>9i I 
 
 ■#.,«"' 
 
 ■^ 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNDERGRADUATE LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis bool< is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014159002 
 
tHE BURLINGTON LIBRARY 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
THE 
 
 BURLINGTON LIBRARY 
 
 Each Volume contains Tw«n(y-four Coloured 
 Illustrations 
 
 CRAWFORD By Mrs. Gaskell 
 
 Illustrated by EVELYN PAUL 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 By Oliver Goldsmith 
 Illustrated by MARGARET JAMESON 
 
 THE ESSAYS OF ELIA By Charles Lamb 
 Illustrated by SYBIL TAWSE 
 
 A TALE OF TWO CITIES 
 
 By Charles Dickens 
 Illustrated by SEP E SCOTT 
 
 OF THE IMITATION OF CHRIST 
 
 By Thomas A Kempis 
 With 24 Coloured Reproductions from tbe Old Masters 
 
M^ 
 
 ni3 
 
MOSES GOES TO THE FAIR. 
 
THE VICAR OF 
 WAKEFIELD 
 
 BY 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 Vvitli Tweiiiy Four : 
 Illuilrations in Colour 
 ByA/largarei Jomeson 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
Wu. 
 
 4ijL/i-4' -^^ 
 
 
 
 THE PRESS, PRINTERS, LIMITED 
 69-76, LONG ACRE, LONDON, W.C. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 I. The Description of the Family .of Wakefield, 
 in which a kindred Likeness prevails, as 
 weU of Minds as of Persons ... i 
 
 II. Family Misfortunes. The Los^ 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 . . . ii 
 
 IV. A Proof that even the humblest Fortune may 
 
 grant Happiness, which depends, not on 
 Circumstances, but Constitution . 20 
 
 V. A new and great Acquaintance introduced. 
 
 What we place most Hopes upon, gene- 
 rally 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 niuch good . 41 
 
 IX. Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced, 
 Superior Finery ever seems to confer 
 superior Breeding . . , . , 49 
 
 X. The Family endeavour to cope with their 
 Betters. 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 . . 66 
 
 XIII, Mr, Burchell is found to be an Enemy, for he 
 
 has the confidence to give disagreeable 
 Advice 72 
 
 XIV. Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration that 
 
 seeming Calamities may be real Blessings 77 
 
 XV. AU Mr. Burchell's Villainy at once detected. 
 
 The FoUy of being overwise , , , 85 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XVI. The Family use Art, which is opposed by still 
 greater . . . ^ . 
 
 XVII. Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the Power 
 of long and pleasing Temptation 
 XVIII. The Pursuit of a Father ,to reclaim a Lost 
 CMd to Virtue 
 
 XIX. The Description of a Person discontented with 
 the Present Government and appre- 
 hensive of the Loss of our Liberties . 
 XX. The History of a philosophic Vagabond, 
 pursuing Novelty, but losing Content 
 
 XXI. The short continuance of Friendship amongst 
 
 the vicious, which is coeval only with 
 
 mutual satisfaction .... 
 
 XXII. Offences are easily pardoned, where there is 
 
 Love at bottom . . 
 
 XXIII. None but the Guilty can be long and com- 
 
 pletely miserable ..... 
 
 XXIV. Fresh Calamities 
 
 XXV, No Situation, however wretched it seems, but 
 
 has some sort of Comfort attending it 
 XXVI. A Reformation in the Gaol : to make laws 
 complete, they should. reward as well as 
 punish ....... 
 
 XXVII. The same Subject continued , . . . 
 XXVIII. Happiness and Misery rather the Result of 
 Prudence than of Virtue in this Life ; 
 temporal Evils or Felicities being regarded 
 by Heaven as things merely in themselves 
 trifling, and unworthy Sts care in the dis- 
 tribution ...... 
 
 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 Sufier- 
 ings in the Life hereafter . , . . 
 
 XXX . Happier Prospects begin to appear. Let us be 
 inflexible, and Fortune 'will at last change 
 in our Favour ..... 
 
 XXXI. Former Benevolence now repaid with un- 
 expected Interest .... 
 
 XXXII. Conclusion . 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Moses Goes to the Fair 
 
 Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGH 
 
 8 
 i6 
 
 An Excellent Contriver .... 
 Would Bid the Girls hold up their Heads 
 
 The Villagers kept up the Christmas Carol . 24 
 
 In all their Former Splendour _ . . . 32 
 
 Cut up their Trains into Sunday Waistcoats . 40 
 
 The Squire Introduces Himself ... 48 
 
 An Attachment he Discovered to my Daughter. 56 
 We found our Landlord with Two Ladies of 
 
 Fashion 64 
 
 The very Best Dancers in the Parish . . 72 
 
 The Gipsy Tells their Fortunes ... 80 
 Death I to be seen ... in feucH Vulgar 
 
 Attitudes 88 
 
 Mr. Burchell Takes his Leave ... 96 
 
 I found the Family in no way Disposed for Battle 104 
 . . . Bid Both stand up to see which was 
 
 Tallest 120 
 
 A Limner who Travelled the Country . . 128 
 
 . . . Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . 136 
 
 Miss Wilmot Desired to Walk wi]rH me . . 152 
 How very great must the Possessor of all 
 
 these things be ..... . 160 
 
 Olivia at the Inn 168 
 
 We Set Forward from the Peaceful Neigh- 
 bourhood 184 
 
 Olivia Visits her Father in Prison . . 200 
 Mr. Jenkins took Pen and Ink . . . .216 
 
 At which Jest ? . 232 
 
THE 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, IN WHICH 
 A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS WELL OF MINDS 
 AS OF PERSONS 
 
 I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who married 
 and brought up a large family did more service than he 
 who continued single, and only talked of population. 
 From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year 
 before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose 
 my wife, as she did her wedding-gbwn, not for a fine 
 glossy surface, but for such quahties as would wear 
 well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable 
 woman ; and, as for breeding, there were few country 
 ladies who could show more. She could read any 
 English book without much spelling ; but for pickling, 
 preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided 
 herself also upon being an excellent contriver in house- 
 keeping ; though I could never find that we grew richer 
 with all her contrivances. 
 
 However, we loved each other tenderly, and our 
 fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in fact, 
 nothing that could make us angry with the world or 
 each other. We had an elegant house situate in a 
 
 V.w. B 
 
 i i 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 fine country, and a good neighbourKood. The year was 
 spent in moral or rural amusements, in visiting our rich 
 neighbours, and reheving such as were poor. We had 
 no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo ; all our 
 adventures were by the fireside, and all our migrations 
 from the blue bed to the brown. 
 
 As we Uved near the road, we often had the traveller 
 or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry wine, for 
 which we had great reputation ; and I profess, with the 
 veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of them 
 find fault with it. Our cousins, too, even to the fortieth 
 remove, all remembered their affinity, without any help 
 from the herald's ofiice, and came very frequently to 
 see us. Some of them did us no great honour by these 
 claims of kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, 
 and the halt amongst the number. However, my wife 
 always insisted that, as they were the same flesh and 
 blood, they should sit with us at the same table. So 
 that, if we had not very rich, we generally had very 
 happy friends about us ; for this remark wiU hold good 
 through fife, that the poorer the guest, the better pleased 
 he ever is with being treated : and as some men gaze 
 with admiration at the colours of g. tuUp, or the wing 
 of a butterfly, so I was, by nature, an admirer of happy 
 human faces. However, when any ione of our relations 
 was found to be a person of very bad character, a 
 troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, upon 
 his leaving my house I ever took care to lend him a 
 riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a horse of 
 small value, and I always had the satisfaction of finding 
 he never came back to return them. By this the house 
 was cleared of such as we did not like ; but never was 
 
THE ViCAR OF WAKEtlELD 
 
 the family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or 
 the poor dependent out of doors. 
 
 Thus we hved several years in a state of much happi- 
 ness, not but that we sometimes had those little rubs 
 which Providence sends to enhance the value of its 
 favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, 
 and my wife's custards plundered by the cats or the 
 children. The Squire would sometimes fall asleep in 
 the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his lady return 
 my wife's civiUties at church with a mutilated curtsey. 
 But we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such 
 accidents, and usually in three or four days began to 
 wonder how they vexed us. 
 
 My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were 
 educated without softness, so they were at once well- 
 formed and healthy ; my sons hardy and active, my 
 daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in 
 the midst of the httle 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 country, and consequently looked upon it 
 as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after 
 his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our 
 second child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt 
 Grissel ; but my wife, who during her pregnancy had 
 been reading romances, insisted upon her being called 
 Olivia. In less than another year we had another 
 
 3 B2 
 
y 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 my exultation when I 
 saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the 
 satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. 
 When our visitors would say, " Well, upon my word, 
 Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole 
 country ; " — " Ay, neighbour," she would answer, 
 " they are as Heaven made them, handsome enough, if 
 they be good enough ; for handsome is that handsome 
 does." And then she would bid the girls hold up their 
 heads ; who, to conceal nothing, were certainly very 
 handsome. Mere outside is so very trifUng a circum- 
 stance with me, that I should scarce have remembered 
 to mention it, had it not been a general topic of conversa- 
 tion in the country. OUvia, now about eighteen, had that 
 luxuriancy of beauty with which painters generally 
 draw Hebe ; open, sprightly, and commanding, 
 Sophia's features were not so striking at first, but often 
 did more certain execution ; for they were soft, modest, 
 and alluring. The one vanquished by a single blow, 
 he other by effort successfully repeated. 
 
 The temper of a woman is generally formed from 
 the turn of her features : at least it was so with my 
 daughters. OUvia wished for many lovers ; Sophia to 
 secure one. Olivia was often affected, from too great 
 a desire to please ; Sophia even repressed excellence. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 from her fears to offend. The one entertained me with 
 her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her sense 
 when I was serious. But these quaUties were never 
 carried to excess in either, and I have often seen them 
 exchange characters for a whole day together. A suit 
 of mourning has transformed my coquette into a prude, 
 and a new set of ribands has given her younger sister 
 more than natural vivacity. My eldest son George 
 was bred at Oxford, as I intended him for one of the 
 learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I 
 designed for business, received a port 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 
 
 The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly com- 
 mitted to my wife's management ; as to the spiritual, 
 I took them entirely under my oWn direction. The 
 profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five 
 pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows 
 of the clergy of our diocese ; for, having a sufficient 
 fortune of my own, I was careless of temporalities, 
 and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without 
 reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, 
 and of being acquainted with every man in the parish, 
 exhorting the married men to temperance, and the 
 bachelors to matrimony ; so that in a few years it was 
 a common saying, that there were three strange wants 
 at Wakefield, a parson wanting pride, young men 
 wanting wives, and ale-houses wanting customers. 
 
 Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and 
 I wrote several sermons to prove its happiness : but there 
 was a peculiar tenet which I made a point of supporting : 
 for I maintained with Whiston, that it was unlawful 
 for a priest of the Church of England, after the death 
 pf his first wife, to take a second, or, to express it in one 
 word, I valued myself upon being a=strict monogamist. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I was early initiated into this important dispute, on 
 which so many laborious volumes have been written. 
 I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, 
 as they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking 
 are read only by the happy few. Some of my friends 
 called this my weak side ; but alas ! they had not, 
 hke 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 displajdng my 
 principles : as he had engraven upon his wife's tomb 
 that she was the only wife of William Whiston, so I 
 wrote a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, 
 in which I extolled her prudence, economy, and obedi- 
 ence tiU death ; and having got it copied fair, with 
 an elegant frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, 
 where it answered several very useful purposes : it 
 admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity 
 to her ; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and 
 constantly put her in mind of her end. 
 
 Ilf was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often 
 recommended, that my eldest son, just upon leaving 
 college, fixed his affections upon the daughter of a 
 neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the 
 church, and in circumstances to give her a large fortune. 
 But fortune was her smallest accomplishment. Miss 
 Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all (except my two 
 daughters) to be completely pretty. Her youth, health, 
 and innocence were stiU heightened by a complexion 
 so transparent, and such a happy sensibihty 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 ; 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 so both families lived together in -all that harmony 
 which generally precedes an expected alliance. Being 
 convinced by experience that the days of courtship are 
 the most happy of our hves, I was willing enough to 
 lengthen the period ; and the various amusements which 
 the young couple every day shared in each other's 
 company seemed to increase their passion. We were 
 generally awaked in the morning by music, and on 
 fine days rode a-hunting. The hours between breakfast 
 and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and slv.'iv ; they 
 usually read a page, and then gazed at themsu. '^es in 
 the glass, which even philosophers might own iften 
 presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner my 
 wife took the lead ; for, as she always insisted upon 
 carving everything herself, it being her mother's way, 
 she gave us upon these occasions the 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 gaming, except backgammon, at 
 which my old friend and I sometimes took a twopenny 
 hit. Nor can I here pass over an ominous circumstance 
 that happened the last time we played together. I 
 only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce-ace 
 five times running. 
 
 Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at last 
 it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials 
 of the young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. 
 During the preparations for the wedding, I need not 
 
 8 
 
^4^'*-*^»c 
 
 AN EXCELLENT CONTRIVE!?. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 describe the busy importance of my wife, nor the sly 
 looks of my daughters ; in fact, my attention was fixed 
 on another object, — the completing a tract, which I 
 intended shortly to pubhsh, in defence of my favourite 
 principle. As I looked upon this as a masterpiece, 
 both for argument and style, I could not, in the pride of 
 my heart, avoid showing it to my old friend Mr. Wilmot, 
 as I made no doubt of receiving his approbation ; but 
 not till too late I discovered that he was most violently 
 attached to the contrary opinion, and with good reason ; 
 for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. 
 This, as may be expected, produced a dispute, attended 
 with some acrimony, which threatened to interrupt 
 our intended alliance ; but, on the day before that 
 appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the 
 subject at large. 
 
 It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; 
 he asserted that I was heterodox ; I retorted the charge : 
 he repUed, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while the 
 controversy was hottest, I was called out by one of my 
 relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to 
 give up the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was 
 over. " How ! " cried I, " reUnquish the cause of 
 truth, and let him be a husband, already driven to the 
 very verge of absurdity ? You might as well advise 
 me to give up my fortune as my argument." — " Your 
 fortune," returned my friend, " I am now sorry to inform 
 you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town, in whose 
 hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid 
 a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have 
 left a shilling in the pound. I was unwiUing to shock 
 you or the family with the account till after the wedding : 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the 
 argument ; for, I suppose, your own prudence wiU enforce- 
 the necessity of dissembUng, at least tiU your son has the 
 young lady's fortune secure." — ""Well," returned I, 
 " if what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, 
 it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to disavow 
 my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the 
 company of my circumstances ; and, as for the argument, 
 I even here retract my former concessions in the old 
 gentleman's favour, nor wiU I allow him now to be a 
 husband in any sense of the expression." 
 
 It would be useless to describe the different sensations 
 of both families when I divulged the news of our mis- 
 fortune ; but what others felt was slight to what the 
 lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, who seemed 
 before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, 
 was, by this blow, soon determined ; one virtue he had 
 in perfection, which was prudence, too often the only 
 one that is left us at seventy-two. 
 
 10 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 A MIGRATION. THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES OF OUR 
 LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST TO BE OF OUR 
 OWN PROCURING 
 
 The only hope of our family now was, that the report 
 of our misfortune might be maUcious or premature ; 
 but a letter from my agent in town soon came, with a 
 confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune 
 to myself alone would have been trifling; the only 
 uneasiness I felt was for my family, who were to be 
 humbled without an education to render them callous 
 to contempt. 
 
 Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to 
 restrain their affliction ; for premature consolation is 
 but the remembrcincer 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 neighbour- 
 hood, where I could still enjoy my principles without 
 molestation. With this proposal I jojrfully closed, 
 having determined to increase my salary by managing 
 a little farm. 
 
 Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get 
 together the wrecks of my fortune : and, all debts 
 collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds 
 
 II 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention, 
 therefore, was now to bring down the pride of my family 
 to their circumstances ; for I well knew that aspiring 
 beggary is wretchedness itself. " You cannot be 
 ignorant, my children," cried I, " that no prudence of 
 ours could have prevented our late misfortune ; but 
 prudence may do much in disappointing its effects. 
 We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom bids us 
 to conform to our humble situation. Let us then, 
 without repining, give up those splendours with which 
 numbers are wretched, and seek in humbler circum- 
 stances that peace with which all may be happy. 
 The poor hve pleasantly without our help ; why, then, 
 should not we learn to live without theirs ? No, my 
 children, let us from this moment give up all pretensions 
 to gentility ; we have still enough left for happiness if 
 we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the 
 deficiencies of fortune." 
 
 As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined 
 to send him to town, where his abilities might con- 
 tribute 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 mingled 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 that was 
 
 12 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 given him by the good Bishop Jewel, this staff, and 
 take this book, too, it will be your comfort on the way : 
 these two lines in it are worth a miUion — ' I have been 
 young, and now am old ; yet never saw I the righteous 
 man forsaken, or his seed, begging their bread.' Let 
 this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy ; 
 whatever be thy fortune, let me see thee once a year ; 
 still keep a good heart, and farewell." As he was 
 possessed of integrity and honour, I was under no 
 apprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphi- 
 theatre of Ufe ; for I knew he would act a good part 
 whether vanquished or victorious. 
 
 His departure only prepared the way for our own, 
 which arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a 
 neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many 
 hours of tranquilUty was not without a tear, which 
 scarce fortitude itself could sujspress. Besides, a 
 journey of seventy miles, to a family that had hitherto 
 never been above ten from home, filled us with appre- 
 hension ; and the cries of the poor, who followed us 
 for some miles, contributed to increase it. The first 
 day's journey brought us in safety within thirty miles 
 of our future retreat, and we put up for the night at an 
 obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were 
 shown a room, I desired the landlord, in my usual way, 
 to let us have his company, with which he complied, 
 as what he drank would increase the bill next morning. 
 He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I 
 was removing, particularly Squire Thornhill, who was 
 to be my landlord, and who hved within a few miles 
 of the place. This gentleman he described as one 
 who desired to know little more of the world than its 
 
 13 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 pleasures, being particularly remarkable for his attach- 
 ment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was 
 able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that there was 
 scarce a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but 
 what had found him successful and faithless. Though 
 this account gave me some pain, it had a very different 
 effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed 
 to brighten with the expectation of an approaching 
 triumph ; nor was my wife less pleased and confident 
 of their allurements and virtue. 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-stealing." The 
 hostess, however, still persisting in her first assertion, 
 he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he 
 would be satisfied one way or another, when I begged 
 the landlord would introduce me to a stranger of so 
 much charity as he described. With this he compUed, 
 showing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, 
 dressed in clothes that once were lac'ed. His person was 
 well formed, and his face marked with the lines of think- 
 ing. He had something short and dry in his address, 
 and seemed not to tmderstand ceremony, or to despise 
 it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, I could not 
 avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at seeing 
 a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered my 
 purse to satisfy the present demand. " I take it with 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 all my heart, sir," replied he, " and am glad that a 
 late oversight in giving what money I had about me 
 has shown me that there are still some men hke you. 
 I must, however, previously entreat being informed of 
 the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to 
 repay him as soon as possible." In this I satisfied him 
 fully, not only mentioning my name and late mis- 
 fortune, 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 jvay myself, having 
 been detained here two days by the floods, which I 
 hope by to-morrow wiU be found passable." I testified 
 the pleasure I should have in his company, and my 
 wife and daughters joining in entreaty, he was prevailed 
 upon to stay supper. The stranger's conversation, 
 which was at once pleasing and instructive, induced 
 me to wish for a continuance of it ; but it was now high 
 time to retire and take refreshment against the fatigues 
 of the following day. 
 
