainly be if we but try for them ; and what 
 is a comfort, we are shut out from many tempta- 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 tions that would retard our pursuit. Only let us 
 try for them and they will certainly be ours, and 
 what is still a comfort, shortly too ; for if we look 
 back on a past life it appears but a very short 
 span, and whatever we may think of the rest of 
 life, it will yet be found of less duration ; as we 
 grow older the days seem to grow shorter, and our 
 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 burthen laid by Heaven upon 
 us ; and though death, the only friend of the 
 wretched, for a little while mocks the weary trav- 
 eller 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 luxuriant great ones of the world shall no 
 more tread us to the earth ; when we shall think 
 with pleasure on our suffei’ings 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.” 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 Happier Prospects begtn to appear. — Let us 
 
 BE INFLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST 
 CHANGE IN OUR FAVOR. 
 
 HEN I had thus finished, and my audi- 
 ence was retired, the gaoler, who was 
 one of the most humane of Ids profes- 
 sion, hoped I would not be displeased, 
 5 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 visit me 
 every morning. I thanked him for his clemency, 
 and grasping my boy’s hand bade him farewell, 
 and be mindful of the great duty that was before 
 him. 
 
 I again therefore laid me down, and one of my 
 little ones sat by my bedside reading, when Mr. 
 Jenkinson entering, informed me that there was 
 news of my daughter; for that she was seen by a 
 person about two hours before in a strange gentle- 
 man’s company, and that they had stopped at a 
 neighboring village for refreshment, and seemed 
 as if returning to town. He had scarcely delivered 
 this news, when the gaoler came with looks of haste 
 and pleasure to inform me that my daughter was 
 found. Moses came running in a moment after, 
 
 as what 
 
212 
 
 TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 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 pleas- 
 ure. — “ Here, papa,” cried the charming girl, 
 “ here is the brave man to whom I owe my deliv- 
 ery; to this gentleman’s intrepidity I am indebted 
 for my happiness and safety — ” A kiss from Mr. 
 Burchell, whose pleasure seemed even greater than 
 hers, interrupted what she was going to add. 
 
 “ Ah, Mr. Burchell ! ” cried I, “ this is but a 
 wretched habitation 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 discov- 
 ered our errors with regard to you, and repented 
 of our ingratitude. After the vile usage you then 
 received at my hands, I am almost ashamed to be- 
 hold your face ; yet I hope you ’ll forgive me, as I 
 was deceived by a base, ungenerous wretch, who, 
 under the mask of friendship has undone me.” 
 
 “ It is impossible,” cried Mr. Burchell, “ that I 
 should forgive you, as you never deserved my re- 
 sentment. 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 7 ” 
 
 ‘‘Indeed, sir,” replied she, “as to the villain 
 who carried me off, I am yet ignorant. Boras my 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 213 
 
 mamma 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 disre- 
 garded my entreaties. I11 the mean time the ruf- 
 fian 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 mean time I had broken the 
 canvas that he had drawn up, and whom should I 
 perceive at some distance but your old friend Mr. 
 Burchell, walking along with his usual swiftness, 
 with the great stick for which we used so much to 
 ridicule him. As soon as we came within hearing, 
 I called out to him by name and entreated his help. 
 I repeated my exclamation several times, upon 
 which, with a very loud voice, he bid the postilion 
 stop ; but the boy took no notice, but drove on 
 with still greater speed. I now thought he could 
 never overtake us, when, in less than a minute, I 
 saw Mr. Burchell come running up by the side of 
 the horses, and with one blow knock the postilion 
 to the ground. The horses, when he was fallen, 
 soon stopped of themselves, and the ruffian step- 
 ping out, with oaths and menaces drew his sword 
 and ordered him at his peril to retire ; but Mr. Bur- 
 chell, 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 
 mvself, 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 
 