 The next morning we all set forward together : 
 my family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell, our new 
 companion, walked along the footpath by the road-side, 
 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 obUged 
 to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell 
 and I bringing up the rear. We Ughtened the fatigues 
 of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed 
 to understand perfectly. But what surprised me most 
 was, that though he was a money borrower, he defended U-^ 
 his opinions with as much obstinacy as if he had been 
 my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom 
 
 15 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 the different seats belonged that lay in our view as we 
 travelled the road. " That," cried, he, pointing to a 
 very magnificent house which stood at some distance, 
 " belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who 
 enjoys a large fortune, though entirely dependent on 
 the will of his uncle. Sir WilUam Thornhill, a gentleman 
 who, content with a httle himself, permits his nephew 
 to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town." — " What ! " 
 cried I, " is my young landlord then the nephew of a 
 man, whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are so 
 universally known ? I have heard Sir William Thornhill 
 represented as one of the most generous yet whimsical 
 men in the kingdom ; a man of consiunmate benevol- 
 ence." — " Something, perhaps, too much so," repHed Mr, 
 Burchell ; "at least, he carried benevolence to an 
 excess when young ; for his passions were then strong, 
 and as they all were upon the side of virtue they led it 
 up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the 
 qualifications of the soldier and the scholar ; was soon 
 distinguished in the army, and had some reputation 
 among men of learning. Adulation ever follows the 
 ambitious ; for such alone receive most pleasure from 
 flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who showed 
 him only one side of their character-; so that he began 
 to lose a regard for private interest in universal sym- 
 pathy. He loved all mankind ; for fortune prevented 
 him from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians 
 teU us of a disorder, in which the whole body is so 
 exquisitely sensible that the slightest touch gives pain ; 
 what some have thus suffered in their persons, this 
 gentleman felt in his mind. The shghtest distress, 
 whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, and 
 
 i6 
 
. ,.r,.>y?^-.' WVri.-r-^ 
 
 " "".V. ~4^ww^:-^ 
 
 i::^a:^E3S3-5Sa^ffl 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the miseries 
 of others. Thus disposed to reUeve, it will be easily con- 
 jectured he found numbers disposed to solicit : his 
 profusions began to impair his fortune, but not his good- 
 nature — that, indeed, was seen to increase as the other 
 seemed to decay ; he grew 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 dependents, 
 whom he was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. 
 These hung upon him for a time, and left him with 
 merited reproaches and contempt. But, in proportion 
 as he became contemptible to others^ he became despic- 
 able to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adula- 
 tion, and, that support taken away, he could find no 
 pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had 
 never learned to reverence. The World now began to 
 wear a different aspect ; the flattery of his friends began 
 to dwindle into simple approbation. Approbation soon 
 took the more friendly form of advice ; and advice, when 
 rejected, produced their reproaches. He now, therefore, 
 found that such friends as benefits had gathered round 
 him were httle estimable ; he now found that a man's 
 own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. 
 I now found that — ^that — I forget what I was going to 
 observe : in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, 
 and laid down a plan of restoring Jiis falling fortune. 
 For this purpose, in his own whimsical manner, he 
 
 v.w. 17 c 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 travelled through Europe on foot ; and now, though he 
 has scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances 
 are more affluent than ever. At present, his bounties 
 are more rational and moderate than before ; but 
 he still preserves the character of a humourist, 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 we went along, 
 tiU we were alarmed by the cries of my family ; when, 
 turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the 
 midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and 
 strugghng 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 attempting her rescue ; she must have certainly 
 perished had not my companion, perceiving her danger, 
 instantly plunged in to her rehef, and, with some 
 difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite shore. 
 By taking the current a Uttle farther up, the rest of the 
 family got safely over ; where we had an opportunity of 
 joining our acknowledgments to hers. Her gratitude 
 may be more readily imagined than described : she 
 thanked her deUverer more with looks than words, 
 and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to 
 receive assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have 
 the pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. 
 Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and had 
 dined together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a different 
 part of the coimtry, he took leave, and we pursued our 
 journey : my wife observing, as he went, that she liked 
 him extremely, and protesting, that if he had birth and 
 fortune to entitle him to match into such a family 
 
 i8 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 as ours, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. 
 I could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty 
 strain ; but I was never much displeased with 
 those harmless delusions that tend to make us more 
 happy. 
 
 ig C2 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY GRANT 
 HAPPINESS, WHICH DEPENDS, NOT ON CIRCUMSTANCES, 
 BUT CONSTITUTION 
 
 The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, 
 consisting of farmers who tilled their own grounds, and 
 were equal strangers to opulence and poverty. As 
 they had almost all the conveniences of life within them- 
 selves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search 
 of superfluity. Remote from thte polite, they still 
 retained the primeval simphcity of manners ; and, 
 frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that temperance was 
 a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of 
 labour ; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness 
 and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol, sent 
 true love knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on 
 Shrovetide, showed their wit on the first of April, and 
 rehgiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being 
 apprised of our approach, the whole neighbourhood 
 xame out to meet their minister, dressed in their fine 
 clothes, and preceded by a pipe and tabor. A feast also 
 was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully 
 down : and what the conversation wanted in wit was 
 made up in laughter. 
 
 Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a 
 
 20 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood be- 
 hind, and a prattling river before : on one side a meadow, 
 on the other a green. My farm consisted of about 
 twenty acres of excellent land, having given a hundred 
 pounds for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could 
 exceed the neatness of my little enclosures, the elms and 
 hedge-rows appearing with inexpressible beauty. My 
 house consisted of but one story, and was covered with 
 thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness ; the walls, 
 on the inside, were nicely whitewashed, and my daughters 
 undertook to adorn them with pictures of their own 
 designing. Though the same room served us for parlour 
 and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, 
 as it was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, 
 plates, and coppers being well scoured, and all disposed 
 in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably re- 
 Heved, and did not want rich furniture. There were 
 three other apartments, one for my wife and me, an- 
 other 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 mechanical forms of good breeding, 
 without which freedom ever destroys friendship — we 
 all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another 
 day. This duty being performed, my son and I went 
 to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my wife 
 and daughters employed themselves in providing 
 breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. 
 
 21 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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, sCnd in philosophical 
 arguments between my son and me. 
 
 As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our 
 labours after it was gone down, but returned home to 
 the expecting family ; where smiling looks, a neat hearth, 
 and pleasant fire, were prepared for our reception. Nor 
 were we without guests : sometitnes Farmer Flam - 
 
 .iorough, our talkative neighbour, and often the blind 
 piper, would pay us a visit, and taste our gooseberry 
 wine ; for the making of which we had lost neither the 
 receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had 
 several ways of being good company : for while one 
 played, the other would sing some soothing ballad, — 
 Johnny Armstrong's Last Good-night, or the Cruelty of 
 Barbara AUen. The night was concluded in the manner 
 we began the morning, my youngest boys being ap- 
 pointed to read the lessons of the day ; and he that 
 read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have a half- 
 penny on Sunday to put into the poor's box. 
 
 When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, 
 which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. 
 How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride had 
 conquered the vanity of my daughters ; yet I still found 
 them secretly attached to all their former finery : 
 they still loved laces, ribands, bugles, and catgut ; 
 
 my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson 
 
 paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became 
 
 her. 
 
 The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour 
 
 served to mortify me. I had desired my girls the 
 
 22 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 punctually obeyed my 
 directions ; but when we were to assemble in the morning 
 at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters, dressed 
 out in all their former splendour : their hair plastered 
 up with pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their 
 trains bundled up into a heap behind, and rusthng at 
 every motion. I could not help smiling at their vanity, 
 particularly that of my wife, froni whom I expected 
 more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only 
 resource was to order my son, with an important air, 
 to call our coach. The girls were amazed at the com- 
 mand ; but I repeated it with more solemnity than 
 before. " Surely, my dear, you jest," cried my wife ; 
 " we can walk it perfectly well : we want no coach to 
 carry us now."—" You mistake, child," returned I, 
 " we do want a coach ; for if we walk to church in this 
 trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after us." 
 — " Indeed," replied my wife, " I always imagined that 
 my^ Chax^ was fond of seeing his children neat and 
 handsoine 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, blit frippery. These 
 rufflings, and pinkings, and patchings will only make 
 us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. No, my 
 children," continued I, more gravely, "those gowns 
 may be altered into something of a plainer cut ; for 
 fmery is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of 
 decency. I do not know whether such flouncing and 
 shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, 
 upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the 
 
 23 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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. 
 
 24 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 
 ■H 
 
 
 ^^\ ^I^^^^H 
 
 Hi 
 
 
 i^^^^H 
 
 
 m^M 
 
 
 
 ■■ 
 
 
 H 
 
 
 WKM 
 
 K^'w 
 
 
 jH 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 hI 
 
 
 a 
 
 1 '^^^s 
 
 ilj? 
 
 1 
 
 -i 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 ^H9m 'T1 
 
 ^>jb 
 
 
 
 n 
 
 
 
 Be'*' ■rjPaH 
 
 
 H 
 
 i^ 
 
 
 KjEf l^^^Hlf^H 
 
 hH 
 
 
 SH 
 
 ^1 
 
 
 
 HP 
 
 
 R 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 ■■I 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 
 
 ' ^^' tT 
 
 i 
 
 
 p^^=~j^_ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 fe 
 
 -- 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 THE VILLA0ER5 KEPT UP THE ChfUSTMSS CARQl., 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A NEW AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. WHAT 
 WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON, GENERALLY PROVES 
 MOST FATAL 
 
 At a small distance from the house, my predecessor had 
 made a seat, overshaded by a hedge of hawthorn and 
 honeysuckle. Here, when the weather was fine, and 
 our labour soon finished, we usually sat together, to enjoy 
 an extensive landscape in the calm of the 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 ceremony. On these 
 occasions, our two httle ones always read for us, and 
 they were regularly served after we had done. Some- 
 times, to give a variety to our amusements, the girls 
 sung to the guitar ; and while they thus formed a Httle 
 concert, my wife and I would stroU down the sloping 
 field, that was embeUished with blue-bells and centaury, 
 talk of our children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze 
 that wafted both health and harmony. 
 
 In this manner we began to find that every situation 
 in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : every 
 morning waked us to a repetition of toil ; but the evening 
 repaid it with vacant hilarity. 
 
 25 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday 
 for I kept such as intervals of relaxation from lab( 
 — that I had drawn out my family to our usual place 
 amusement, and our young musicians began their us 
 concert. As we were thus enga:ged, we saw a si 
 bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of wh 
 we were sitting, and by its pantihg it seemed press 
 by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect uf 
 the poor animal's distress, when we perceived the d( 
 and horsemen come sweeping along at some distal 
 behind, and making the very path it had taken. I v 
 instantly for returning in with my family ; but eitl 
 curiosity, or surprise, or some more hidden moti 
 held my wife and daughters to their seats. The hun 
 man who rode foremost passed us with great swiftne 
 followed by four or five persons more, who seemed 
 equal haste. At last, a young gentleman of a m( 
 genteel appearance than the rest came forward, a 
 while regarding us, instead of pursuing the cha 
 stopped short, and giving his horse to a servant w 
 attended, approached us with a careless superior £ 
 He seemed to want no introduction, but was going 
 SEilute my daughters as one certain of a kind receptio 
 but they had early learnt the lesson of looking presun 
 tion out of countenance. Upon which he let us kn 
 his name was Thomhill, and that he was owner 
 the estate that lay for some extent around us. 
 again therefore offered to salute the female part of 1 
 family, and such was the power of fortune and f 
 clothes, that he found no second repulse. As his addn 
 though confident, was easy, we soon became m( 
 familiar ; and, perceiving musical instruments ly 
 
 26 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 jiear, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did 
 not approve of such disproportioned acquaintances, I 
 winked upon my daughters in order to prevent their 
 compliance ; but my hint was counteracted by one 
 from their mother ; so that, with a cheerful air, they gave 
 us a favourite song of Dryden's. Mr. Thomhill seemed 
 highly delighted with their performance and choice, and 
 then took up the guitar himself. He played but very 
 indifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his 
 former applause with interest, and assured him that his 
 tones were louder than even those of her master. At 
 this compliment he bowed, which she returned with a 
 curtsey. He praised her taste, and she commended his 
 understanding : an age could not have made them 
 better acquainted ; while the fond mother too, equally 
 happy, insisted upon our landlord's stepping in, and 
 lasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family 
 seemed earnest to please him : my girls attempted to 
 entertain him with topics they thought most modem, 
 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 Uttle ones were no less 
 busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my 
 endeavours could scarcely keep their dirty fingers 
 from handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and 
 lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was 
 there. At the approach of evening he took leave ; 
 but not till he had requested permission to renew his 
 visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily 
 agreed to. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council 
 on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that 
 
 27 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 it was a most fortunate hit ; for that she had known 
 even stranger things at last brought to bear. She hoped 
 
 -/ again to see the day in which we might hold up our 
 heads with the best of them ; and concluded, she pro- 
 tested she could see no reason why the two Miss Wrinklers 
 should marry great fortunes, and her children get none. 
 As this last argument was directed to me, I protested I 
 could see no reason for it neither, nor why Mrs. Simpkins 
 got the ten thousand pound prize in the lottery, and we 
 sat down with a blank. " I protest, Charles," cried 
 my wife, " this is the way you always damp my girls 
 and me when we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my 
 dear, what do you think of our new visitor ? Don't 
 you think he seemed to be good-natured ? " — " Im- 
 mensely 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 trifUng the subject, the more he 
 has to say." — " Yes," cried OHvia, "he is well enough 
 for a man ; but, for my part, I don't much like him, 
 he is so extremely impudent and familiar ; but on the 
 guitar he is shocking." These two last speeches I 
 
 / interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia 
 internally despised, as much as OUvia secretly admired 
 him. " Whatever may be your opinions of him, my 
 children," cried I, " to confess a truth, he has not pre- 
 possessed me in his favour. Disproportioned friendships 
 ever terminate in disgust ; and I thought, notwith- 
 standing aU his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible of 
 the distance between us. Let us keep to companions of 
 our own rank. There is no character more contemptible 
 than a man that is a fortune-hunter ; and I can see no 
 reason why fortune-hunting women should not be con- 
 
 28 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 temptible too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible 
 if his views be honourable ; but if they be otherwise ! — 
 I should shudder but to think of that ! It is true, I have 
 no apprehension from the conduct 6f my children ; but 
 I think there are some from his character." I would 
 have proceeded, but for the interruption of a servant 
 from the Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us 
 a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some 
 days after. This well-timed present pleaded more 
 powerfully in his favour than anything I had to say 
 could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied 
 with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it 
 to their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which 
 requires to be ever guarded is scarcely worth the 
 sentinel. 
 
 29 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE 
 
 As we carried on the former dispute with some degree 
 of warmth, in order to accommodate matters it was 
 universally agreed that we should have a part of the 
 venison for supper ; and the girls undertook the 
 task with alacrity. " I am sorry," cried I, " that we 
 have no neighbour or stranger to take part in this good 
 cheer : feasts of this kind acquire a double relish from 
 hospitality." — " Bless me," cried my wife, " here 
 comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved our 
 Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argument." 
 — " Confute me in argument, child ! " cried I. " You 
 mistake there, my dear. I believe there are but few 
 that can do that : I never dispute your abilities at 
 making a goose-pie, and I beg you'll leave argument 
 to me." As I spoke, poor Mr. iSurchell entered the 
 house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook him 
 heartily by the hand, while little Dick oificiously 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 neighbourhood by the character of the 
 poor gentleman, that would do no good when he was 
 
 3^ 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 young, though he was not yet thirty. He would at 
 intervals talk with great good sense ; but, in general, he 
 was fondest of the company of children, whom he used 
 to call harmless httle men. He was famous, I found, 
 for singing them ballads, and teUing them stories, and 
 seldom went out without something "in his pockets for 
 them — a piece of gingerbread, or an halfpenny whistle. 
 He generally came for a few days into our neighbour- 
 hood once a year, and lived upon the neighbours' hospita- 
 lity. 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 Grizzel, 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 ale-house. 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," 
 xried I, " hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. 
 The beast retires to his shelter, and the bird flies to his 
 nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge from his 
 fellow-creature. The greatest stranger in this world 
 was He that came to save it. He never had a house, as 
 if wilhng to see what hospitality was left remaining 
 amongst us. (Debor^ my dear," cried I to my wife, 
 " give those boys a lump of sugar each ; and let Dick's 
 be the largest, because he spoke first." 
 
 31 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 In the morning early I called out my whole family to 
 help at saving an aftergrowth of hay, and our guest 
 offering his assistance, he was accepted among the num- 
 ber. Our labours went on Ughtly ; we turned the swath 
 to the wind. I went foremost, and the rest followed in 
 due succession. I could not avoid, however, observing 
 the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in assisting my daughter 
 Sophia in her part of the task. When he had finished 
 his own, he would join in hers, and enter into a close 
 conversation : but I had too good an opinion of Sophia's 
 understanding, and was too well convinced of her 
 ambition, to be under any uneasiness from a man of broken 
 fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell 
 was invited as on the night before, but he refused, 
 as he was to he that night at a neighbour'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 aggra- 
 vate his former folly. Poor forlorn creature ! where 
 are now the revellers, the flatterer^ that he could once 
 inspire and command ! Gone, pejhaps, to attend the 
 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 converted 
 into sarcasms at his folly : he is poor, and perhaps 
 deserves poverty ; for he has neither the ambition to be 
 independent, nor the skill to be useful." Prompted 
 perhaps by some secret reasons, I delivered this observa- 
 tion with too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently 
 reproved. " Whatsoever his former conduct may have 
 
 32 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 been, papa, his circumstances should exempt him from 
 censure now. His present indigence is a sufficient 
 punishment for former folly ; and I have heard my 
 papa himself say, that we should never strike one un- 
 necessary blow at a victim, over whom Providence holds 
 the scourge of its resentment." — " You are right, Sophy," 
 cried my son Moses ; " and one of the ancients finely 
 represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a 
 rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, 
 had been whoUy 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 hot to judge of the 
 feelings of others by what we might feel if in their place. ^ 
 However dark the habitation of the mole to our eyes, 
 yet the animal itself finds the apartments sufficiently 
 lightsome. And, to confess the truth, this man's mind 
 seems fitted to his station ; for I never heard any one 
 more sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed 
 with you.''' — This was said without the least design ; 
 however, it excited a blush, which she strove to cover by 
 an affected laugh, assuring him that she scarcely took 
 any notice of what he said to her ; but that she believed 
 he might once have been a very fine gentleman. The 
 readiness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, 
 and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally 
 approve ; but I repressed my suspicions. 
 