214 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 again and drive back to town. Finding it impos- 
 sible 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. 
 BureheH’s compassion, who, at my request, ex- 
 changed 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 refusal, and, without the least reply to 
 my offer, he demanded if he could not be furnished 
 with refreshments from the next inn ; to which be- 
 ing answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 2I 5 
 
 send in the best dinner that could be provided upon 
 such short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of 
 their best wine, and some cordials for me. Adding, 
 with a smile, that he would stretch a little for once, 
 and though in a prison, asserted he was never bet- 
 ter disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made 
 his appearance, with preparations for dinner ; a ta- 
 ble was lent us by the gaoler, who seemed remark- 
 ably assiduous ; the wine was disposed in order, 
 and two very well-dressed dishes were brought in. 
 
 My daughter had not yet heard of her poor 
 brother’s melancholy situation, and we all seemed 
 unwilling to damp her cheerfulness by the relation. 
 But it was in vain that I attempted to appear cheer- 
 ful. The circumstances of my unfortunate son 
 broke through all efforts to dissemble ; so that I 
 was at last obliged to damp our mirth by relating 
 his misfortunes, and wishing that he might be per- 
 mitted to share with us in this little interval of sat- 
 isfaction. After my guests were recovered from the 
 consternation my account had produced, I requested 
 also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow-prisoner, might 
 be admitted, and the gaoler granted my request 
 with an air of unusual 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 mean time, asked 
 me if my son’s name was George, to which, reply- 
 ing in the affirmative, he still continued silent. 
 As soon as my boy entered the room I could per- 
 ceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of as- 
 tonishment and reverence. “ Come on,” cried I, 
 “ my son, though we are fallen very low, yet 
 Providence has been pleased to grant us some 
 
21 6 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 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 de- 
 serves 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 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 assumed 
 upon this occasion. The greatest object in the 
 universe, 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 timtf with a superior air, “ I again find,” 
 said he, “ unthinking boy, that the same crime — ” 
 But here he was interrupted by one of the gaol- 
 er’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 gentleman that was with us, and begged to 
 know when he should think proper to be waited 
 upon. “Bid the fellow wait,” cried our guest, 
 “ till I shall have leisure to receive him”; and 
 then turning to my son, “ I again find, Sir,” pro- 
 ceeded lie, “ that you are guilty of the same of- 
 fence, for which you once had my reproof, and for 
 which the law is now preparing its justest punish- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 217 
 
 merits. You imagine, perhaps, that a contempt 
 for your own life gives you a right to take that of 
 another : but where, Sir, is the difference between 
 a duellist, who hazards a life of no value, and the 
 murderer, who acts with greater security % Is it 
 any diminution of the gamester’s fraud, when he 
 alleges that he has staked a counter 1 " 
 
 “ Alas, Sir 1 " cried I, “ whoever you are, pity 
 the poor misguided creature ; for what he has 
 done was in obedience to a deluded mother, who, 
 in the bitterness of her resentment, required him, 
 upon her blessing, to avenge her quarrel. Here 
 Sir, is the letter which will serve to convince you 
 of her imprudence and diminish his guilt." 
 
 He took the letter and hastily read it over. 
 “ This," says he, “ though not a perfect excuse, 
 is such a palliation of his fault as induces me to 
 forgive him. And now, Sir," continued he, 
 kindly taking my son by the hand, “ I sec you 
 are surprised at finding me here ; but I have often 
 visited prisons upon occasions less interesting. 
 I am now come to see justice done a worthy man, 
 for whom I have £}ie most sincere esteem. I have 
 long been a disguised spectator of thy father’s 
 benevolence. I have at his little dwelling enjoyed 
 respect uncontaminated by flattery, and have re- 
 ceived that happiness that 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 be injury there shall be 
 redress ; and this I may say without boasting, 
 that none have ever taxed the injustice of Sir 
 William Thornhill." 
 