 As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife 
 went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat reading, 
 while I taught the little ones. My daughters seemed 
 equally busy with the rest ; and I observed them for a 
 good while cooking something over the fire. I at first 
 supposed they were assisting their mother; but Uttle 
 
 v.w. 33 D 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 slow degrees to the fire, and grasping the 
 poker, as if it wanted mending, seeiningly by accident 
 overturned the whole composition, and it was too late 
 to begin another. 
 
 34 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 A TOWN WIT DESCRIBED. THE DULLEST FELLOWS MAY 
 LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO 
 
 When the morning arrived on which we were to enter- 
 tain our young landlord, it may be easily supposed what 
 provisions were exhausted to make an appearance. It 
 may be also 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 were nurnerous, he politely 
 ordered to the next ale-house : but my wife, in the 
 triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all ; 
 for which, by the by, our family was pinched for three 
 weeks after. As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us the day 
 before, that he was making some proposal of marriage 
 to Miss Wilmot, my son George's former mistress, this 
 a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception: 
 but accident in some measure relieved our embarrass- 
 ment ; for one of the company happening to mention 
 her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath, that 
 he never knew anything more absurd than calUng such 
 a fright a beauty; "For, strike me ugly," continued 
 he, " if I should not find as much pleasure in choosing 
 my mistress by the information of a lamp under the clock 
 of St. Dunstan's." At this he laughed, and so did we : 
 
 33 D2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 the jests of the rich are ever successful. Olivia, too, 
 could not avoid whispering, loud enough to be heard, 
 that he had an infinite fund of humour. 
 
 After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church : 
 for this I was thanked by the chaglain, as he said the 
 Church was the onlymistress of his affections. " Come, 
 tell us honestly, 'Frai^," 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 priest- 
 craft in the creation ! For what are tithes and tricks 
 but an imposition, all a confounded imposture, and 
 I can prove it." — " I wish you would," cried my son 
 Moses ; " and I think," continued he, " that I should be 
 able to answer you." — " Very well, sir," cried the Squire, 
 who immediately smoked him, and winked on the rest 
 of the company to prepare us for the sport ; " if you are 
 for a cool argument upon the subject, I am ready to 
 accept the challenge. And, first, whether are you for 
 managing it analogically or dialogically ? " — " I am 
 for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite happy at 
 being permitted to dispute. " Good again," cried the 
 Squire ; " and, firstly, of the first, I hope you'll not deny, 
 that whatever is, is. If you don't grant me that, I can 
 go no further." — " Why," returned Moses, " I think I 
 may grant that; and make the best of it." — "I hope, 
 too," returned the other, " you'll grant that a part is less 
 than the whole." — "I grant that too," cried Moses: 
 " it is but just and reasonable." — " I hope," cried the 
 
 36 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Squire, " you'll not deny, that the three angles of a 
 triangle are equal to two right ones." — " Nothing 
 can be plainer," returned the other, ,and looked round 
 him with his usual importance.^ — " Very well," cried the 
 Squire, speaking very quick, " the premises being thus 
 settled, I proceed to observe, that thd ptSncatenatlop^of 
 self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal dtrpitCateratio, , 
 naturally produce a problematical dialogism, which, in 
 some measure, proves that the essence of spirituahty 
 may be referred to the second predicable." — " Hold, 
 hold ! " cried the other, " I deny that: do you think I 
 can thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines ? " 
 — " What ! " replied the Squire, as if in a passion, 
 " not submit ! Answer me one plain question : Do you 
 think Aristotle right when he says that relatives are 
 related ?"—" Undoubtedly," repUed the other.— " If 
 so, then," cried the Squire, "answer me directly to 
 what I propose : Whether do you judge the_jjiar 
 Ij^ical investigation of the first part of my enthymem) 
 deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus; aSS^give 
 me your reasons, I say, directly." — " I protest," 
 cried Moses, " I don't rightly comprehend the force 
 of your reasoning ; but if it be reduced to one 
 single proposition, I fancy it may then have an 
 answer." — " Oh, sir," cried the Squire, ' I am your 
 most humble servant ; I find you want me to furnish 
 you with arguments and intellect too. No, sir, 
 there I protest you are too hard for me." This 
 effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who 
 sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces ; 
 nor did he offer a single syllable more during the whole 
 entertainment. 
 
 37 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very 
 different effect upon Ohvia, who mistook it for humour, 
 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 ^patiate)upoi)i the common topics 
 of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising 
 then, that such talents should win the affections of a girl 
 who by education was taught to value an appearance 
 in herself, and consequently to set a value upon it in 
 another. 
 
 Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate 
 upon the merits of our young landlord. As he directed 
 his looks cmd 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 ^e much displeased 
 at the innocent{TaiT5r^ 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'll fairly own, that it was I that in- 
 structed my girls to encourage our landlord's addresses. 
 I had always some ambition, and you now see that I 
 was right ; for who knows how this may end ? " — " Ay, 
 who knows that indeed ! " answered I, with a groan : 
 " for my part, I don't much hke it ; and I could have 
 been better pleased with one that was poor and honest, 
 than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infideUty ; 
 for depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no free- 
 thinker shall ever have a child of mine." 
 
 38 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " Sure, father," cried Moses, " you are too severe in 
 this ; for Heaven will never arraign him for what 
 he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a 
 thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his 
 power to suppress. Thinking freely of rehgion 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 Wind to many of the proofs that offer. So that, 
 though our ferr oneq^ opinions be involuntary when 
 formed, yet as we have been wilfully corrupt, or very 
 neghgent 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 freethinkers, and made 
 very good husbands ; and she knew some sensible 
 girls that had skill enough to make converts of their 
 spouses. " And who knows, my dear," continued she, 
 " what Olivia may be able to do. The girl has a great 
 deal to say upon every subject, and, to my knowledge, 
 is very well skilled in controversy." 
 
 " Why, my dear, what controversy can she have 
 read ? " cried I. " It does not occur to me that I ever 
 put such books into her hands : you certainly overrate 
 her merit." — " Indeed, papa," repUed Oh via, " she does 
 
 39 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 not : I have read a great deal of controversy. I have 
 read the disputes between Thwackum and Square; 
 the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and Friday 
 the savage ; and I am now employed in reading the 
 controversy in Rehgious Courtship."^" Very well," 
 cried I, " that's a good girl ; I find you are perfectly 
 qualified for making converts, and so go help your 
 mother to make the gooseberry pie." 
 
 40 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FORTUNE, YET MAY 
 BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH GOOD 
 
 The next morning we were again visited by Mr. Burchell, 
 though I began, for certain reasons, to be displeased 
 with the frequency of his return ; but I could not refuse 
 him my company and my fireside. It is true, his labour 
 more than requited his entertainment ; for he wrought 
 amonpt-us-swth vigour, and, either in the meadow or at 
 the ^ay-ri^s/ put himself foremost. Besides, he had 
 always something amusing to say that lessened our toil, 
 and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, 
 that I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dis- 
 like arose from an attachment he discovered to my 
 daughter. He would, in a jesting manner, call her his 
 little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a 
 set of ribands, hers was the finest. I know not how, 
 but he every day seemed to become more amiable, his 
 wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the superior 
 airs of wisdom. 
 
 Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather 
 rechned, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread 
 upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness to 
 the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two black- 
 birds answered each other from opposite hedges, the 
 
 41 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 familiar redbreast came and picked the crumbs from our 
 hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of tran- 
 quilhty. " I never sit thus," said Sophia, " but I think 
 of the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr. Gay, who 
 were struck dead in each other's arms. There is some- 
 thing so pathetic in the description, that I have read it 
 a 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 pathetic depends."—" It is remarkable," 
 cried Mr. Burchell, " that both the poets you mention 
 have equally contributed to introduce a false taste into 
 their respective countries, by loading all their lines with 
 e2Mthet. Men of httle genius found them most easily 
 imitated in their defects ; and Enghsh poetry, Uke 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 carryjng-tyi the sense. But perhaps, madam, 
 while I thus(repiehpH9 others, you'll think it just that I 
 should give mem an opportunity to retaliate ; and, 
 indeed, I have made this remark only to have an oppor- 
 tunity of introducing to the company a ballad which, 
 whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free 
 fx"om those I have mentioned." 
 
 A BALLAD 
 
 "Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale. 
 And guide my lonely way 
 To where yon taper cheers the vale 
 With hospitable ray. 
 
 43 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " For here forlorn and lost 1 tread. 
 With fainting steps and slow; 
 Where wilds, itnmeasurabljs spread, 
 Seem length'ning as I gt^" 
 
 " Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
 " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 
 For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 To lure thee to thy doort. 
 
 "Here to the houseless child of want 
 My door is open still : 
 And though my portion is hut scant, 
 1 give it with gocd will. 
 
 " Then turn to-nigtit, and freely tha'e 
 Whale'er my cell bestows ; 
 My rushy couch and frugal fare. 
 My blessing and repose. 
 
 " No flocks that range the valley free 
 To slaughter I condemn ; 
 Taught by that Power that pities rac, 
 I learn to pity them ; 
 
 But from the mountaiEi's grassy side 
 
 A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 A/SCrl^ with herbs and fruits supplied, 
 
 ftim water from the spring. 
 
 " Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego ; 
 All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 Man wants but little here below. 
 Nor wants that little long." 
 
 Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 
 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 The modest stranger lowly b^ds, 
 
 And foUovirs to the cell. 
 
 Tar in a wilderness obscure 
 
 The lonely mansion lay, 
 A refuge to the neighbouring poor, 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 43 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 trimm'd his little fire, 
 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest : 
 
 And spread his vegetable store, 
 And gaily 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 oppress'd : 
 
 And " Whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
 " The sorrows of thy breast ? 
 
 " From better habitations spurn' d, 
 Reluctant dost thou rove? 
 Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
 Or unregarded love? 
 
 " Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
 Are trifling, and decay ; 
 And those who prize the paltry things, 
 More trifling still than they. 
 
 " And what is friendship but a name, 
 A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 A shade that follows wealth or fame. 
 But leaves the wretch to weep ? 
 
 44 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " And love is still an emptier sound. 
 The modern fair- one's jest ; 
 On earth unseen, or only found 
 To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 " For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush. 
 And spurn the sex," he said ; 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betray'd. 
 
 Surprised he sees new beauties rise. 
 
 Swift mantling to the view ; 
 Like colours o'er the morning skies. 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 
 Alternate spread alarms ; 
 The lovely stranger stands confessed 
 
 A maid in all her charms. 
 
 And, " Ah ! forgive a stranger rude — 
 A wretch forlorn," she cried; 
 " Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
 Where Heaven and you reside. 
 
 " But let a maid thy pity share, 
 Whom love has taught to btray : 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 Companion of her way. 
 
 " My father lived beside the Tyne, 
 A wealthy lord was he ; 
 And all his wealth was raark'd as mine. 
 He had but only me. 
 
 " To win me from his tender arms 
 Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
 Who praised me for imputed charms, 
 And felt, or feign'd, a flame. 
 
 " Each hour a mercenary crowd 
 With richest proffers strove ; 
 Amongst the rest, young Edwin bow'd, 
 But never talked of love. 
 
 45 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " In humble, simple habit clad, 
 No wealth not power had he ; 
 Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
 But these were all to me. 
 
 " And when, beside me in the dale, 
 He caroll'd lays o£ 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 nought of purity display 
 To emulate his mind. 
 
 " The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 With charms inconstant shine : 
 Their charms were his, but, woe to me, 
 Their constancy was mine. 
 
 " Forjtill-Ljried each fickle art, 
 ^ foiportuna tg>and vain ; 
 And, while his passion touch'd my heart, 
 I triumph'd in his pain. 
 
 " Till, quiteMl gjecte df with my scorn. 
 He left me to my pride; 
 And sought a solitude forlorn. 
 In secret, where he died. 
 
 "But mine the sorrow, mine tiie fault. 
 And well my life shall pay; 
 I'll seek the solitude he sought. 
 And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 "And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, 
 I'll lay me down and die ; 
 'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 And so for him will I." 
 
 " Forbid it, Heaven ! " the Hermit cried, 
 And clasp 'd her to his breast : 
 The wondering fair one turn'd to chide — 
 'Twas Edwin's self that pressed ! 
 
 46 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " Turn, Angelina, ever dear. 
 My <;harmer, turn to see 
 Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 Restored to love and thee. 
 
 "Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 And every care resign : 
 And shall we never, never part. 
 My life — my all that's mine ? 
 
 " No, never from thi^ hour to part. 
 We'll live and love so true. 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 Shall break thine 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 report of a gun 
 just by us, and, immediately after, a man was seen 
 bursting through the hedge, to take tip the game he had 
 killed. This sportsman was the Squire's chaplain, who 
 had shot one of the blackbirds that :so agreeably enter- 
 tained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled my 
 daughters ; and I could perceive that Sophia in the 
 fright had thrown herself into Mr. Burchell's arms for 
 protection. The gentleman came up, and asked pardon 
 for having disturbed us, affirming that he was ignorant 
 of our being so near. He therefore sat down by my 
 youngest daughter, and, sportsman-hke, offered her 
 what he had killed that morning. She was going to 
 refuse, but a private look from her mother soon induced 
 her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though 
 with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered 
 her pride in a whisper, observing, that Sophy had made 
 a conquest of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the 
 Squire, I suspected, however, with more probability 
 
 47 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 that her affections were placed upan a different object. 
 The chaplain's errand was to inform us, that Mr.Thomhill 
 had provided music and refreshments ; and intended that 
 night giving the young ladies a ball by moonlight, on 
 the grass-plot before our door. " Nor can I deny," 
 continued he, " but I have an interest in being first to 
 deliver this message, as I expect for my reward to be 
 honoured with Miss Sophia's hand as a partner." To 
 this my girl replied that she should have no objection, 
 if she could do it with honour ; " But here," continued 
 she, " is a gentleman,'' looking at Mr. BurcheU, " who 
 has been my companion in the task of the day, and it is 
 fit he should share in its amusement." Mr. BurcheU 
 returned her a compUment for her intentions, but re- 
 signed her up to the chaplain ; adding, that he was to go 
 that night five miles, being invited to a harvest supper. 
 His refusal appeared to me a little extraordinary ; nor 
 could I conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest 
 could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose 
 expectations were much greater. But as men are most 
 \/ capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies 
 often form the truest judgments of us. The two sexes 
 seem placed as spies upon each other, and are furnished 
 with different abiUties, adapted for mutual inspection. 
 
 48 
 
,.,-~Ki;?V«S, 
 
 ^=^W,r#===^ 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. SUPERIOR 
 FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPERIOR BREEDING 
 
 Mr. 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 des- 
 patched to borrow a couple of chairs ; and as we were in 
 want of ladies to make up a set at country dances, the 
 two gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of 
 partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. The 
 gentlemen returned with my neighbour Flamborough's 
 rosy daughters, flaunting with red to p-knot s ; but 
 an unlucky circumstance was not ^verte^ to, — 
 though the Miss Flamboroughs were recfe^edthe very 
 best dancers in the parish, and understood the jig and 
 the roundabout to perfection, yet they were totally 
 
 V.w. 
 
 49 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 unacquainted with country dances.= This at first dis- 
 composed us : however, after a little shoving and drag- 
 ging, 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 dehght of the spectators ; for the 
 neighbours, hearing what was going forward, came 
 flocking about us. My girl moved with so much grace 
 and vivacity, that my wife could not avoid discovering 
 the pride-^f her heart by assuring me that, though the 
 little i^ij xdid it so cleverly, all the steps were stolen 
 from herself. The ladies of the town strove hard to 
 be equally eas52,_^t without success. They swam, 
 sprawled/IanguMiea, and frisked ; but all would not 
 do ; the gazers indeed owned that it was fine ; but 
 neighbour Flamborough observed that Miss Livy's feet 
 seemed as pat to the music as its echo. After the dance 
 had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were 
 apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the 
 ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments 
 upon this occasion in a very coarse manner when she 
 observed, that, by th&-Mvin^ jinso—ske-wa s all of a W Mok 
 oljwegi. Upon our return to the house, we found a very 
 elegant cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered 
 to be brought with him. The conversation at this time 
 was more reserved than before. The two ladies threw 
 my girls quite in the shade ; for they would talk of 
 nothing but high hfe, and high-hved company ; with 
 other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shake- 
 speare, and the musical glasses. 'Tis true they once 
 or twice mortified us sensibly by sUpping out an oath ; 
 but that appeared to me as the siurest symptom of their 
 
 50 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 distinction (though I am since informed that swearing is 
 perfectly unfashionable). Their finery, however, threw 
 a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My 
 daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplish- 
 ments with envy ; and w hatever appeared aia iss, was 
 ascrib ed to tip-top quality bree ding- But the con- 
 descension of the ladies was still superior to their other 
 accompUshments. One of them observed that, had 
 Miss Olivia seen a httle more of the world, it would greatly 
 improve her ; to which the other added, that a single 
 winter in town would make her little Sophia quite an- 
 other 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 pohshing. To this I 
 xould not help replying, that their br eeding was alread y 
 suEerior _to their fortune T and t hat; greater re finement 
 woul d only se rvgJejJiake-flieli puverty-fidi EiSQUsr'an d 
 giv e them a taste for pleasures they had no right to 
 possess. "lSTJ~^i5terpleasufesr'' cried Mr. ihonffiill 
 " do they not deserve to possess, who have so much in 
 their power to bestow ? As for my part," continued he, 
 " my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and pleasure 
 are my maxims ; but, curse me, if a settlement of half 
 my estate could give my charming OHvia pleasure, 
 it should be hers ; and the only favour I would ask in 
 return would be to add myself to the benefit." I was 
 not such a stranger to the world as to be ignorant that 
 this was the fashionable (caM to disguise the insolence 
 of the basest proposal ; butimade an effort to suppress 
 my resentment. " Sir," cried I, " the family which you 
 now condescend to favour with youf company has been 
 bred with as nice a sense of honour as you. Any 
 
 51 E2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAf £FIELD 
 
 attempts to injure that may be attended with very 
 dangerous consequences. Honour, sir, is our only 
 possession at present, and of that last treasure we 
 must be particularly careful." I was soon sorry for 
 the warmth with which I had spoken this, when the 
 young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he com- 
 mended my spirit, though he disapproved my suspicions. 
 " As to your present hint," continued he, " I protest 
 nothing was farther from my heart than such a thought. 
 No, by all that's tempting ! the virtue that will stand a 
 regular siege was never to my taste ; for all my amours 
 are carried by a coup-de-main." 
 