218 the VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 We now found the personage whom we had so 
 long entertained as an harmless amusing compan- 
 ion was no other than the celebrated Sir William 
 Thornhill, to whose virtues and singularities 
 scarce any were strangers. The poor Mr. Burch- 
 ell was in reality a man of large fortune and 
 great interest, to whom senates listened with ap- 
 plause, and whom party heard with conviction ; 
 who was the friend of his country, but loyal to 
 his king. My poor wife, recollecting her former 
 familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehension ; 
 but Sophia, who a few moments before thought 
 him her own, now perceiving the immense dis- 
 tance 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 foi- 
 giveness % 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, 1 fear can never be for- 
 given.” 
 
 “ 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 company 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 posi- 
 tive ; yet now I recollect he had a large mark over 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 219 
 
 one of his eyebrows.” — “I ask pardon, Madam,” 
 interrupted Jenkinson, who was by, “ but be so 
 good as to inform me if the fellow wore his own 
 red hair ? ” — “ Yes, I think so,” cried Sophia. — 
 “ And did your honor /'continued he, turning to 
 Sir William, “ observe the length of his legs ? ” — 
 “ I can ’t be sure of their length,” cried the Bar- 
 onet, “ hut I am convinced of their swiftness ; for 
 he outran me, which is what I thought few men in 
 the kingdom could have done. ” — “ Please vour 
 honor,” cried Jenkinson, “ I know the man ; 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 moment. If your 
 honor will bid Mr. Gaoler let two of his men go 
 with me, I ’ll engage to produce him to you in an 
 hour at farthest.” Upon this the gaoler was 
 called, who instantly appearing, Sir William de- 
 manded if he knew him. “ Yes, please your 
 honor,” replied the gaoler, “ I know Sir William 
 Thornhill well, and everybody that knows any- 
 thing of him will desire to know more of him.” — 
 “ Well, then,” said the Baronet, “ my request is, 
 that you will permit this man and two of your 
 servants to go upon a message by my authority, 
 and as I am in the commission of the peace, I 
 undertake to secure you.” — “ Your promise is 
 sufficent,” 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 gaoler’s compliance, Jenk- 
 inson was dispatched in search of Timothy Baxter, 
 while we were amused with the assiduity of our 
 
220 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 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 chas- 
 tise 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 sat 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 amusement, and 
 was more than moderately skilled in the profes- 
 sion : this being sent to an apothecary who lived 
 in the place, my arm was dressed, and I found 
 almost instantaneous relief. We were waited 
 upon at dinner by the gaoler himself, who was 
 willing to do our guest all the honor in his power. 
 But before we had well dined, another message 
 was brought from his nephew, desiring permission 
 to appear, in order to vindicate his innocence and 
 honor ; with which request the Baronet complied, 
 and desired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Former Benevolence now repaid with unex- 
 pected Interest. 
 
 R. THORNHILL made his appearance 
 with a smile, which he seldom wanted, 
 and was going to embrace his uncle, 
 which the other repulsed with an air of 
 disdain. “ No fawning, Sir, at present,” cried 
 the Baronet, with a look of severity, “ the only 
 way to my heart is by the road of 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 instructions alone have per- 
 suaded 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 
 
222 
 
 TEE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 thou — yes, you have acted in this instance per- 
 fectly right, and it has my warmest approbation. ” 
 “ And 1 hope,” said his nephew, “ that the 
 rest of my conduct will not be found to deserve 
 censure. I appeared, Sir, with this gentleman’s 
 daughter at some places of public amusement: 
 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 satisfaction, 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 un- 
 able to pay them, it is their business to proceed in 
 this manner, and I sec no hardship or injustice in 
 pursuing the most legal means of redress.” 
 
 “ If this,” cried Sir William, “ be as you have 
 stated it, there is nothing unpardonable in your 
 offence; and though your conduct might have 
 been more generous in not suffering this gentle- 
 man to be oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet 
 it has been at least equitable.” 
 
 “ He cannot contradict a single particular,” re- 
 plied the Squire, “ I defy him to do so, and seve- 
 ral of my servants are ready to attest what I say. 
 Thus, Sir,” continued he, finding 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 offence, yet his attempts to lessen me 
 in your esteem, excite a resentment that I cannot 
 govern. And this too at a time when his son was 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 223 
 
 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 vengeance 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 Jen- 
 kinson and the gaoler’s two servants now called 
 off our attention, who entered, hauling in a tall 
 man, very genteelly dressed, and answering the 
 description already given of the ruffian who had 
 carried off my daughter — “ Here,” cried Jenkin- 
 son, 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 pris- 
 oner, and Jenkinson who had him in custody, he 
 seemed to shrink back with terror. His face be- 
 came pale with conscious guilt, and he would have 
 withdrawn ; but Jenkinson, who perceived his de- 
 sign, stopped him. — “What, Squire,” cried he, 
 “are you ashamed of your two old acquaintances, 
 Jenkinson and Baxter 1 but this is the way that 
 
224 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 all great men forget their friends, though I am re- 
 solved we will not forget you. Our prisoner, 
 please your honor,' ” continued he, turning to Sir 
 William, “ has already confessed all. This is the 
 gentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded ; 
 he declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put 
 him upon this affair, that he gave him the clothes 
 he now wears to appear like a gentleman, and fur- 
 nished him with the post-chaise. The plan was 
 laid between them that he should carry off the 
 young lady to a place of safety, and that there he 
 should threaten and terrify her ; but Mr. Thorn- 
 hill was to come in in the mean time, as if by 
 accident, to her rescue, and that they should fight 
 a while, and then he was to run off, bv which Mr. 
 Thornhill would have the better opportunity of 
 gaining her affections himself, under the character 
 of her defen der.” 
 
 Sir William remembered the coat to have been 
 frequently worn by his nephew, and all the rest 
 the prisoner himself confirmed, by a more circum- 
 stantial account; concluding, that Mr. Thornhill 
 had often declared to him that he was in love with 
 both sisters at the same time. 
 
 “ Heavens ! ” cried Sir William, “what a viper 
 have I been fostering in mv bosom ! And so fond 
 of public justice too as he seemed to be. But he 
 shall have it; secure him, Mr. Gaoler — yet hold, 
 I fear there is not legal evidence to detain him.” 
 
 Upon this, Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost hu- 
 mility, entreated that two such abandoned wretches 
 might not be admitted as evidence against him, 
 but that his servants should be examined. — 
 “ Your servants ! ” replied Sir William, “ wretch, 
 
TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 225 
 
 call them vours 110 longer : but come, let 11s hear 
 what those fellows have to say, let his butler be 
 called. ” 
 
 When the butler was introduced, he soon per- 
 ceived by his former master’s looks that all his 
 power was now over. “ Tell me,” cried Sir 
 William, sternly, “ have you ever seen your master 
 and that fellow dressed up in his clothes in com- 
 pany together ? ” — “ Yes, please your honor,” 
 cried the butler, “ a thousand times : he was the 
 man that always brought him his ladies.” — 
 “ 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 daugh- 
 ter 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 asso- 
 ciate with such wretches. But,” continuing his 
 examination, “ you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this 
 was the person who brought him this old gentle- 
 man’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 can- 
 not deny it, that was the employment assigned me, 
 and I confess it to my confusion.” 
 