 The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the 
 rest, seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of 
 freedom, and began a very discreet and serious dialogue 
 upon virtue : in this, my wife, the chaplain, and I, soon 
 joined ; and the Squire himself Was at last brought 
 to confess a sense of sorrow for his former excesses. 
 We talked of the pleasures of temperance, and of the 
 sunshine in the mind unpolluted with guilt. I was 
 so well pleased, that my little ones were kept up 
 beyond the usual time to be edified by so much good 
 conversation. Mr. Thomhill even went beyond me, and 
 demanded if I had any objection to giving prayers. I 
 joyfully embraced the proposal ; and in this manner the 
 night was passed in a most comfortable way, till at length 
 the company began to think of returning. The ladies 
 seemed very unwilling to part with my daughters, for 
 whom they had conceived a particular affection, and 
 joined in a request to have the pleasure of their company 
 home. The Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife 
 added her entreaties ; the girls, too, looked upon me as 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 if they wished to go. In this perplexity, I made two or 
 three excuses, which my daughters as readily re moved ; 
 so that at last I was obliged to give a ^eremptoj 
 refusal, for which we had nothing but sullen looks and 
 short answers the whole day ensuing. 
 
 53 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE FAMILY ENDEAVOUR TO COPE WITH THEIR BETTERS, 
 THE MISERIES OF THE POOR, WHEN THEY ATTEMPT TO 
 APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIRCUMSTA'NCES 
 
 I NOW began to find that all my long, and painful lectures 
 upon temperance, simplicity, and contentment were 
 entirely disregarded. The distinctions lately paid us 
 by our betters awakened that pride which I had laid 
 asleep, but not removed. Our windows, again, as 
 formerly, were fiUed 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 co nvinced me that the h ands neve r 
 1nnlfpd_fin whitft ns whf^n thf}' did nothing InsteaH 
 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. 
 
 But we could have borne all this, had not a fortune- 
 telling gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity. 
 
 54 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my girls 
 came running to me for a shilling apiece to cross her 
 hand with silver. To say the truth, I was tired of 
 bei ng always wise , and could not help gratifying their 
 request, because I loved to see them happy. I gave 
 each of them a shilhng ; though for the honour of 
 the family it must be observed, that they never went 
 without money themselves, as my wife always generously 
 let them have a guinea each, to keep in their pockets, 
 but with strict injunctions never to change it. After 
 they had been closeted up with the fortune-teller for 
 some time, I knew by their looks, upon their returning, 
 that they had been promised something great. " Well, 
 my girls, how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the 
 fortune-teller given thee a pennyworth ? " — " I protest, 
 papa,'' says the girl, " I believe sh e desk with Rnn ;iebodv ! 
 th at's n n^ 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 shiUings ? Only a Lord and a 
 Squire for two shillings ? You fools, I could have 
 promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half the money." 
 
 This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with 
 very serious effects : we now began to think ourselves 
 designed by the stars to something exalted, and already 
 anticipated our future grandeur. 
 
 It has been a thousand times observed, and I must 
 observe it once more, that the hours we pass with happy 
 prospects in view, are more pleasing than those crowned 
 
 55 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 with fruition. In the first case, we cook the dish to our 
 own appetite ; in the latter, nature cooks it for us. 
 It is impossible to repeat the train of agreeable reveries 
 we called up for our entertainment. We looked upon 
 our fortunes as once more rising ; and, as the whole 
 parish asserted that the Squire was in love with my 
 daughter, she was actually so with him ; f or they 
 .^ersuad£d___her_ia±Q_Jie-,^gassion. 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 daughter's pockets 
 filled with farthings, 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. 
 
 Toward the end of the week we received a card 
 from the two ladies ; in which, with their compliments, 
 they hoped to see all our family at church the Sunday 
 following. All Saturday morning I could perceive, 
 in consequence of this, my wife and daughters in close 
 conference together, and now and then 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 splendour the next day. 
 In the evening they began their operations in a very 
 regular manner, and my wife imdertook to conduct the 
 siege. After tea, when I seemed in spirits, she began 
 thus : — " I fancy, Charles, my dear, we shall have a 
 
 56 
 
AN ATTACHMENT HE DISCOVERED TO MV DAUGHTER 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 great deal of good company at our church to-morrow." — 
 " Perhaps we may, my dear," returned I, " though you 
 need be under no uneasiness about that ; you shall have 
 a sermon whether there be or not." — " That is what 
 I expect," returned she ; " but I think, my dear, we 
 ought to appear there as decently as possible, for who 
 knows what may happen ? " — " Your precautions," 
 repUed I, " are highly commendable. A decent be- 
 haviour and appearance in church is what charms me. 
 We should be devout and humble, cheerful and serene." — 
 " Yes," cried she, " I know that ; but I mean we should 
 go there in as proper a manner as possible ; not altogether 
 hke the "scrubs about us." — " You aire 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." — " Pooh, Charles," in- 
 terrupted she, " all that is very true ; but not what I 
 would be at : I mean, we should go there genteeUy. 
 You know the church is two miles off, and I protest I 
 don't hke to see my daughters trudging up to their 
 pew aU blowzed and red with walking, and looking for 
 all the world as if they had been winners at a smock race. 
 Now, my dear, my proposal is this : there are our two 
 plough-horses, the Colt that hcis been in our family these 
 nine years, and his companion Blackberry, that has 
 scarce done an earthly thing for this month past. 
 They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should not they 
 do something as well as we ? And let me tell you, when 
 Moses has trimmed them a httle, they will cut a very 
 tolerable figme." 
 To this proposal I objected that walking would be 
 
 57 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 twenty times more genteel than such a paltry convey- 
 ance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the Colt wanted 
 a tail ; that they had never been broke to the rein, but 
 had a hundredjdcious tricks ; and that we had but one 
 saddle and^lhoiyin the whole house. All these objec- 
 tions, however, were overruled ; so that I was obliged to 
 comply. The next morning I perceived them not a 
 little busy in collecting such materials as might be 
 necessary for the expedition ; but, as I found it would 
 be a business of time, I walked on to the church before, 
 and they promised speedily to follow. I waited near an 
 hour in the reading desk for their arrival ; but not finding 
 them come as expected, I was obhged 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 upon one horse, and my 
 two daughters on the other. I demanded the cause of 
 their delay ; but I soon found by their looks they had 
 met with a thousand misfortunes ion the road. The 
 horses had at first refused to move from the door, till 
 Mr. Burchell was kind enough to beat them forward 
 for about two hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, 
 the straps of my wife's pillion broke down, and they were 
 obliged to stop to repair them before they could proceed. 
 After that, one of the horses took it into his head to 
 stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could 
 prevail with him to proceed. It Nvas just recovering 
 
 58 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 from this dismal situation that I found them ; but 
 perceiving everjrthing 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. 
 
 59 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR HEADS 
 
 MiCHAELMAS-EvE happening on the next day, we were 
 invited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbour 
 Flamborough's. Our late mortifications had humbled 
 us a httle, or it is probable we might have rejected such 
 an invitation with contempt : however, we suffered 
 ourselves to be happy. Our honest neighbour'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 telUng 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 bliijd-man's buff. My 
 wife, too, was persuaded to join in the diversion, and it 
 gave me pleasure to think she was not yet too old. In 
 the meantime, my neighbour and I looked on, laughed at 
 every feat, and prai^d our own dexterity when we 
 were young. Hot ,^ock^ succeeded next, questions 
 and commands follovredTthat, and, last of all, they sat 
 down to hunt the slipper. As every person may not 
 
 60 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 be acquainted with this primeval pastime, it may be 
 necessary to observe, that the company in this play 
 plant themselves in a ring upon the ground, all except 
 one, who stands in the middle, whose business it is to 
 catch a shoe, which the company shove about under 
 their ift^£3rom 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, an.d thumped about, 
 all blowzed, in spirits, and bawling for fair play, 
 with a voice that might deafen a ballad-singer, when, 
 confusion on confusion ! who should enter the room 
 but our two great acquaintances from town, Lad]^ 
 Blarn ey and Miss Carolina Wilelmina __A meha Skeggs ! 
 D^cription would but beggar, therefore it is unneces- 
 sary to describe, this new mortification. Death ! To 
 be seen by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar 
 attitudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a 
 vulgar play of Mr. Flamborough's proposing. We 
 seemed struck to the ground for some time, as if actually 
 petrified with amazement. 
 
 The two ladies had been at our house to see us, and 
 finding us from home, came after us hither, as they 
 were uneasy to know what accident could have kept 
 us from church the day before. Olivia undertook 
 to be our /^foiocuto)r, and delivered the whole in a 
 summary wayT^only saying, " We were thrown from 
 our horses." At which account the ladies were greatly 
 concerned ; but being told the family received no hurt, 
 
 6i 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 they were extremely glad ; but being informed that we 
 were almost killed by the fright, they were vastly sorry ; 
 but hearing that we had a very good night, they were 
 extremely glad again. Nothing could exceed their 
 complaisance to my daughters : their professions the 
 last evening were warm, but now they were ardent. 
 They protested a desire for a more lasting 
 acquaintance. Lady Blarney was particularly attached 
 to Olivia ; Miss Carolina Wilelmina AmeUa Skeggs 
 (I love to give the whole name) took a greater fancy 
 to her sister. They supported the conversation between 
 themselves, while my daughters sat silent, admiring 
 their exalted breeding. But as every reader, however 
 beggarly himself, is fond of high-Uved dialogues, with 
 anecdotes of Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, 
 I must beg leave to give him the concluding part of 
 the 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 
 colours, my Lady fell into a swoon, but Sir Tomkyn, 
 drawing his sword, swore he was hers to the last drop 
 of his blood." 
 
 " Well," repUed our Peeress, " this I can say, that the 
 Duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, and I 
 beheve her Grace would keep nothing a secret from me. 
 This you may depend upon as fact, that the next 
 morning my Lord Duke cried out three times to his 
 valet-de-chambre, Jemigan ! Jernigan ! Jernigan ! 
 bring me my garters." 
 
 But previously I should have mentioned the very 
 
 62 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 impolite behaviour of Mr. Burchell, who, during this 
 discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, and, at the 
 conclusion of every sentence, would cry out " Fudge ! " 
 an expression which displeased us aH, and, in some 
 measure, damped the rising spirit of the conversation. 
 
 " Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress, 
 " there is nothing of this in the copy oi 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 £imusement. But can your Ladyship favour me 
 with a sight of them ? " — " Fudge ! " 
 
 " My dear creature," repUed our Peeress, " do you 
 think I carry such things about me ? Though they 
 are very fine, to be sure, and I thii|k myself some- 
 thing of a judge — at least I know what pleases myself. 
 Indeed, I was ever an admirer of all Dr. Burdock's httle 
 pieces ; for, except what he does, and our dear Countess 
 at Hanover Square, there's nothing comes out but the 
 most lowest stuff in nature ; not a bit of high life among 
 them."—" Fudge ! " 
 
 " Your Ladyship should except," says the other, 
 " your own things in the Lady's Mg.gazine. I hope 
 you'll say there's nothing low-Uved there ? But I 
 suppose we are to have no more from that quarter ? " 
 — " Fudge ! " 
 
 " Why, my dear," says the lady, " you know my 
 reader and companion has left me, to be married to 
 Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer me 
 to write myself, I have been for some time looking out 
 for another. A proper person is no easy matter to find ; 
 and, to be sure, thirty pounds a year is a small stipend 
 
 63 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 for a well-bred girl of^jcharacter, that can read, write 
 and behave in company ; as for the chits about town 
 there is no bearing them about one."—" Fudge ! " 
 
 " That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, " by experience. 
 For of the three companions I had this last half year, 
 one of them refused to do plain-work an hour in the day ; 
 another thought twenty-five guineas a year too small 
 a salary ; and I was obhged 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 shiUings English money, 
 all which was in a manner going abegging, 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 tqrTiarang^ for the family. " I hope," 
 cried she, " youTTJadyship will pardon my present 
 presumption. It is true, we have no right to pretend to 
 such favours ; but yet it is natural for me to wish 
 putting my children forward in the world. And, I will 
 be bold to say, my two girls have had a pretty good 
 education and capacity; at least the country can't 
 show better. They read, write, and cast accounts; 
 
 64 
 
WE FOUND OUR LANDLORD WITH TWO LADIES OF FASHION. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 they understand their needle, broadstitch, cross and 
 change, and all manner of plain-wofk ; they can pink, 
 point, and frill, and know something of music ; they can 
 do up small clothes, and work upon catgut ; my eldest 
 can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty man- 
 ner of teUing fort unes upon the cards. "—" Fudge ! " 
 
 When'sfieTiag^ehvered'this prg tty piece of eloque nce, 
 the two ladies looked at each other a few minutes in 
 silence, with an air of doubt and importance. At 
 last Miss Carolina Wilehnina AmeUa Skeggs con- 
 descended to observe that the young ladies, from the 
 opinion she could form of them from so sUght an 
 acquaintance, seemed very fit for such employments. 
 " But a thing of this kind, Madam," cried she, addressing 
 my spouse, " requires a thorough examination into 
 characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each other. 
 Not, Madam," continued she, " that I in the least sus- 
 pect the young ladies' virtue, prudence, and discretion ; 
 but there is a form in these things. Madam — there is 
 a form." — "Fudge!" 
 
 My wife approved her suspicions very much, observing 
 that she was very apt to be suspicious herself, but 
 referred her to all the neighbours for a character ; but 
 this our Peeress declined as unnecessary, alleging that 
 her cousin Thomhill's recommendation would be 
 sufficient ; and upon this we rested Our petition. 
 
 v.w 65 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY OF 
 WAKEFIELD. MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN MORE PAIN- 
 FUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES 
 
 When we were returned home, the night was dedicated 
 to schemes of future conquest. Deborah exerted much 
 sagacity in conjecturing which of the two girls was likely 
 to have the best place, and most opportunities of seeing 
 good company. The only obstacle to our preferment 
 was in obtaining the Squire's recommendation ; but he 
 had already shown us too many instances of his friendship 
 to doubt of it now. Even in bed, my wife kept up the 
 usual theme : " Well, faith, my dear Charles, between 
 ourselves, I think we have made an excellent day's 
 work of it." — " Pretty well ! " cried I, not knowing what 
 to say. " What, only pretty well ? " returned she : 
 " I think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come 
 to make acquaintances of taste in town ! This I am 
 assured of, that London is the only place in the world 
 for all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, stranger 
 things happen every day : and as ladies of quahty are 
 so taken with my daughters, what will not men of 
 quahty be ? Entre nous, I protest I hke my Lady 
 Blarney vastly — so very obliging. However, Miss 
 Carohna Wilelmina Ameha Skeggs has my warm heart. 
 
 66 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 t'he better for it this 
 day three months ! " This was one of those observations 
 I usually made to impress my wife with an opinion of 
 my sagacity ; for if the girls succeeded, then it was a 
 pious wish fulfilled ; but if anything unfortunate ensued, 
 then it might be looked upon as a prophecy. - All this 
 conversation, however, was only preparatory to another 
 scheme ; and indeed I dreaded as much. This was 
 nothing less than that, as we were now to hold up oiu- 
 heads a httle higher in the world, it would be proper 
 to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neighbouring 
 fair, and buy us a horse that would carry a single or 
 double upon an occasion, and make a pretty appearance 
 at church, or upon a visit. This at first I opposed 
 stoutly ; but it was as stoutly defended. However, as I 
 weakened, my antagonist gained strength, till at last it 
 was resolved to part with him. 
 
 As the fair happened on the following day, I had 
 intentions of going myself ; but my wife persuaded me 
 that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail upon 
 her to permit me from home. " No, my dear," said she, 
 "our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can buy and 
 sell to very good advantage ; you know aU our great 
 bargains are of his purchasing. He always stands out 
 andfiiggl^ and actually tires them tilLhe gets a bargain." 
 
 AsTTlaa some opinion of my son's prudence, I was 
 willing enough to entrust him with this commission ; 
 and the next morning I perceived his sisters mighty 
 
 67 F2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 busy in fitting out Moses for the fair ; trimming his 
 hair, brushing his buckles, and cdcking his hat with 
 pins. The business of the toilet being over, we had at 
 last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted upon the 
 Colt, with a deal box before him to bring home groceries 
 in. He had on a coat made of that cloth they call 
 thunder-and-hghtning, which, though grown too short, 
 was much too good to be thrown away. His waistcoat 
 was of a gosHng green, and his sisters had tied his hair 
 with a broad black ribbon. We all followed him 
 several paces from the door, bawling after him, " Good 
 luck ! good luck ! " till we could see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarce gone, when Mr. Thornhill's butler 
 came to congratulate us upon our ^ood fortune, saying 
 that he overheard his young master mention our names 
 with great commendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. 
 Another footman from the same family followed, with 
 a card for my daughters, importing that the two ladies 
 had received such pleasing accounts from Mr. Thornhill 
 of us all, that after a few previous inquiries they hoped 
 to be perfectly satisfied. " Ay," cried my wife, " I now 
 see it is no easy matter to get into the families of the 
 great ; but when one once gets in, then, as Moses says, 
 one may go to sleep." To this piece of humour, for 
 she intended it for wit, my daughters assented with a 
 loud laugh of pleasure. In short, such was her satis- 
 faction 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 
 
 68 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 my little ones a pennyworth of gingerbread each, which 
 my wife undertook to keep for them, and give them by 
 httles at a time. He brought lay daughters also a 
 couple of boxes, in which they might? keep wafers, snuff, 
 patches, or even money, when they got it. My wife 
 was usually fond of a weasel-skin -purse, as being the 
 most lucky ; but this by the by. We had still a regard 
 for Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behaviour was in 
 some measure displeasing ; nor could we now avoid 
 communicating our happiness to him, and asking his 
 advice ; although we seldom followed advice, we were 
 all ready enough to ask it. When he read the note from 
 the two ladies, he shook his head, and observed, that 
 an affair of this sort demanded the utmost circumspec- 
 tion. 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 circum- 
 spection than is wanted. However, I fancy when we 
 come to ask advice, we shall apply to persons who seem 
 to have made use of it 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 wit, I changed the subject, by seeming to 
 wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, as 
 it was now almost nightfall. " Never mind our son," 
 cried my wife ; " depend upon it he knows what he is 
 about. I'll warrant we'll never see him sell his hen of 
 a rainy day. I have seen him buy such bargains as 
 would amaze one, I'll tell you a good story about 
 
 69 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 that, that will make you spUt your sides with laughing. 
 — But, as I Uve, yonder comes Moses, without a horse, 
 and the box at his back." 
 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and 
 sweating under the deal box, which he had strapt 
 round his shoulders Uke 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 dn the 
 dresser. " Ay, Moses," cried my wife, " that we 
 know ; but where is the horse ? "^" I have sold him," 
 cried Moses, " for three pounds five shillings and two- 
 pence." — " Well done, my good boy/' returned she ; " I 
 knew you would touch them off. Between ourselves, 
 three pounds five shillings and twopence is no bad 
 day's work. Come, let us have it then." — " I have 
 brought back no money," cried Moses again. " I have 
 laid it all out in a bargain, and here it is," pulling out 
 a bundle from his breast : " here they^xe; a gross of 
 green spectacles, with silver rims and^hagr e^Tiy ses." — 
 " A gross of green spectacles ! " repeatedrlhy wife, in a 
 faint voice. " And you have parted with the colt, and 
 brought us back nothing but a gross of green paltry 
 spectacles ! " — " Dear mother," cried the boy, " why 
 won't you listen to reason ? I had them a dead bargain, 
 or I should not have brought thefti. The silver rims 
 alone will sell for double the money." — " A fig for the 
 silver rims ! " cried my wife, in a passion : " I dare swear 
 they won't sell for above half the money at the rate of 
 broken silver, five shillings an ounce." — " You need be 
 under no uneasiness," cried I, " about selUng the rims, 
 for they are not worth sixpence ; ior I perceive they 
 
 70 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 are only copper varnished over." — ■" What ! " cried my 
 ^fe, " 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 S^miiptake 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 ijindeceived 
 He now saw that he had indeed been imposed upon by a 
 prowling sharper, who, observing his figure, had marked 
 him for an easy prey, I therefore asked the circum- 
 stances of his deception. He sold the horse, it seems, 
 and walked the fair in search of another. A reverend- 
 looking man brought him to a tent, under pretence of 
 having one to sell. " Here," continued Moses, " we 
 met another man, very well dressed, who desired to 
 borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying that he 
 wanted money, and would dispose of them for a third 
 of the value. The first gentleman, -who pretended to 
 be my friend, whispered me to buy them, and cautioned 
 me not to let so good an offer pass. I sent for Mr. 
 Flamborough, and they talked him up as finely as they 
 did me ; and so at last we were persuaded to buy the 
 two gross between us." 
 