 15 
 
226 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 “ Good heavens ! ” exclaimed the Baronet, “ how 
 every new discovery of liis villainy alarms me. 
 All his guilt is now too plain, and I find his 
 prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, 
 and revenge. At my request, Mr. Gaoler, 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 appear- 
 ance but Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next 
 day to have been married to Mr. Thornhill. 
 Nothing could equal her surprise at seeing Sir 
 William and his nephew here before her ; for her 
 arrival was quite accidental. It happened that 
 she and the old gentleman her father were passing 
 through the town on their way to her aunt’s, who 
 had insisted that her nuptials with Mr. Thornhill 
 should be consummated at her house ; but stop- 
 ping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at the 
 other end of the town. It was there from the 
 window that the young lady happened to observe 
 one of my little boys playing in the street, and 
 instantly sending a footman to bring the child to 
 her, she learned from him some account of our 
 misfortunes; but was still kept ignorant of young 
 Mr. Thornhill’s being the cause. Though her 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 227 
 
 father made several remonstrances on the impro- 
 priety 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 juncture so unexpected. 
 
 Nor can I go on, without a reflection on those 
 accidental meetings, which, though they happen 
 every day, seldom excite our surprise but upon 
 some extraordinary occasion. To what a for- 
 tuitous occurrence do we not owe every pleasure 
 and convenience of our lives. How many seem- 
 ing 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 charming pupil, which was the name I gener- 
 ally 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 sup- 
 posed 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 pleasure in doing good 
 in secret.” 
 
 “ He find pleasure in doing good ! ” cried Sir 
 William, interrupting her. “ No, my dear, his 
 pleasures are as base as he is. You see in him, 
 madam, as complete a villain as ever disgraced hu- 
 
228 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 manity. A wretch, who after having* deluded this 
 poor man’s daughter, after plotting against the in- 
 nocence of her sister, has thrown the father into 
 prison, and the eldest son into fetters, because he 
 had courage to face his betrayer. And give me 
 leave, madam, now to congratulate you upon an 
 escape 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 nothing 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 anybod} r else ; and 
 I have heard him say he would die a bachelor for 
 your sake.” She then proceeded to expatiate 
 upon the sincerity of her son’s passion, she set his 
 duel with Mr. Thornhill in a proper light, from 
 thence she made a rapid digression to the Squire’s 
 debaucheries, his pretended marriages, and ended 
 with a most insulting picture of his cowardice. 
 
 “ Good heaven ! ” 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 thou- 
 sand falsehoods has this gentleman told me ! He 
 had at last art enough to persuade me that my prom- 
 ise to the only man I esteemed was no longer bind- 
 ing, since he had been unfaithful. Bv his falsehoods 
 I was taught to detest one equally brave and gener- 
 ous ! ” 
 
 But by this time my son was freed from the en- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 229 
 
 cumh ranees of justice, as the person supposed to he 
 wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr. 
 Jenkinson also, who had acted as his valet de charn- 
 bre, 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 regimentals, and, without vanity 
 (for I am above it), he appeared as handsome a 
 fellow as ever wore a military dress. As he en- 
 tered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant 
 bow, for he was not as yet acquainted with the 
 change which the eloquence of his mother had 
 wrought in his favor. But no decorums could 
 restrain the impatience of his blushing mistress to 
 be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all contributed 
 to discover the real sensations of her heart for hav- 
 ing forgotten her former promise, and having suf- 
 fered herself to be deluded by an impostor. My 
 son appeared amazed at her condescension, and 
 could scarce believe it real. — “ Sure, madam,” 
 cried he, “ this is but delusion ! I can never have 
 merited this ! To be blessed thus is to be too 
 happy.” — “ No, Sir,” replied she, “ I have been 
 deceived, basely deceived, else nothing could ever 
 have made me unjust to my promise. You know 
 my friendship, you have long known it ; but for- 
 get 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 Ara- 
 bella cannot be yours, she shall never be another’s.” 
 — “And no other’s you shall be,” cried Sir Wil- 
 liam, “ if I have any influence with your father.” 
 This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, wh^ 
 immediately flew to the inn where the old gentle- 
 
2 30 TIIE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 man was, to inform liim 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 
 dissimulation, concluded that his wisest way would 
 be to turn and face his pursuers. Thus laying 
 aside all shame, he appeared the open hardy vil- 
 lain. “ I find then,” cried he, “ that I am to ex- 
 pect 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 dependant, 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 per- 
 son, that induced me to wish for this match ; and 
 possessed of the one, let who will take the other.” 
 