 71 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BK AN ENEMY FOR HE HAS 
 THE CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE ADVICE 
 
 Our family had now made several attempts to be fine ; 
 but some unforeseen disaster demolished each as soon 
 as projected. I endeavoured to take the advantage 
 of every disappointment to improve their good sense, 
 in proportion as they were frustrated in ambition. 
 " You see, my children," cried I, " how little is to be 
 got by attempts to impose upon the world in coping 
 with our betters. Such as are poor, and will associate 
 with none but the rich, are hated by those they avoid, 
 and despised by those they follow. Unequal combina- 
 tions are always disadvantageous to the weaker side : 
 the rich having the pleasure, and the poor the incon- 
 veniences that result from them. But come, Dick, my 
 boy, and repeat the fable you were reading to-day, for 
 the good of the company." 
 
 " Once upon a time," cried the child, " a Giant and a 
 Dwarf were friends, and kept together. They made 
 a bargain that they would never forsake each other, 
 but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought 
 was with two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very 
 courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry 
 blow. It did the Saracen but very httle injury, who, 
 
 72 
 
rue VEtav BPST 
 
 THE PARISH. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 lifting up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf's 
 arm. He was now in a woeful plight ; but the Giant, 
 coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two 
 Saracens dead on the plain, and the Dwarf cut off the 
 dead man's head out of spite. They then 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 Uke to have been killed more 
 than once. At last the victory declared for the two 
 adventurers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. The Dwarf 
 had now lost an arm, a leg, and an eye, while the Giant 
 was without a single wound ; upon which he cried 
 out to his' little companion, ' My little hero, this is 
 glorious sport ! let us get one victory more, and then 
 we shall have honour for ever.' — ' No,' cries the Dwarf, 
 who was by this time grown wiser, ' no, I declare off ; 
 I'll fight no more : for I find in every battle that you 
 get all the honour and rewards, but all the blows fall 
 upon me.' " 
 
 I was going to moralise upon this fable, when our 
 
 7Z 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 attention was called off to a warm dispute between my 
 wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' intended 
 expedition to town. My wife very strenuously insisted 
 upon the advantages that would result from it. Mr. 
 Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with great 
 ardour ; and I stood neuter. His present dissuasions 
 seemed but the second part of those which were received 
 with so ill a grace in the morning. The dispute grew 
 high ; while poor Deborah, instead of reasoning stronger, 
 talked louder, and at last was obliged to take shelter 
 from defeat in clamour. The conclusion of her 
 harangue, however, was highly displeasing to us all : she 
 knew, she said, of some who had their secret reasons for 
 what they advised ; but, for her part, she wished such 
 to stay away from her house for the 'future. " Madam," 
 cried Burchell, with looks of great composure, which 
 tended to inflame her the more, " as for secret reasons, 
 you are right : I have secret reasons, which I forbear to 
 mention, 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 atte mpts of Sophia, 
 whose looks seemed to upbraid his^e^pitancy,^revent 
 his going. 
 
 When gone, we all regarded each other for some 
 minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself 
 to be the cause, strove to hide her concern with a forced 
 smile, and an air of assurance, which I was willing to 
 reprove. " How, woman," cried I to her, " is it thus we 
 treat strangers ? Is it thus we return their kindness ? 
 
 74 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Be assured, my dear, that these were the harshest words, 
 and to me the most unpleasing, that ever escaped your 
 lips ! "— " Why would he provoke me, then ? " replied 
 she ; " but I know the motives of his advice perfectly 
 well. He would prevent my girls from going to town, 
 that he may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter's 
 company here at home. But, whatever happens, she 
 shall choose better company than such low-lived fellows 
 as he." — " Low-lived, my dear, do you call him ? " 
 cried I ; " it is very possible we may mistake this man's 
 character, for he seems, upon some occasions, the most 
 finished gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my 
 girl, has he ever given you any secret instances of his 
 attachment ? " — " His conversation with me, sir," 
 replied my daughter, " has ever been sensible, modest, 
 and pleasing. As to aught else — ^no, never. Once, 
 indeed, I remember to have heard him say, he never knew 
 a woman who could find merit in a man that seemed 
 poor." — " Such, my dear," cried I, " is the common cant 
 of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope you have 
 been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it 
 would be even madness to expect happiness from one 
 who has been so very bad an economist of his own. 
 Your mother and I have now better prospects for you. 
 The next winter, which you will probably spend in 
 town, will give you opportunities of making a more 
 prudent choice." 
 
 What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion I 
 cannot pretend to determine ; but I was not displeased 
 at the bottom that we were rid of a guest from whom 
 I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitaUty went to 
 my conscience a little ; but I quickly silenced that 
 
 75 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 monitor by two or three specious reasons, which served 
 to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The pain which 
 conscience gives the man who has already done wrong 
 is soon got over. Conscience is a coward ; and those 
 faults it has not strength enough tQ. prevent, it seldom 
 has justice enough to accuse. 
 
 76 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 FRESH MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION THAT SEEMING 
 CALAMITIES MAY BE REAL BLESSINGS 
 
 The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved 
 upon, Mr. Thomhill having kindly promised to inspect 
 their conduct himself, and inform us by letter of their 
 behaviour. But it was thought indispensably necessary 
 that their appearance should equal the greatness of their 
 expectations, which could not be done without expense. 
 We debated therefore in fuU 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 with- 
 out 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 neighbouring fair ; and, to prevent 
 imposition, that I should go with him myself. Though 
 this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my 
 hfe, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself with 
 reputation. The opinion a man forms of his own pru- 
 dence is measured by that of the company he keeps ; 
 and as mine was most in the family way, I had conceived 
 no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. 
 
 11 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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, buf observing he had a 
 spavin, declared he would not take him for the driving 
 home ; a third perceived he had a windgall, and would 
 bid no money ; a fourth knew by his eye that he had 
 the botts ; a fifth wondered what a plague I could do 
 at the fair with a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was 
 only fit to be cut up for a dog kennel. By this time, 
 I began to have a most hearty contempt for the poor 
 animal myself, and was almost ashamed at the approach 
 of every customer ; for though I did not entirely believe 
 all the fellows told me, yet I reflected that the number 
 of witnesses was a strong presumption they were right ; 
 and St. Gregory, upon Good Works, professes 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 an ale-house, we were shown 
 into a little back room, where there was only a venerable 
 old man, who sat wholly intent over a large book, 
 which he was reading. I never in my life saw a figure 
 that prepossessed me more favourably. His locks of 
 
 78 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 silver grey venerably shaded his temples, and his green 
 old age seemed to be the result of health and benevolence. 
 However, his presence did not interrupt our conversation: 
 my friend and I discoursed on the various turns of fortune 
 we had met ; the Whistonian controversy, my last 
 pamphlet, the archdeacon's reply, and the hard measure 
 that was dealt me. But our attention was in 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 dfetress, 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 benevo- 
 lence pleased me so. He continued to read, and we 
 resumed our conversation, until my companion, after 
 some time, recollecting that he had business to transact 
 in the fair, promised to be soon back ; adding, that he 
 always desired to have as much of Dr. Primrose's com- 
 pany 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 any way related to the great 
 Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had been 
 the bulwark of the Church. Never did my heart feel 
 sincerer rapture than at that moment. " Sir,'' cried I, 
 " the applause of so good a man as I am sure you are, 
 adds to that happiness in my breast which your benevo- 
 lence has abready excited. You behold before you, Sir, 
 that Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have 
 
 79 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 been pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate 
 divine, who has so long, and it would iU become me to 
 say, successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the 
 age." — " Sir," cried the stranger, struck with awe, 
 " I fear I have been too famihar, 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 
 famiharity, 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, squeezing me 
 by the hand, " thou glorious pillar of unshaken ortho- 
 doxy ! and do I behold " I here interrupted what 
 
 he was going to say ; for though, as an author, I could 
 digest no small share of flattery, yet now my modesty 
 would permit no more. However, no lovers in romance 
 ever cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We 
 talked upon several subjects ; at first I thought he 
 seemed rather devout than learned, and began to think 
 he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no 
 way lessened him in my esteem, for I had for some time 
 begun privately to harbour such an opinion myself. I 
 therefore took occasion to observe, that the world in 
 general began to be blameably indifferent as to doctrinal 
 matters, and followed human speculations too much. 
 " Ay, Sir," repUed he, as if he had reserved all his learning 
 to that moment, " Ay, Sir, the world is in its dotage ; 
 and yet the cosmogony, or creation of the world, has 
 puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medley of 
 opinions have they not broached upon the creation of 
 the world ! Sanchoniathon, Manetho, Berosus, and 
 Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain The 
 latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to 
 
 So 
 
THE GIPSY TELLS THEIR FORTUNES. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 pan, which imply that all things have neither beginning 
 nor end. Manetho also, who lived about the time of 
 Nebuchadon-Asser— Asser being a Syriac word, usually 
 applied as a surname to the kings of that country, as 
 Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser— he, I say, formed a 
 conjecture equally absurd ; for, as we usually say, ek 
 to hiblion kubernetes, which implies that books will never 
 
 teach the world ; so he attempted to investigate 
 
 But, Sir, I ask pardon, I am straying from the question." 
 — ^That he actually was ; nor could I, for my hfe, 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 hke a challenge to contro- 
 versy, 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 to 
 the fair : mine, I told him, was to sell a horse, and very 
 luckily, indeed, his was to buy one for one of his tenants. 
 My horse was soon produced ; and, in fine, we struck a 
 bargain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he 
 accordingly pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me 
 change it. Not being in a capacity of complying with 
 this demand, he ordered his footman to be called up, 
 who made his appearance in a very genteel Uvery. 
 " Here, Abraham," cried he, " go and get gold for this ; 
 you'll do it at neighbour Jackson's, or anywhere." 
 While the fellow was gone, he entertained me 
 
 v.w. 8i G 
 
THE VICAR OF WAICEFIELD 
 
 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 disappoint- 
 ment to us all ; but the old gentleman, having paused a 
 little, asked me if I knew one Solomon Flamborough in 
 my part of the country. Upon replying that he was my 
 next-door neighbour : " If that be the case, then," 
 returned he, " I beheve we shall deal. You shall have 
 a draft upon him, payable at sight ; and, let me tell you, 
 he is as warm a man as any within five miles round him. 
 Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted for many 
 years together. I remember I always beat him at three 
 jumps ; but he could hop on one leg farther than I." 
 A draft upon my neighbour was to me the same as 
 money ; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability. 
 The draft was signed, and put into my hands, and Mr. 
 Jenkinson, the old gentleman, his "man Abraham, and 
 my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off very well pleased 
 with each other. 
 
 After a short interval, being left to reflection, I began 
 to recollect that I had done wrong in taking a draft 
 from a stranger, and so prudently resolved upon follow- 
 ing 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 neighbour 
 smoking his pipe at his own door, and informing him that 
 
 82 
 
The vicar of wakefield 
 
 I had a small bill upon him, he read it twice over. 
 " You can read the name, I suppose," cried I, — 
 " Ephraim Jienkinson."— " Yes," returned he, " the 
 name is written plain enough, and I know the gentleman 
 too, — ^the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. 
 This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles.^ 
 Was he not a venerable-looking man, with grey hair, 
 and no flaps to his pocket-holes ? And did he not talk 
 a long string of learning about Greek, and cosmogony, 
 and the world ? " To this I replied with a groan. 
 " Ay," continued he, " he has but that one piece of 
 learning in the world, and he always talks it whenever 
 he finds a scholar in company ; but I know the rogue, 
 and will catch him yet." 
 
 Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my 
 greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and 
 daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of returning 
 to school, there to behold the master's visage, than 
 I was of going home. I was determined, however, to 
 anticipate their fury, by first faUing into a passion 
 myself. 
 
 But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no 
 way disposed for battle. My wife and girls were all in 
 tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that day to 
 inform them that their journey to town was entirely 
 over. The two ladies, having heard reports of us from 
 some mahcious person about us, were that day set out 
 for London. He could neither discover the tendency 
 nor the author of these ; but whatever they might be, 
 or whoever might have broached them, he continued to 
 assure our family of his friendship and protection. I 
 found, therefore, that they bore my disappointment with 
 
 83 G2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 inoffensive to create disgust. 
 
 84 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 ALL MR. BURCHELL's VILLAINY AT ONCE DETECTED. THE 
 FOLLY OF BEING OVER-WISE 
 
 That evening, and a part of the following day, was 
 employed in fruitless attempts to discover our enemies ; 
 scarcely a family in the neighbourhood but incurred our 
 suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our 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, con- 
 tained some hints upon different subjects ; but what 
 particularly engaged our attention was a sealed note, 
 superscribed, the copy of a letter to be sent to the ladies at 
 Thornhill Castle. It instantly occurred that he was the 
 base informer, and wedeUberated whether the note should 
 not be broken open. I was against it ; but Sophia, 
 who said she was sure that of all men he would be the 
 last to be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its 
 being read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the 
 family, and at their joint solicitation I read as follows : — 
 " Ladies, — ^The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as 
 to the person from whom this comes : one at least the 
 friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its being 
 
 85 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 ofier 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 foUy, 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 scarcely patience to hear me to the end, but 
 railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment. 
 Ohvia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed perfectly 
 amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it appeared 
 to me one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingrati- 
 tude I had ever met with ; nor could I account for it 
 in any other manner, than by imputing it to his desire 
 of detaining my youngest daughter in the country, to 
 have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. 
 In this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes of 
 vengeance, when our other httle 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 
 
 86 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain 
 of a recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching 
 vengeance. Though our intentions were only to 
 upbraid him with his ingratitude, yet it was resolved to 
 do it in a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For 
 this purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual 
 smiles ; to chat in the 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 a sense of his own 
 baseness. This being resolved upon, rfty wife undertook 
 to manage the business herself, as she really had some c/ 
 talents for such an undertaking. We saw him approach : 
 he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. " A fine 
 day, Mr. BurcheU." — " A very fine day. Doctor ; though 
 I fancy we shall have some rain by the shooting of my 
 corns." — " The shooting of your horns ! " cried my 
 wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon 
 for being fond of a joke. " Dear Madam," replied he, 
 " I pardon you with all my heart, for I protest I should 
 not have thought it a joke had you not told me." — 
 " Perhaps not. Sir," cried my wife, winking at us ; " and 
 yet I dare say you can tell us how many jokes go to 
 an ounce." — " I fancy. Madam," returned Burchell, 
 "you have been reading a jest book this morning, that 
 ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit ;, and yet. Madam, 
 I had rather see half an ounce of understanding." — " I 
 beheve you might," cried my wife, stiU smiling at us, 
 though the laugh was against her ; " and yet I have 
 seen some men pretend to understanding that have very 
 little." — "And no doubt," rephed her iantagonist, "you 
 have known ladies set up for wits that had none," I 
 
 87 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 under- 
 standing," cried I, " are trifles, without integrity ; it is 
 that which gives value to every character. The ignorant 
 peasant without fault, is greater than the philosopher 
 with many ; for what is genius or courage without a 
 heart ? 
 
 " ' An honest man's the noblest work of God.' " 
 
 " I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope," 
 returned Mr. Burchell, " as very unworthy a man of 
 genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority. 
 As the reputation of books is raised, not by their 
 freedom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties ; 
 so should that of men be prized, not for their exemption 
 from fault, but the size of those virtues they are 
 possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the 
 statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity ; 
 but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who 
 laboriously plods on through Ufe without censure or 
 applause ? We might as well prefer the tame correct 
 paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous but 
 sublime animations of the Roman pencil." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, " your present observation is just, 
 when there are shining virtues and minute defects ; 
 but when it appears that great vices are opposed in 
 the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a 
 character deserves contempt." 
 
 " Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such 
 monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great 
 virtues ; yet in my progress through life, I never yet 
 found one instance of their existence : on the contrary, 
 
 88 
 
_J 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I have ever perceived, that where the mind was 
 ijacious^ the affections were good. And indeed 
 Providence seems kindly our friend in this particular, 
 thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart is 
 corrupt, and diminish the power where there is the will 
 to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to other 
 animals ; the little vermin 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 im- 
 penetrable 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 ? " rephed he ; " yes, it was I 
 that wrote that letter." — " And how could you," said I, 
 " so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this 
 letter ? " — " And how came you," replied he, with looks 
 of unparalleled effrontery, " so basely to presume to 
 break open this letter ? Don't you know, now, I could 
 hang you all for this ? All that I have to do is to 
 swear at the next Justice's that you have been guilty 
 of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so 
 hang you all up at this door." This piece of unexpected 
 insolence raised me to such a pitch, that I could scarce 
 
 89 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 govern my passion. " Ungrateful wretch ! begone, and 
 no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness ! 
 begone, and never let me see thee again ! Go from my 
 door, and the only punishment I wish thee is an alarmed 
 conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor ! " So 
 sa5dng, I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up 
 with a smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost 
 composure, left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his 
 assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that 
 nothing could make him angry, or make him seem 
 ashamed of his villainies. " My dear," cried I, willing 
 to calm those passions that had been raised too high 
 among us, " we are not to be surprised that bad men 
 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 union was soon 
 found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both. 
 Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame often 
 betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After long 
 disagreement, therefore, they at length consented to part 
 for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, to overtake 
 Fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner ; 
 but Shame, being naturally timorous, returned back to 
 keep company with Virtue, which in the beginning of 
 their journey they had left behind. Thus, my children, 
 after men have travelled through a few stages in vice, 
 Shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon 
 the few virtues they have still remaining." 
 
 90 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS .OPPOSED BY STILL 
 GREATER 
 
 Whatever might have been Sophia's sensations, the 
 rest of the family was easily consoled for Mr. Burchell's 
 absence by the company of our landlord, whose visits 
 now became more frequent, and longer. Though he 
 had been disappointed in procuring my daughters the 
 amusements of town, as he designed, he took every 
 opportunity of supplying them with those httle 
 recreations which our retirement would admit of. He 
 usually came in the morning ; and, while my son and I 
 followed our occupations abroad, he sat with the family 
 at home, and amused them by describing town, with 
 every part of which he was particularly acquainted. 
 He could repeat all the observations that were retailed 
 in the atmosphere of the playhouses, and had all the 
 good things of the high wits by rote, long before they 
 made their way into the jest books. The intervals 
 between conversation were employed in teaching my 
 daughters piquet, or sometimes in setting my two little 
 ones to box, to make them sharp, as he called it : but 
 the hopes of having him for a son-in-law in some measure 
 blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned, 
 that my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him ; 
 
 91 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 or, to speak more tenderly, used every art to magnify 
 the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea ate short 
 and crisp, they were made by Olivia ; if the gooseberry 
 wine was well knit, the gooseberries were of her gather- 
 ing : it was her fingers which gave the pickles their 
 peculiar green ; and, in the composition of a pudding, it 
 was her judgment that mixed the ingredients. Then 
 the poor woman would sometimes tell the Squire, that 
 she thought him and Olivia extremely of a size, and would 
 bid both stand up to see which was tallest. These 
 instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, 
 yet which everybody saw through,, were very pleasing 
 to our benefactor, who gave every day some new proofs 
 of his passion, which, though they had not risen to 
 proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little 
 short of it ; and his slowness was attributed sometimes 
 to native bashfulness, and sometimes to his fear of 
 offending his uncle. An occurrence, however, which 
 happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he 
 designed to become one of our family ; my wife even 
 regarded it as an absolute promise. 
 
 My wife and daughters happening to return a visit 
 at neighbour Flamborough's, found that family had 
 lately got their pictures drawn by a hmner, who 
 travelled the country, and took hkenesses for fifteen 
 shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a 
 sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took 
 the alarm at this stolen march upon us ; and, 
 notwithstanding all I could say, and I said much, it 
 was resolved that we should have our pictures 
 done too. — 
 
 Having, therefore, engaged the Mmner,— ^for what 
 
 92 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 could I do ? — our next deliberation was to show the 
 superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our 
 neighbour's family, there were seven of them, and they 
 were drawn with seven oranges, — a thing quite out of 
 taste, no variety in Ufe, no composition in the world. 
 We desired to have something in a brighter style ; and, 
 after many debates, at length came to an unanimous 
 resolution of being drawn together, in one large historical 
 family piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame 
 would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more 
 genteel ; for all families of any taste were now drawn 
 in the same manner. As we did not immediately 
 recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were contented 
 each with being drawn as independent historical figures. 
 My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the 
 painter was requested not to be too frugal of his dia- 
 monds in her stomacher and hair. Her two little ones 
 were to be as Cupids by her side ; while, I in my gown 
 and band, was to present her with my books on the 
 Whistonian controversy. OUvia would be drawn as 
 an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of flowers, dressed in 
 a green Joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip in her 
 hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many 
 sheep as the painter could put in for nothing ; and Moses 
 was to be dressed out with a hat and white feather. 
 Our taste so much pleased the Squire, that he insisted 
 on being put in as one of the family, in the character 
 of Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was 
 considered by us all as an indication of his desire to be 
 introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his 
 request. The painter was therefore set to work, and, as 
 he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than 
 
 93 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 four days the whole was completed. The piece was 
 large, and, it must be owned, he did not spare his colours ; 
 for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We were 
 all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; but an 
 unfortunate circumstance which had not occurred till 
 the picture was finished, 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. This 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 
 neighbours. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe's 
 long-boat, too large to be removed ; another thought it 
 more resembled a reel in a bottle ; some wondered how 
 it could be got out ; but stiU more were amazed how it 
 ever got in. 
 
 But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effect- 
 ually raised more maUcious suggesfions in many. The 
 Squire's portrait being found united with ours was an 
 honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers 
 began to circulate at our expense, and our tranquillity 
 was continually disturbed by persons, who came as 
 friends, to tell us what was said of us by enemies. These 
 reports we always resented with becoming spirit ; but 
 scandal ever improves by opposition. 
 
 We once again, therefore, entered into a consultation 
 upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at last 
 came to a resolution which had too much cunning 
 to give me entire satisfaction. It was this : as our 
 
 94 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 principal object was to discover the honour of Mr. 
 Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound him 
 by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of a 
 husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not found 
 sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then 
 resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this last step, 
 however, I would by no means give my consent, till 
 Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances that she 
 would marry the person provided to rival him upon this 
 occasion, if he did not prevent it by taking her himself. 
 Such was the scheme laid, which, though I did not 
 strenuously oppose, I did not entirely approve. 
 
 The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came to 
 see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in 
 order to give their 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 
 Ukely to have a very good match of it in Mr, Spanker, 
 To this the Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark 
 that they who had warm fortunes were always sure of 
 getting good husbands : " But Heaven help," continued 
 she, " the girls who have none ! What signifies beauty, 
 Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the virtue, and all 
 the qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest ? 
 It is not. What is she ? but, What has she ? is all the 
 cry." 
 
 " Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the justice, 
 as well as the novelty, of your remarks ; and if I 
 were' a king, it should be otherwise. It should then, 
 indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes : 
 
 95 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 a husband. 
 But, now that you have put it into ray head, seriously, 
 Mr. Thomhill, can't you recommend me a proper 
 husband for her ? She is now nineteen years old, well 
 grown and well educated, and in my humble opinion, 
 does not want for parts." 
 
 " Madam," repUed he, " if I were to choose, I would 
 find out a person possessed of every accomplishment 
 that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, 
 fortune, taste, and sincerity ; such. Madam, would be, 
 in my opinion, the proper husband," — " Ay, Sir," said 
 she, " but do you know of any such person ? " — " No, 
 Madam," returned he, "it is impossible to know any 
 person that deserves to be her husband : she's too great 
 a treasure for one man's possession ; she's a goddess ! 
 Upon my soul, I speak what I think — she's an angel ! " 
 — " Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl : 
 but we have been thinking of marrying her to one of 
 your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who 
 wants a manager ; you know whom I mean, — Fanner 
 Williams ; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her 
 good bread, and who has several times made her 
 proposals " (which was actually the case) ; " but. Sir," 
 concluded she, " I should be glad to have your approba- 
 tion of our choice." — "How, Madam!" replied he, 
 " my approbation ! — ^my approbation of such a choice ! 
 Never. What ! sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, 
 and goodness, to a creature insensible of the blessing ! 
 
 96 
 

 ..-^^^^^n^f^y^ 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Excuse me, I can never approve of such a piece of 
 injustice. And I have my reasons." — " Indeed, Sir," 
 cried Deborah, " if you have your reasons, that's 
 another affair ; but I should be glad to know those 
 reasons." — " Excuse me, Madam," returned he, " they 
 lie too deep for discovery " (laying his hand upon his 
 bosom) ; " they remain buried, riveted here." 
 
 After he was gone, upon a general consultation, we 
 could not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. 
 Ohvia considered them as instances of the most exalted 
 passion ; but I was not quite so sanguine ; it seemed to 
 me pretty plain, that they had more of love than 
 matrimony in them ; yet, whatever they might portend, 
 it was resolved to prosecute the .scheme of Farmer 
 Williams, who, from my daughter's first appearance in 
 the country, had paid her his addresses. 
 
 v.w. 97 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 SCARCELY ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE POWER OF 
 LONG AND PLEASING TEl^PTATION 
 
 As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity 
 of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circum- 
 stances, prudent, and sincere. It required but very little 
 encouragement to revive his former passion ; so that 
 in an evening or two he and Mr. Thomhill met at our 
 house, and surveyed each other for some time with looks 
 of anger ; but WilUams owed hi$ landlord no rent, 
 and Uttle regarded his indignation. OUvia, on her side, 
 acted the coquette to perfection, if that might be called 
 acting which was her real character, pretending to lavish 
 aU her tenderness on her new loVer. Mr. Thomhill 
 appeared quite dejected at this preference, and with a 
 pensive air took leave, though I own it puzzled me to 
 find him in so much pain as he appeared to he, when he 
 had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by 
 declaring an honourable passion. But whatever iineasi- 
 ness he seemed to endure, it could easily be perceived 
 that OUvia's anguish was much greater. After any 
 of these interviews with her lovers, of which there 
 were several, she usually retired to soUtude, and there 
 indulged her grief. It was in such a situation I found her 
 one evening, after she had been for some time supporting 
 
 98 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 a fictitious gaiety. " You now see, my child," said I, 
 " that your confidence in Mr. Thornhill's passion was all 
 a dream : he permits the rivalry of another, every way 
 his inferior, though he knows it hes in his power to 
 secure you to himself by a candid declaration." — " Yes, 
 papa," returned she ; " but he has his reasons for this 
 delay ; I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and 
 words 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 darhng," returned I, 
 " every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel 
 him to a declaration has been proposed and planned by 
 yourself; nor can you in the least say that I have 
 constrained you. But you must not suppose, my dear, 
 that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest 
 rival to be the dupe of your iU-placed passion. Whatever 
 time you require to bring your fancied admirer to an 
 explanation shall be granted ; but at the expiration of 
 that term, if he is still regardless, I must absolutely 
 insist that honest Mr. Williams shall be rewarded for 
 his fidelity. The character which I have hitherto 
 supported in hfe demands this from me, and my tender- 
 ness as a parent shall never influence my integrity as 
 a man. Name, then, your day ; let it be as distant as 
 you think proper ; and in the meantime, take care to 
 let Mr. Thornhill know the exact time on which I design 
 delivering you up to another. If he really loves you, 
 his own good sense will readily suggest that there is but 
 one method alone to prevent his losing you for ever." 
 This proposal, which she could not avoid considering 
 as perfectly just, was readily agreed to. She again 
 
 99 H2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 renewed her most positive promise of marrying Mr, 
 Williams, in case of the other's insensibility; and at 
 the next opportunity, in Mr. Thomhill'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 soUtude was sought, and spent in tears. 
 One week passed away ; but Mr. Thornhill made no 
 efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeeding week 
 he was still assiduous ; but not more open. On the 
 third, he discontinued his visits entirely, and instead 
 of my daughter testifying any impatience, as I expected, 
 she seemed to retain a pensive ttanquiliity, which I 
 looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I was 
 now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was 
 going to be secured in a continuance of competence 
 and peace, and frequently applauded her resolution, in 
 preferring happiness to ostentation. 
 
 It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, 
 that my little family at night were gathered round a 
 charming fire, telling stories of the past, and laying 
 schemes for the future ; busied in forming a thousand 
 projects, and laughing at whatever folly came upper- 
 most. " Well, Moses," cried I, " we shall soon, my 
 boy, have a wedding in the family : what is your 
 opinion of matters and things in general ? " — " My 
 opinion, father, is, that all things go on very well ; and 
 I was just now thinking, that when sister Livy is 
 married to Farmer Wilhams we shall then have the 
 loan of his cider-press and brewing-tubs for nothing." — 
 
 100 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " 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 is little Dick ? let him up with it boldly." — 
 " My brother Dick," cried BiU, my youngest, " is just 
 gone out with sister Livy ; but Mr. Williams has taught 
 me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, papa. Which 
 song do you choose, ' The dying Swan ' or the ' Elegy on 
 the Death of a mad Dog ' ? "— " The Elegy, child, by all 
 means," said I ; " I never heard that yet : and Deborah, 
 my life, grief, you know, is dry ; let us have a bottle of 
 the best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have 
 wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that without 
 an enlivening glass I am sure this will overcome me ; 
 and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with the 
 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 
 
 When'er he went to pray. 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had 
 
 To comfort friends and fees ; 
 The naked every day he clad, 
 
 When he put on his clothes 
 
 lOI 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 neighbouring streets 
 The wondering neighbours ran ; 
 
 And swore the dog had lost its 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 roan recovered of the bite, 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 " A very good boy, Bill, upon my word ; and an 
 elegy that may truly be called tragical. Come, my 
 children, here's Bill's health, and may he one day be a 
 bishop ! " 
 
 " With all my heart," cries 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, ftor the Hugginsons 
 blow out a candle ; that there were none of the 
 Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams 
 but could tell a story." — " However that be," cried 
 I, " the most vulgar ballad of all generally pleases 
 
 102 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 me better than the fine modern odes, and things that 
 petrify us in a single stanza, — productions that we at 
 once detest and praise. — Put the glass to your brother, 
 Moses. — The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they 
 are in despair for griefs that give the sensible part of 
 mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her 
 fan, or her lap-dog, and so the siUy poet runs home to 
 versify the disaster." 
 
 " That may be the mode," cried Moses, " in sublimer 
 compositions : but the Ranelagh songs that come 
 down to us are perfectly famihar, and all cast in the same 
 mould : CoUn meets DoUy, and they hold a dialogue 
 together ; he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and 
 she presents him with a nosegay ; and then they go 
 together to church, where they give good advice to 
 young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as 
 they can." 
 
 " And very good advice too," cried I ; " and I am 
 told there is not a place in the world where advice can 
 be given with so much propriety as there : for as it 
 persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife ; 
 and surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, 
 where we are told what we want, and supplied with it 
 when wanting." 
 
 " Yes, Sir," returned Moses, "and I know but of two 
 such markets for wives in Europe, — Ranelagh in 
 England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish 
 market is open once a year ; but our English wives 
 are saleable every night." 
 
 " You are right, my boy," cried his mother ; " Old 
 England is the only place in the world for husbands 
 to get wives." — " And for wives to manage their 
 
 103 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 husbands," interrupted I. " It is a proverb abroad, 
 that if a bridge were built across the sea, aU the ladies 
 of the Continent would come over to take pattern from 
 ours; for there are no such wives in Europe as our 
 own. But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my 
 life ! — and, Moses, give us a good song. What thanks 
 do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tranquillity 
 health, and 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 
 we live, they will be our support and our pleasure here ; 
 and when we die, they will transmit our honour untainted 
 to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song : let 
 us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia ? 
 that little cherub's voice is always sweetest in the 
 concert." Just as I spoke Dick came running in. " 
 papa, papa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us ; 
 my sister Livy is gone from us for ever ! " — " Gone, 
 child ? " — " Yes ; she is gone off with two gentlemen in 
 a post-chaise, and one of them kissed her, and said he 
 would die for her ; and she cried very much, and was 
 for coming back ; but he persuaded her again, and she 
 went into the chaise, and said, ' Oh, what will my poor 
 papa do when he knows I am undone ! ' " — " Now, then," 
 cried I, " my children, go and be miserable ; for we shall 
 never enjoy one hour more. And oh, may Heaven's 
 everlasting fury light upon him and his ! — thus to rob 
 me of my child ! And sure it will, for taking back my 
 
 104 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 sweet innocent that I was leading up to Heaven. Such 
 sincerity as my child was possessed of ! But all our 
 earthly happiness is now over ! Go, my children, go and 
 be miserable and infamous ; for my heart is broken 
 within me ! " — " Father," cried my son, " is this your 
 fortitude ? '' — " Fortitude, child ? — ^yes, he shall see I 
 have fortitude ! Bring me my pistQls. I'll pursue the 
 traitor — while he is on earth I'll pursue him. Old as I 
 am,-heshall find I can sting him yet. The villain — the 
 pferfi4ious^illain ! " I had by this time reached down 
 my pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions were not 
 so strong as mine, caught me in her arms. " My dearest, 
 dearest husband ! " cried she, " the Bible is the only 
 weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, 
 my love, and read our anguish into patience, for she has 
 vilely deceived us." — " Indeed, Sir," resumed my son, 
 after a pause, " your rage is too violent and unbecoming. 
 You should be my mother's comforter, and you increase 
 her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character 
 thus to curse your greatest enemy ; you should not 
 have cursed him, villain as he is."—" I did not curse 
 him child, did I ? " — " Indeed, Sir, you did ; you cursed 
 him twice." — " Then may Heaven forgive me and him 
 if I did ! And now, my son, I see it was more than 
 human benevolence that first taught us to bless our 
 enemies : Blessed be His holy name for all the good 
 He hath given, and for all that He hath taken away. 
 But it is not — it is not a small distress that can wring 
 tears from these old eyes, that have not wept for so 
 many years. My child ! to undo my darling ! — May 
 
 confusion seize ^Heaven forgive me ! what am I 
 
 about to say ? — ^you may remember, my love, how good 
 
 105 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 she was, and how charming: till this vile moment all 
 her care was to make us happy. Had she but died ! 
 \J But she is gone, the honour of our family contaminated, 
 and I must look out for happiness in other worlds than 
 here. But, my child, you saw them go off : perhaps he 
 forced her away ? If he forced her, she may yet be 
 innocent." — "Ah, no, sir," cried the child; "he only 
 kissed her, and called her his angel, and she wept very 
 much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very 
 fast." — " She's an ungratefiil 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 
 grey hairs to the grave ; and I must shortly follow." 
 
 In this manner that night, the first of our real misfor- 
 tunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and 
 ill-supported saUies of enthusiasm. I determined, 
 however, to find out our betrayer, "wherever he was, and 
 reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed 
 our wretched child at breakfast, where she used to give 
 life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, 
 attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. " Never," 
 cried she, " shall that vilest stain of our family again 
 darken these harmless doors. I will never call her 
 daughter more. No ! let the strumpet live with her 
 vile seducer : she may bring us to shame, but she shall 
 never more deceive us." 
 
 "Wife," said I, "do not talk thus hardly: my 
 detestation 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 
 
 io6 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 transgressions, the more welcome shall she be to me. 
 For the first time the very best may err : art may 
 persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. The first 
 fault is the child of simplicity, but every other, the 
 offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be 
 welcome to this heart and this house, though stained 
 with ten thousand vices. I will again hearken to the 
 music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her 
 bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring 
 hither my Bible and my staff : I wiU pursue her, wherever 
 she is ; and though I cannot saveJteF-frQm shame, I may 
 prevent the continuance of he/iniquity)" 
 
 107 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST CHILD TO 
 VIRTUE 
 
 Though the child could not describe the gentleman's 
 person who handed his sister into the post-chaise, yet 
 my suspicions fell entirely upon our young landlord, 
 whose character for such intrigues was but too well 
 known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thomhill 
 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, who 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 
 honour, that he was quite a stranger to it. I now 
 therefore condemned my former suspicions, and could 
 turn them only on Mr. Burchell, who, I recollected, had 
 of late several private conferences with her ; but the 
 appearance of another witness left me no room to doubt 
 
 io8 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 of his villainy, who ^i^rred Ahat he and my daughter 
 were actually gone towaf3s the WeUs, about thirty 
 miles off, where there was a great deal of company. 
 Being driven to that state of mind in which we all are 
 more ready to act precipitately than to reason right, I 
 never debated with myself whether these accounts 
 might not have been given by persons purposely placed 
 in my way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my 
 daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked 
 along with earnestness, and inquired of several by the 
 way ; but received no accounts, till, entering the town, 
 I was met by a person on horseback, whom I remem- 
 bered to have seen at the Squire's, and he assured 
 me that if I followed them to the races, which were 
 but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon over- 
 taking them ; for he had seen them dance there the 
 night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed 
 with my daughter's performance, fearly 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 reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! I 
 thought I perceived Mr. Burchell at some distance 
 from me ; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my 
 approaching him he mixed among a crowd, and I saw 
 him no more. 
 