 This was an alarming blow ; Sir William was 
 sensible of the justice of his claims, for he had been 
 instrumental in 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 the acceptance. And I 
 now protest, my Arabella, by all that’s hgppy, 
 your want of fortune this moment increases my 
 pleasure, as it serves to convince my sweet girl of 
 my sincerity.” 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 231 
 
 Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little 
 pleased at the danger his daughter had just escaped, 
 and readily consented to a dissolution of the match. 
 But finding that her fortune, which was secured to 
 Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, 
 nothing could exceed his disappointment. He 
 now saw that his money must all go to enrich one 
 who had no fortune of his own. He could bear 
 his being a rascal ; but to want an equivalent to 
 his daughter’s fortune was wormwood. He sat 
 therefore for some minutes employed in the most 
 mortifying speculations, till Sir William attempted 
 to lessen his anxiety. — “ I must confess, Sir,” 
 cried he, “ that your present disappointment does 
 not entirely displease me. Your immoderate pas- 
 sion 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 interest shall not be wanting in his promotion. 
 Leave then that ambition which disappoints you, 
 and for once admit that happiness which courts 
 your acceptance.” 
 
 “ 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 
 
232 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 1 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 satisfaction of seeing 
 them fly into each other’s arms in a transport. 
 “ After all my misfortunes,” cried my son George, 
 “ to be thus rewarded ! Sure this is more than I 
 could ever have presumed to hope for. To be pos- 
 sessed of all that’s good, and after such an inter- 
 val 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. O what an ex- 
 change have I made from the basest of men to the 
 dearest, best ! Let him enjoy our fortune, I can 
 now be happy even in indigence.” — “ And I 
 promise you,” cried the Squire, with a malicious 
 grin, “ that I shall be very happy with what you 
 despise.” — “ Hold, hold, Sir,” cried Jenkinson, 
 “ there are two words to that bargain. As for 
 that lady’s fortune, Sir, you shall never touch a 
 single stiver of it. Pray your 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 gentleman 
 and I have been old fellow sporters, I have a friend- 
 ship for him. But I must declare, well as I love 
 him, that his contract is not worth a tobacco-stop- 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 233 
 
 per, for he is married already.” — “ You lie, like a 
 rascal,” returned the Squire, who seemed roused 
 by this insult; “I never was legally married to 
 any woman.” 
 
 “ Indeed, begging your 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 com- 
 pany restrains their curiosity a few minutes, they 
 shall see her.” — So saying, he went off with his 
 usual celerity, and left us all unable to form any 
 probable conjecture as to his design. — “ Ay, let 
 him go,” cried the Squire ; “ whatever else I may 
 have done I defy him there. I am too old now 
 to be frightened with squibs.” 
 
 “ I am surprised,” said the Baronet, “ what the 
 fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of 
 humor, I suppose ! ” — “ Perhaps, Sir,” replied I, 
 “ he may have a more serious meaning. For 
 when we reflect on the various schemes this gen- 
 tleman has laid to seduce innocence, perhaps some 
 one more artful than the rest has been found able 
 to deceive him. When we consider what num- 
 bers he has ruined, how many parents now feel 
 with anguish the infamy and the contamination 
 which he has brought into their families, it would 
 not surprise me if some one of them — Amaze- 
 ment ! 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 mv daughter in my arms, whose silence 
 only spoke her raptures. 
 
234 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 “ 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 hon- 
 est 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 say- 
 ing, 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 ail this ; but a few words 
 will explain the difficulty. That there Squire of 
 renown, for whom I have a great friendship, but 
 that ’s between ourselves, has often employed me 
 in doing odd little things for him. Among the 
 rest, he commissioned me to procure him a false 
 license and a false priest, in order to deceive this 
 young lady. But as I was very much his friend, 
 what did I do but went and got a true license and 
 a true priest, and married them both as fast as the 
 cloth could make them. Perhaps you’ll think it 
 was generosity that made me do all this. But no. 
 To my shame I confess it, my only design was to 
 keep the license and let the Squire know that I 
 could prove it upon him whenever I thought 
 proper, and so make him come down whenever 
 I wanted money.” A burst of pleasure now 
 seemed to fill the whole apartment; our joy 
 reached even to the common room, where the 
 prisoners themselves sympathized, 
 
 And shook tlieir chains 
 
 In transport and rude harmony. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 235 
 
 Happiness was expanded upon every face, and 
 even Olivia’s check seemed flushed with pleasure. 
 To be thus restored to reputation, to friends and 
 fortune at once, was a rapture sufficent 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 hold- 
 ing 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. Jenkin- 
 son, “ 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 rec- 
 ompense 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 sub- 
 mitting to the Squire, and consenting to his mar- 
 riage with the other young lady. But these you 
 had vowed never to grant while your daughter was 
 living ; there was therefore no other method to 
 bring things to bear but by persuading you that 
 she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to join in 
 the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity 
 of undeceiving you till now.” 
 
 In the whole assembly now there 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 there- 
 fore fell on his knees before his uncle, and in a 
 voice of piercing misery implored compassion. 
 Sir William was going to spurn him away, but 
 at my request he raised him, and after pausing a 
 
236 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 few moments, “ Thy vices, crimes, and ingrati- 
 tude,” cried he, “ deserve no tenderness ; yet thou 
 shall 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 fortune 
 which once was thine, and from her tenderness 
 alone thou art to expect any extraordinary sup- 
 plies for the future.” He was going to express 
 his gratitude for such kindness in a set speech ; 
 but the Baronet prevented him by bidding him not 
 aggravate his meanness, which was already but 
 too apparent. He ordered him at the same time 
 to be gone, and from all his former domestics to 
 choose one such as he should think proper, which 
 was all that should be granted to attend him. 
 
 As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely 
 stept up to his new niece with a smile, and wished 
 her joy. His example 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 satisfaction 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 sat- 
 isfied. u I think now,” cried he, with a smile, 
 “ that all the company except one or two seem 
 perfectly happy. There only remains an act of 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 2 37 
 
 justice for me to do. You arc sensible, Sir,” con- 
 tinued lie, turning to me, “ of the obligations we 
 both owe Mr. Jcnkinson ; 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 com- 
 fortably together. Come, Miss Sophia, what say 
 you to this match of my making ? Will you have 
 him 1 ” — My poor girl seemed almost sinking 
 into her mother’s arms at the hideous proposal. 
 
 — “ Have him, Sir ! ” cried she faintly. “ No, Sir, 
 never.” — “ What,” cried he again, “ not have 
 Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a handsome 
 young fellow, with five hundred pounds and good 
 expectations ! ” — “I beg, Sir,” returned she, 
 scarce able to speak, “ that you ’ll desist, and 
 not make me so very wretched.” — “Was ever 
 such obstinacy known,” cried he again, “ to refuse 
 a man whom the family has such infinite obliga- 
 tions to, who has preserved your sister, and who 
 has five hundred pounds ! What, not have him ! ” 
 
 — “ No, Sir, never,” replied she angrily, I ’d 
 sooner die first.” — “ If that be the case then,” 
 cried he, “ if you will not have him — I think I 
 must have you myself.” And so saying, he 
 caught her to his breast with ardor. “ My loveli- 
 est, 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 
 himself alone ? I have for some years sought for 
 a woman, who, a stranger to my fortune, could 
 think that I had merit as a man. After having 
 tried in vain, even amongst the pert and the ugly, 
 
238 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 how great at last must be my rapture to have 
 made a conquest over such sense and such heav- 
 enly 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 mean time Sir 
 William’s gentleman 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 or- 
 dered forty pounds to be distributed among the 
 prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced by his exam- 
 ple, 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 pa- 
 rishioners who were among the number. They 
 attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous enter- 
 tainment was provided, and coarser provisions 
 were distributed in great quantities among the 
 populace. 
 