 I now reflected that it would be to no purpose to 
 continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return home 
 to an innocent family, who wanted my assistance. 
 But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had 
 undergone, threw me into a fever, the symptoms of which 
 
 109 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I perceived before I came off the course. This was 
 another unexpected stroke, as I wag more than seventy 
 miles distant from home : however, I retired to a httle 
 ale-house by the roadside ; and in this place, the usual 
 retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down 
 patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I languished 
 here for near three weeks ; but at last my constitution 
 prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to 
 defray the expenses of my entertainment. It is possible 
 the anxiety from this last 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 book- 
 seller in St. Paul's Churchyard, who has written so many 
 little books for children : he called Jiimself their friend, 
 but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner 
 alighted, but he was in haste to be gone ; for he was 
 ever on business of the utmost importance, and was at 
 that time actually compihng materials for the history of 
 one Mr. Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this 
 good-natured man's red pimpled face ; for he had 
 pubhshed for me against the Deuterpgamists of the age ; 
 and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my 
 return. Leaving the inn, therefor^, as I was yet but 
 weak, I resolved to return home by easy journeys of ten 
 miles a day. 
 
 My health and usual tranquiUity were almost 
 restored, aadi now condemned that pride which had 
 made meSefracldry;^ to the hand of correction. Man 
 little knows wKaf calamities are beyond his patience to 
 bear, till he tries them : as in ascending the heights of 
 ambition, which look bright from below, every step we 
 
 no 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 rise shows us some new and gloomy prospect of hidden 
 disappointment ; so in our descent from the summits 
 of pleasure, though the vale of misery below may appear 
 at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive 
 to its own amusement, finds, as we descend, something 
 to flatter and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest 
 objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes 
 adapted to its gloomy situation. 
 
 I now proceeded forward, and had walked about 
 two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a distance 
 like a waggon, which I was resolved to overtake ; but 
 when I came up with it, found it to be a strolling 
 company's cart, that was carr3^ng their scenes and other 
 theatrical furniture to the next village, where they were 
 to exhibit. 
 
 The cart was attended only by the person who drove 
 it, and one of the company, as the rest of the players 
 were to follow the ensuing day. " Good company 
 upon the road," says the proverb, " is the shortest 
 cut." I therefore entered into conversation with 
 the poor player ; and as I once had some theatrical 
 powers myself, I (qg^canteaXin such topics with my 
 usual freedom ; butas 1 was but httle acquainted 
 with the present state of the stage, I demanded who 
 were the present theatrical writers in vogue — who the 
 Drydens and Otways of the day ? — " I fancy. Sir," cried 
 the player, " few of our modern dramatists would think 
 themselves much honoured, by being compared to the 
 writers you mention. Dryden's and Rowe's manner, Sir, 
 are quite out of fashion : our taste has gone back a 
 whole century ; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all the plays 
 of Shakespeare are the only things that go down." — 
 
 III 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " How," cried I, " is it possible the present age can be 
 pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete 
 humour, those overcharged characters, which abound 
 in the works you mention?" — "Sir," returned my 
 companion, " the public thinks nothing about dialect 
 or humour, or character, for that is none of their business ; 
 they only go to be amused, and find themselves happy 
 when they can enjoy a pantomime, under the sanction 
 of Jonson's or Shakespeare's name." — " So then, I 
 suppose," cried I, " that our modern dramatists are 
 rather imitators of Shakespeare than of nature." — " To 
 say the truth," returned my companion, " I don't know 
 that they imitate anything at all; nor, indeed, does 
 the pubUc 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 throw- 
 ing in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the works of Congreve 
 and Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present 
 taste ; our modern dialect is much more natural." 
 
 By this time, the equipage of the strolling company 
 was arrived at the village, which, it seems, had been 
 apprised of our approach, and was come out to gaze at 
 us ; for my companion observed, that strollers always 
 have more spectators without doors than within. I did 
 not consider the impropriety of my being in such 
 company, till I saw a mob gather about me. I therefore 
 took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first ale-house 
 that offered ; and being shown into the common room, 
 was accosted by a very well-dressed gentleman, who 
 demanded whether I was the real chaplain of the com- 
 
 112 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 pany, or whether it was only to be my masquerade 
 character in the play ? Upon my informing him of the 
 truth, and that I did not belong, In any sort, to the 
 company, he was condescending enough to desire me 
 and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which 
 he discussed modem poUtics 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. 
 
 V.Vv'. 113 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE DESCRIPTION OP A PERSON DISCONTENTED WITH THE 
 PRESENT GOVERNMENT, AND APPREHENSIVE OF THE 
 LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES 
 
 The house where we were to be Entertained lying at 
 a small distance from the village, our inviter observed, 
 that as the coach was not ready, he would conduct us 
 on foot ; and we soon arrived at one of the most magnifi- 
 cent mansions I had seen in that part of the country. 
 The apartment into which we were shown was perfectly 
 elegant and modem : 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 
 eleganj^sup^r was brought in ; two or three ladies in 
 easy ^ishabiUe^ were introduced, and the conversation 
 began witlTsome sprighthness. Politics, howev§i:,_was 
 the subject on which our entertainer xhiefiyfecpatiatedj 
 for he asserted that Hberty was at once his boasFand 
 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 Au(iitor, I suppose ? " 
 cried he. " Neither, Sir," returned I. " That's strange, 
 very strange ! " replied my entertainer. " Now, I read 
 all the politics that come out ; the Daily, the Public, 
 the Ledger, the Chronicle, the London Evening, the 
 
 114 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Whitehall Evening, the seventeen Magazines, and the 
 two Reviews ; and, though they hate each other, I love 
 them all. Liberty, Sir, hberty is the Briton's boast ; 
 and, by all my coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its 
 guardians." — " Then, it is to be hoped," cried I, " you 
 reverence the king ? " — " Yes," returned my entertainer, 
 " when he does what we would have him ; but if he 
 goes on as he has done of late, I'll never trouble myself 
 more with his matters. I say nothing. I think only. 
 I could have directed some things better. I don't 
 think there has been a sufficient number of advisers ; 
 he should advise with every person willing to give him 
 advice, and then we should have things done in another- 
 guess manner." 
 
 " I wish," cried I, " that such intruding advisers were 
 fixed in the pillory. It should be ihe 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 hve to see 
 one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, 
 and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift 
 of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons ! " 
 
 " Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, " that 
 there should be any found at present advocates for 
 slavery ? Any who are for meanly giving up^ the 
 privileges of Britons ? Can any, Sir, be so abject'? ^' 
 
 " No, Sir," rephed I, " I am for hberty ! tlmfattribute 
 of gods ! Glorious hberty ! that theme of modem 
 
 115 12 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 declamation ! I would have all men kings ! I would 
 be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal 
 right to the throne ; we are all originally equal. This 
 is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a set of 
 honest men who were called Levellers. They tried to 
 erect themselves into a community, where all should be 
 equally free. But, alas ! it would never answer : for 
 there were some among them stronger, and some more 
 cunning, than others, and these became masters of the 
 rest ; for, as sure as your groom; rides your horses, 
 because he is a cunninger animal than they, so surely 
 will the animal that is cunninger or stronger than he; 
 sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since, then, it is entailed 
 upon humanity to submit, and some are bom to com- 
 mand and others to obey, the question is, as there must 
 be tyrants, whether it is better to have them in the 
 same house with us, or in the same village, or, still 
 farther off in the metropoHs. 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 think- 
 ing, and have unanimously created one king, whose 
 election at once diminishes the number of tyrants, 
 and puts tyranny at the greatest distance from the 
 greatest number of people. Now, the great, who 
 were tyrants themselves before the election of one 
 tyTant, are naturally averse to a power raised over 
 them, and whose weight must ever lean heaviest on 
 the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great, 
 therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible ; 
 because, whatever they take from that is naturally 
 restored to themselves ; and all they have to do in the 
 
 ii6 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 state is to undermine the single t3T:ant, by which they 
 resume their primeval authority. Now, the state may 
 be so circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or 
 its men of opulence so minded, as all to conspire in 
 carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. 
 For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state 
 be such as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and 
 make the opulent still more rich, this will increase 
 their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, however 
 must necessarily be the consequence, when, as at present, 
 more riches flow in from external commerce than arise 
 from internal industry ; for external commerce can 
 only be managed to advantage by the rich, and they 
 have also at the same time all the emoluments arising 
 from internal industry ; so that the rich, with us, 
 have two sources of wealth, whereas the poor have 
 but one. For this reason, wealth, in all commercial 
 states, is found to accumulate ; and all such have hitherto 
 in time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws 
 also of this country may contribute to the accumulation 
 of wealth ; as when, by their means, the natural ties 
 that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and it 
 is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich ; 
 or when the learned are held unqualified to serve their 
 country as counsellors, merely from a defect of opulence, 
 and wealth is thus made the object of a wise man's 
 ambition ; by these means, I say, and such means 
 as these, riches will accumulate. Now, the possessor 
 of accumulated wealth, when furnished with the necess- 
 aries and pleasures of Hfe, has no other method to employ 
 the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power. 
 That is, differently speaking, in making dependents, 
 
 117 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 by purchasing the Uberty of the needy or the vpial,)" 
 of mfin-who are willing to bear the mortification of 
 c6iitiguous]tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent 
 man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest 
 of the people ; and the poUty 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 Hberty except the name. But there must 
 still be a large number of the people Ivithout the sphere of 
 the opulent man's influence ; namely, that order of 
 men which subsists between the very rich and the very 
 rabble ; those men who are possessed of too large 
 fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power, 
 and yet are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. 
 V j In this middle order of mankind^ are generally to be 
 found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of society. 
 This order alone is known to be the true preserver of 
 freedom, and may be called the people. Now, it 
 may happen that this middle order of mankind may 
 lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a 
 manner drowned in that of the rabble : for, if the 
 fortune sufficient for qualifying a person at present to 
 give his voice in state affairs be ten times less than was 
 judged sufficient upon forming the constitution, it is 
 evident that great numbers of the rabble will thus be 
 introduced into the political system, and they, ever 
 moving in the vortex of the great, wiU foUow where 
 greatness shall direct. In such a state, therefore, all 
 that the middle order has left is to preserve the pre- 
 
 ii8 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 rogative 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 governor from without is hastening the 
 relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over 
 them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most 
 specious terms ; to flatter them with sounds, and 
 amuse them with privileges ; but if they once defeat 
 the governor from behind, the walls of the town will be 
 but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may 
 then expect, may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, 
 Genoa, or Venice, where the law governs 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 hberties of the subject. The sounds of Liberty, 
 Patriotism, and Britons, have already done much ; it 
 is to be hoped that the true sons of freedom will prevent 
 their ever doing more. I have known many of these 
 pretended champions for liberty in my time, yet do I 
 not remember one that was not in his heart and in his 
 family a tyrant." 
 
 My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue 
 beyond the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience 
 of my 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 
 
 119 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 marc^g out of this house 
 immediately, 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 coimtry 
 gentlemen do. But nothing couM now exceed my 
 confusion upon seeing the gentleman and his lady enter ; 
 nor was their surprise, at finding such company and 
 good cheer, less than ours. " Gentlemen," cried the 
 real master of the house to me and my companion, 
 " my wife and I are your most himible servants ; but I 
 protest this is so unexpected a favour, that we almost 
 sink under the obhgation." However imexpected our 
 company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still 
 more so to us, and I was struck dumb with the appre- 
 hensions of my own absurdity, when whom should 
 I next see enter the room but my dear Miss Arabella 
 Wilmot, who was formerly designed to be married to 
 my son George, but whose match was broken off, as 
 already related. As soon as she saw me, she flew to 
 
 120 
 

THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 got the good Dr. 
 Primrose for their guest." Upon hearing my name, the 
 old gentleman and lady very politely stepped up, and 
 welcomed me with most cordial hospitality. Nor could 
 they forbear smiling, upon being informed of the nature 
 of my present visit : but the unfortunate butler, whom 
 they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my 
 intercession forgiven. 
 
 Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, 
 now insisted upon having the pleasure of my stay for 
 some days ; and as their niece, my charming pupil, 
 whose mind in some measure had 'been formed under 
 my own instructions, joined in theit entreaties, I com- 
 plied. That night I was shown to a magnificent 
 chamber ; and the next morning early Miss Wilmot 
 desired to walk with me in the garden, which was 
 decorated in the modern manner. After some time 
 spent in pointing out the beauties of the place, she 
 inquired, with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard 
 from my son George. " Alas ! Madam," cried I, "he 
 has now been near three years absent, without ever 
 writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know not ; 
 perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my 
 dear Madam, we shall never more see. such pleasing hours 
 as were once spent by our fireside at Wakefield. My 
 httle family are now dispersing very fast, and poverty 
 has brought not only want, but infamy upon us." The 
 good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as 
 I saw her possessed of too much sensibihty, I forbore a 
 
 121 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 offers that had been made her since our 
 leaving her part of the country. She led me round all 
 the extensive improvements of the place, pointing to 
 the several walks and arbours, and at the same time 
 catching from every object a hint for some new question 
 relative to my son. In this manner we spent the fore- 
 noon, till the bell summoned us to dinner, where we 
 found the manager of the strolHng company that I 
 mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets 
 for the "Fair Penitent," which was to be acted that 
 evening ; the part of Horatio by a young gentleman 
 who had never appeared on any stage. He seemed to 
 be very warm in the praise of the new performer, and 
 averred that he never saw any one =who bid so fair for 
 excellence. Acting, he observed, was not learned in a 
 day ; " but this gentleman," continued he, " seems born 
 to tread the stage. His voice, his figure, and attitudes 
 are aU 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 com- 
 pany 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 parents think of my 
 sensations by their own, when I found it was my un- 
 
 122 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 fortunate son ! He was going to begin ; when, turning 
 his eyes upon the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot 
 and me, and stood at once speechless and immovable. 
 
 The actors behind the scenes, who ascribed this 
 pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encourage 
 him ; but instead of going on, he burst into a flood of 
 tears, and retired off the stage. I do not know what 
 were my feeUngs 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 behaviour, being informed that the new 
 performer was my son, sent his coach and an invitation 
 for him ; and as he persisted in his refusal to appear 
 again upon the stage, the players put another in his 
 place, and we soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave 
 him the kindest reception, and I received him with my 
 usual 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 
 Uke joy, and then laughed loud at her own want of 
 meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at 
 the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of irresistible 
 beauty ; and often would ask questions, without giving 
 any manner of attention to the answers. 
 
 123 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PURSUING 
 NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT 
 
 After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered 
 to send a couple of her footmen for my son's baggage, 
 which he at first seemed to decline ; but upon her 
 pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, 
 that a stick and wallet were all the movable things 
 upon this earth which he could boast of. " Why, ay, 
 my son," cried I, " you left me but poor ; and poor 
 I find you are come back : and yet I make no doubt 
 you have seen a great deal of the world." — " Yes, sir," 
 replied my son, " but travelling after Fortune is not 
 the way to secure her ; and, indeed, of late I have 
 desisted from the pursuit." — " I fancy, sir," cried Mrs. 
 Arnold, " that the account of your adventures would 
 be amusing ; the first part of them I have often heard 
 from my niece ; but could the company prevail for the 
 rest, it would be an additional obligation." — " Madam," 
 replied my son, " I promise you the pleasure you have 
 in hearing will not be half so great as my vanity in 
 repeating them ; and yet in the whole narrative I can 
 scarcely promise you one adventure, as my account 
 is rather of what I saw than what I did. The first 
 misfortune of my life, which you aU know, was great ; 
 
 124 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 ; atjd being now at the 
 bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, 
 but could not depress me. I proceeded, therefore, 
 towards London in a fine morning, no way uneasy 
 about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds that caroUed 
 by the road ; and comforted myself with reflecting, 
 that London was the mart where ahiUties of every kind 
 were sure of meeting distinction and reward. 
 
 " Upon my arrival in town. Sir, my first care was to 
 deliver your letter of recommendation to our cousin, 
 who was himself in little better circumstances than I. 
 My first scheme, you know. Sir, was to be usher at an 
 academy ; and I asked his advice on the affair. Our 
 cousin received the proposal with a true sardonic grin. 
 ' 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 
 anod^^ necklace, but I had rather be an under-tumkey 
 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 civiUty abroad. But are you sure you are 
 fit for a school ? Let me examine you a little. Have 
 you been bred apprentice to the business ? ' — ' No.' — 
 ' Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the 
 boys' hair ? ' — ' No.' — ' Then you won't do for a school. 
 Have you had the smallpox ? '— No.' — ' Then you 
 won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed ? ' — 
 ' No.' — ' Then you will never do for a school. Have 
 
 125 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 roe ? You have read 
 in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving at the 
 trade. At present I'll show you forty very dull fellows 
 about town that live by it in opulence ; all honest jog- 
 trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, and write 
 history and pohtics, and are praised — ^men. Sir, who, 
 had they been bred cobblers, would all their lives have 
 only mended shoes, but never madet them.' 
 
 " Finding that there was no great degree of gentiUty 
 af&xed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept 
 his proposal ; and having the highest respect for litera- 
 ture, hailed the aniiqua mater of Grub Street with 
 reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track 
 which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I con- 
 sidered the goddess of this region as the parent of 
 excellence ; and however an intercourse with the 
 world might give us good sense, the poverty she entailed 
 I supposed to 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 three paradoxes with some ingenuity. 
 They were false, indeed, but they were new. The jewels 
 of truth have been so often imported by others, that 
 nothing was left for me to import but some splendid 
 things that at a distance looked every bit as well. 
 
 126 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Witness, you powers, what fancied importance sat 
 perched upon my quill while I was writing ! The 
 whole learned world, I made no doubt, would rise 
 to oppose my systems : but then I was prepared to 
 oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine, 
 I sat self-collected, with a quill pointed against every 
 opposer." 
 
 " Well said, my boy," cried I : " and what subject 
 did you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over 
 the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt : go on. 
 You pubUshed your paradoxes ; well, and what did the 
 learned world say to your paradoxes ? " 
 
 " Sir," replied my son, " the learned world said 
 nothing to my paradoxes ; nothing at all. Sir. Every 
 man of them was employed in praising his friends and 
 himself, or condemning his enemies ; and unfortunately, 
 as I had neither, I suffered the cruellest mortification^ 
 neglect. 
 