 After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by 
 the alternation of pleasure and pain which they had 
 sustained during the day, I asked permission to 
 withdraw ; and leaving the company in the midst 
 of their mirth, as soon as I found myself alone I 
 poured out my heart in gratitude to the Giver of 
 joy as well as of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed 
 till morning. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The Conclusion. 
 
 HE next morning as soon as I awaked I 
 found my eldest son sitting by my bed- 
 side, who came to increase my joy with 
 another turn of fortune in my favor. 
 First having 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 for- 
 tune. 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 possessed of a very 
 affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept 
 his offer without any hesitation. His business, 
 however, was to inform me, that as he had the night 
 before sent for the licenses, and expected them every 
 hour, he hoped that I would not refuse my assist- 
 ance in making all the company happy that morn- 
 ing. A footman entered while we were speaking, 
 
240 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 to tell us that the messenger was returned, and as 
 I was by this time ready I went down, where I 
 found the whole company as merry as affluence 
 and innocence could make them. However, as 
 they were now preparing for a very solemn cere- 
 mony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I 
 told them of the grave, becoming, and sublime de- 
 portment they should assume upon this mystical 
 occasion, and read them two homilies and a thesis 
 of my own composing, in order to prepare them. 
 Yet they still seemed perfectly refractory and un- 
 governable. Even as we were going along to 
 church, to which I led the way, all gravity had 
 quite forsaken them, and I was often tempted to 
 turn hack in indignation. In church a new di- 
 lemma arose, which promised no easy solution. 
 This was which couple should be married first ; 
 my son’s bride warmly insisted that Lady Thorn- 
 hill (that was to be) should take the lead; but this 
 the other refused with equal ardor, protesting she 
 would not be guilty of such rudeness for the world. 
 The argument was supported for some time between 
 both with equal obstinacy and good breeding. But 
 as I stood all this time with my book ready, I was 
 at last quite tired of the contest, and shutting it, 
 “ I perceive,” cried I, “ that none of you have a 
 mind to be married, and I think we had as good go 
 back again ; for I suppose there will be no business 
 
 done here to-dav.” This at once reduced them to 
 %! 
 
 reason. The Baronet and his lady were first mar- 
 ried, 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 
 Elamborough and his family, by which means, 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 241 
 
 upon our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of 
 finding the two Miss Flam boroughs 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 re- 
 buked 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 disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave 
 them half-a-guinea a piece to drink his health and 
 raise their dejected spirits. 
 
 Soon after this we were called to a very genteel 
 entertainment, which was dressed by Mr. Thorn- 
 hill’s cook. And it may not be improper to observe, 
 with respect to that gentleman, that he now resides 
 in quality of companion at a relation’s house, being 
 very well liked and seldom sitting at the side-table, 
 except when there is no room at the other ; for they 
 make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much 
 taken up in keeping his relation, who is a little 
 melancholy, in spirits, and in learning to blow the 
 French-horn. My eldest daughter, however, still 
 remembers him with regret ; and she has even told 
 me, though I make a great secret of it, that when 
 he 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 
 16 
 
242 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD . 
 
 whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, 
 should not sit above the two young brides, but the 
 debate was cut short by my son George, who pro- 
 posed 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 company. 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 particularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot 
 drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another 
 way, my son replied, “ Madam, I thank you.” 
 Upon which the old gentleman, winking upon the 
 rest of the company, observed that he was thinking 
 of his mistress. At which jest I thought the two 
 Miss Flambo roughs would have died with laugh- 
 ing. 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 adversity. 
 
 Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.