 "As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house, 
 on the fate of my paradoxes, a little man happening to 
 enter the room, placed himself in the box before me, 
 and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to be 
 a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me 
 to subscribe to a new edition he was going to give to 
 the world of Propertius, with Notes. This demand 
 necessarily produced a reply that I had no money ; 
 and that concession led him to inquire into the nature 
 of my expectations. Finding that my expectations 
 were just as great as my purse, — ' I see,' cried he, ' you 
 are unacquEunted with the town ; I'll teach you a part 
 of it. Look at these proposals, — upon these very 
 proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for twelve 
 
 127 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 years. The moment a noblemani returns from his 
 travels, a CreoUan arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager 
 from her country seat, I strike for a subscription. I 
 first besiege their hearts with flattery, and then pour in 
 my proposals at the breach. If they subscribe readily 
 the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication 
 fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more 
 for engraving their coat-of-arms at the top. Thus,' 
 continued he, ' I Uve 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 em- 
 ployment of poets now ? Do men of exalted talents 
 thus stoop to beggary ? Can they so far disgrace their 
 calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread ? " 
 
 " Oh no. Sir," returned he, " a true poet can never 
 be so base ; for wherever there is genius, there is pride. 
 The creatures I now describe are only beggars in rhyme. 
 The real poet, as he braves every hardship for fame, 
 so is he equally a coward to contempt ; and none but 
 those who are unworthy protection condescend to 
 solicit it. 
 
 " Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, 
 and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a second attempt 
 for fame, I was now obhged to take a middle course, 
 and write for bread. But I was unquaUfied for a 
 profession where mere industry alone was to ensure 
 success. I could not suppress my lurking passion for 
 applause ; but usually consmned |hat time in efforts 
 
 128 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 after excellence which takes up but little room, when it 
 should have been more advantageously employed in 
 the diffusive productions of fruitful mediocrity. My 
 little piece would therefore come forth in the midst of 
 periodical publications, unnoticed and unknown. The 
 pubUc were more importantly employed than to observe 
 the easy simpHcity of my style, or the harmony of 
 my periods. Sheet after sheet was thrown off to 
 oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays upon 
 Uberty, Eastern tales, and cures for the bite 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 satisfaction we found 
 in every celebrated writer's attempts was inversely as 
 their merits. I found that no genius in another could 
 please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely 
 dried up that source of comfort. I could neither read 
 nor write with satisfaction ; for excellence in another 
 was my aversion, and writing was my trade. 
 
 " In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was 
 one day sitting on a bench in St. James's Park, a young 
 gentleman of distinction, who had been my intimate 
 acquaintance at the university, approached me. We 
 saluted each other with some hesitation ; he almost 
 ashamed of being known to one who made so shabby 
 an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But my 
 suspicions soon vanished ; for Ned Thomhill was at 
 the bottom a very good-natured fellow." 
 
 " What did you say, George ? " interrupted I : 
 
 v.w. 
 
 129 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " Thornhill ! — was not that his name ? It can certainly 
 be no other than my landlord." — " Bless me," cried Mrs. 
 Arnold, " is Mr. Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours ? 
 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 another, and to assist at tatterin g a 
 kip, as the phrase was, when he had a mind for a frolic. 
 Besides this, I had twenty other little employments in 
 the family. I was to do many small things without 
 bidding : to carry the corkscrew ; to stand godfather to 
 all the butler's children ; to sing when I was bid ; to 
 be never out of humour ; always to be humble, and, if 
 I could, to be very happy. 
 
 " In this honourable post, however, I was not with- 
 out a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed 
 for the place by nature, opposed me in my patron's 
 affections. His mother had been laundress to a man 
 of quality, and thus he early acquired a taste for pimping 
 and pedigree. As this gentleman made it the study of 
 his life to be acquainted with lords, though he was 
 dismissed from several for his stupidity, yet he found 
 many of them who were as dull as himself, that per- 
 mitted his assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he 
 practised it with the easiest address imaginable ; but it 
 came awkward and stiff from me ; and as every day 
 my patron's desire of flattery increased, so, every hour, 
 
 130 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 being better acquainted with his defects, I became more 
 unwilling to give it. Thus, I was once more fairly 
 going to give up the field to the captain, when my 
 friend found occasion for my assistance. This was 
 nothing less than to fight a duel for him with a gentle- 
 man, whose sister it was pretended .he had used ill. I 
 readily complied with his request ; and though I see 
 you are displeased at my conduct, yet, as it was a debt 
 indispensably due to friendship, I could not refuse. I 
 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 fellow her bully 
 and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid with 
 the warmest professions of gratitude ; but, as my friend 
 was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other 
 method of serving me but by reconimending me to his 
 uncle, Sir William Thomhill, and another nobleman of 
 great distinction, who enjoyed a post under 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 universal, yet just. I 
 was received by his servants with the most hospitable 
 smiles ; for the looks of the domestic ever transmit the 
 master's benevolence. Being shown into a grand 
 apartment, where Sir William soon came to me, I 
 delivered my message and letter, which he read, and, 
 after pausing some minutes, — ' Pray, Sir,' cried he, 
 ' inform me what you have done for my kinsman to 
 deserve this warm recommendation ? But I suppose. 
 Sir, I guess your merits : you have fought for him ; and 
 so you would expect a reward from me for being the 
 instrument of his vices. I wish — sincerely wish — that 
 
 131 K 2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 my present refusal may be some punishment for your 
 guilt ; but still more, that it may be some inducement 
 to your repentance.' The severity of this rebuke I 
 bore patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole 
 expectations now, therefore, lay in my letter to the 
 great man. As the doors of the nobility are ahnost 
 ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some sly 
 petition, I found it no easy matter to gain admittance. 
 However, after bribing the servants with half my 
 worldly fortune, I was at last shown into a spacious 
 apartment, my letter being previously sent up for his 
 lordship's inspection. During this anxious interval, I 
 had full time to look round me. Everything was grand 
 and of happy 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 unfathomable ! 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, ' the bearer of this here letter ? ' I 
 answered with a bow. ' I learn by this,' continued he, 
 
 ' as how that ' But just at th^t instant a servant 
 
 delivered him a card, and, without taking farther notice, 
 he went out of the room, and left n^e to digest my own 
 happiness at leisure. I saw no more of him, till told 
 by a footman that his lordship was going to his coach 
 
 132 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 favours. His lordship, however, 
 went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door 
 with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I 
 was to have any reply. He was by this time got in, 
 and muttered an answer, half of which only I heard, 
 the other half was lost in the rattling of his chariot 
 wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched 
 out, in the posture of one that was hstening to catch 
 the glorious sounds, till, looking round me, I found 
 myself alone at his lordship's gate. 
 
 " My patience," continued my son, " was now quite 
 exhausted : stung with the thousand indignities I had 
 met with, I was 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 stiU, however, half-a-guinea left, and 
 of that I thought Nature herself should not deprive 
 me ; but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to 
 go instantly and spend it while I had it, and then 
 trust to occurrences for the rest. As I was going 
 along with this resolution, it happened that Mr. Crispe's 
 oifice seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome 
 reception. In this office, Mr. Crispe kindly offers all 
 His Majesty's subjects a generous promise of £30 a 
 year, for which promise all they give in return is their 
 liberty for life, and permission to let him transport 
 them to America as slaves. 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) 
 
 133 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 with the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a 
 number of poor creatures, all in circumstances like 
 myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting 
 a true epitome of EngHsh impatience. Each untract- 
 able 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 pecuhar approbation, and 
 indeed he was the first man who, for a month past, had 
 talked to me with smiles. After a few questions, he 
 found I was fit for everything in the world. He paused 
 a while upon the properest means of providing for 
 me : and slapping his forehead as if he had found it, 
 assured me that there was at that time an embassy 
 talked of from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chick- 
 asaw Indians, and that he would use his interest to get 
 me made secretary. I knew in my own heart the 
 fellow lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there 
 was something so magnificent in the sound. I fairly 
 therefore divided my half-guinea, one-half of which 
 went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and 
 with the other half I resolved to go to the next tavern, 
 to be there more happy than he. 
 
 " As I was going out with that resolution, I was 
 met at the door by the captain of a ship with whom I 
 had formerly some little acquaintance, and he agreed 
 to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I 
 never chose to make a secret of my circumstances, he 
 assured me that I was on 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 
 
 134 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 voyage, be very easily put into a genteel way of bread. 
 Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for Amster- 
 dam : what if you go in her as a passenger ? The 
 moment you land, all you have to do is to teach the 
 Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you'll get pupils 
 and money enough. I suppose you understand English,' 
 added he, ' by this time, or the deuce is in it.' I con- 
 fidently assured him of that ; but expressed a doubt 
 whether the Dutch would be willing to learn EngUsh 
 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 Enghsh in Holland. The wind was fair, 
 our voyage short ; and after having paid my passage 
 with half my movables, I found myself, fallen as from 
 the skies, a stranger in one of the principal streets of 
 Amsterdam. In this situation I was unwiUing to let 
 any time pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed 
 myself, therefore, to two or three of those I met whose 
 appearance seemed most promising ; but it was im- 
 possible to make ourselves mutually understood. It 
 was not till this very moment that I recollected that, in 
 order to teach the Dutchmen EngUsTi, it was necessary 
 that they should first teach me Dutch. How I came to 
 overlook so obvious an objection is to me amazing ; 
 but certain it is I overlooked it. 
 
 " This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts 
 of fairly shipping back to England again, but falling 
 into company with an Irish student, who was returning 
 from Lou vain, our conversation turning upon topics of 
 hterature (for, by the way, it may ,be observed that I 
 always forgot the meanness of my pircumstances when 
 
 135 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I could converse upon such subjects), from him I learned 
 that there were not two men in his whole university 
 who understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly 
 resolved to travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching 
 Greek : and in this design I was heartened by my 
 brother student, who threw out some hints that a 
 fortune might be got by it. 
 
 " I set boldly forward the next morning. Every 
 day lessened the burden of my movables, like ^sop 
 and his basket of bread ; for I paid 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 his 
 university. The Principal seemed at first to doubt 
 my abiUties ; but of these I offered to convince him, 
 by turning a part of any Greek author he should fix 
 upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my 
 proposal, he addressed me thus : ' You see me, young 
 man ; I never learned Greek, and I don't find that I 
 ever missed it. I have had a Doctor's cap and gown 
 without Greek ; I have ten thousand florins a year 
 without Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and, 
 V in short,' continued he, ' as I don't know Greek, I do 
 not believe there is any good in it.' 
 
 " I was now too far from home to think of returning ; 
 so I resolved to go forward. I had some knowledge of 
 music, with a tolerable voice : I naw turned what was 
 once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. 
 I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, 
 
 136 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 and among such of the French as were poor enough to 
 be very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in 
 proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached 
 a 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 performance odious, and never 
 rewarded me even with a trifle. This was to me the 
 the more extraordinary, as, whenever I used, in better 
 days, to play for company, when playing was my 
 amusement, my music never failed to throw them into 
 raptures, and the ladies especially-; but as it was now 
 my only means, it was received with contempt — a proof 
 ^/how ready the world is to underrate those talents by 
 which a man is supported. 
 
 " In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design 
 but just to look about me, and then go forward. 
 The people of Paris are much fonder of strangers that 
 have money than of those that have wit. As I could 
 not boast much of either, I was no great favourite. 
 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 hospitahty, 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 
 beheve not displeasing to him. He inquired into the 
 nature of my journey to Paris, and informed me of his 
 , owir"busmess there, which was to collect pictures, medals, 
 Sntagliespand antiques of all kinds, for a gentleman in 
 London who had just stepped into taste and a large 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 fortune. I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin 
 pitched upon for this office, as he himself had often 
 assured me he knew nothing of the matter. Upon 
 asking how he had been taught the art of a cognoscente 
 so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was 
 more easy. The whole secret cotisisted 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 in 
 Paris.' 
 
 " With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was 
 living, and now all my ambition was to hve. 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 httle surprised 
 at his intimacy with people of the best fashion, who 
 referred themselves to his judgment upon every picture 
 or medal, as an unerring standard -of taste. He made 
 very good use of my assistance upon these occasions ; 
 for, when asked his opinion, he would gravely take 
 me aside and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return, and 
 assure the company that he could give no opinion upon 
 an affair of so much importance. Yet there was some- 
 times an occasion for a more supported assurance. 
 I remember to have seen him, after giving his opinion 
 that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough, 
 very deliberately take a brush with .brown varnish, that 
 was accidentally lying by, and rub it over the piece with 
 
 138 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 dis- 
 tinction, as a person very proper for a traveUing 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, understciod the art of guiding 
 in money concerns much better than I. He was heir to 
 a fortune of about two hundred thousand pounds, left 
 him by an uncle in the West Indies ; and his guardians, 
 to qualify him for the management of it, had boimd 
 him apprentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his 
 prevailing passion : all his questions on the road were, 
 how money might be saved ? which was the least 
 expensive course of travel ? whether anything could be 
 bought that would turn to account when disposed of 
 again in London ? Such curiosities on the way as 
 could be seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look 
 at ; but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he 
 usually asserted that he had been told they were not 
 worth seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not 
 observe how amazingly expensive travelling was ; and 
 all this though he was not yet twenty-one. When 
 arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the 
 port and shipping, he inquired the expense of the 
 passage by sea home to England. This he was in- 
 formed was but a trifle compared to his returning 
 by land ; he was therefore unable to withstand the 
 
 139 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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. How- 
 ever, my skill in music could avail me nothing in a 
 country where every peasant was a better musician 
 than I ; but by this time I had acquired another talent, 
 which answered my purpose as well, and this was a 
 skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities and 
 convents there are, upon certain days, philosophical 
 theses maintained against every £f^SntitiouS-disputant ; 
 for which, if the champion opposes^wTQi any dexterity, 
 he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner, and a bed 
 for one night. In this manner, therefore, I fought my 
 way towards England ; walked along from city to city ; 
 examined mankind more nearly ; and, if I may so express 
 it, saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, however, 
 are but few : I found that monarchy was the best 
 government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths 
 for the rich. I found that riches in general were in 
 every country another name for freedom ; and that 
 no man is so fond of liberty himself, as not to be desirous 
 of subjecting the will of some 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 
 
 140 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. 
 They all, however, apprised me of the importance of 
 the task at which I aimed ; that the public was a many- 
 headed monster, and that only such as had very good 
 heads could please it : that acting was not to be learned 
 in a day ; and that without some traditionalyMirugv 
 which had been on the stage, and only on the stageT 
 these hundred years, I could never pretend to please. 
 The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as almost 
 every character was in keeping. I was driven for some 
 time from one character to another, till at last Horatio 
 was fixed upon, which the presence of the present 
 company has happily hindered me from acting." 
 
 14? 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONGST THE 
 VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH MUTUAL 
 SATISFACTION 
 
 My son's account was too long to he delivered at once ; 
 the first part of it was begun that night, and he was 
 concluding the rest after dinner the next day, when the 
 appearance of Mr. Thomhill's equipage at the door 
 seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. 
 The butler, who was now become my friend in the family, 
 informed me, with a whisper, that the Squire had already 
 made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her 
 aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. 
 Upon Mr. Thomhill's entering, he seemed, at seeing my 
 son and me, to start back ; but I readily imputed 
 that to surprise, and not displeasure. However, upon 
 our advancing to salute him> he returned our greeting 
 with the most apparent candour ; and after a short 
 time his presence served only to increase the general 
 good humour. 
 
 After tea he called me aside to inquire after my 
 daughter ; but upon my informing him that my inquiry 
 was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surprised ; adding 
 that he had been since frequently at my house in order 
 to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly 
 
 142 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 well. He then asked if I had communicated her misfor- 
 tune 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 addresses, however, to Miss 
 Wilmot were too obvious to be mistaken ; and yet, she 
 seemed not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in 
 comphance 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. 
 ThornhiU'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. ThornhiU's 
 friendship seemed proportionably to increase for him. 
 
 He had formerly made us the most kind assurances 
 of using his interest to serve the family ; but now his 
 generosity was not confined to promises alone. The 
 morning I designed for my departure, Mr. Thornhill 
 came to me with looks of real pleasure, to inform me of 
 a piece of service he had done for his friend George. 
 This was nothing less than his having procured him 
 an ensign's commission in one of the regiments that 
 was going to the West Indies, for -which he had pro- 
 mised but one hundred pounds, his interest being 
 
 M3 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 suf&cient 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 favour we wanted words to express our sense 
 of : I readily, therefore, gave my bond for the money, 
 and testified as much gratitude as if I never intended to 
 
 pay- 
 George was to depart for town the next day, to 
 secure his commission, in pursuance of his generous 
 patron's directions, who judged it iiighly expedient to 
 use despatch, lest in the meantime another should step 
 in with more advantageous proposals. The next 
 morning, therefore, our young soldier was early prepared 
 for his departure, and seemed the only person among 
 us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and 
 dangers he was going to encounter, nor the friends and 
 mistress — for Miss Wilmot actually loved him — ^he was 
 leaving behind, any way damped his spirits. After he 
 had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him 
 all I had, my blessing. " And now, my boy," cried I 
 " thou art going to fight for thy country : remember 
 how thy brave grandfather fought for his sacred king, 
 when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, 
 and imitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was 
 a misfortune to die with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, 
 and if you fall, though distant, exposed, and unwept 
 by those that love you, the most precious tears are those 
 with which Heaven bedews the unburied head of a 
 soldier." 
 
 144 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 The next morning I took leave of the good family, 
 that had been kind enough to entertain me so long, 
 not without several expressions of gratitude to Mr. 
 Thomhill for his late bounty. I lef-t them in the enjoy- 
 ment of all that happiness which affluence and good 
 breeding procure, and returned towards home, despairing 
 of ever finding my daughter more, but sending a sigh to 
 Heaven to spare and forgive her. 
 
 I was now come within about twenty miles of home, 
 having hired a horse to carry me, as I was yet but weak ; 
 and comforted myself with the hopes of soon seeing all 
 I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on, 
 I put up at a Httle public-house by the road-side, and 
 asked for the landlord's company over a pint of wine. 
 We sat beside his kitchen fire, which was the best room 
 in the house, and chatted on politics and the news of 
 the country. We happened, among other topics, to 
 talk of young Squire Thomhill, 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 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 
 
 v.w. 145 L 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 out a glass, 
 which she received with a courtesy ; and drinking, to- 
 wards my good health, " Sir," resumed she, " it is not 
 so much for the value of the Uquor I am angry, but one 
 cannot help it when the house is going out ofjh^win- 
 dows. If the customers or guests are to be jdunnw, all 
 the burden lies upon my back ; he'd as het eat that 
 glass as budge after them himself. There, now, above 
 stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take 
 up her lodging here, and I don't believe she has got 
 any money, by her over-civility. I am certain she is 
 very slow of payment, and I wish she were put in mind 
 of it." — " What signifies minding her ? " cried the host ; 
 " if she be slow, she is sure." — " I don't know that," 
 replied the wife ; " but I know that I am sure she has 
 been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the 
 cross of her money." — " I suppose, my dear," cried he, 
 " we shall have it all in a lump." — " In a lump ? " cried 
 the other : " I hope we may get it any way ; and that 
 I am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps, 
 bag and baggage."—" Consider, my dear," cried the 
 husband, " she is a gentlewoman, and deserves more 
 respect."—" As for the matter of that," returned the 
 hostess, " gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a 
 saSsa r^-a?> Gentry may be good things where they 
 take ; but, for my part, I never saw much good of them 
 at the sign of the Harrow." Thus saying, she ran up 
 a narrow flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to 
 
 146 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 a room overhead ; and I soon perceived, by the loud- 
 ness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, 
 that no money was to be had from feer 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 ! " — " Oh, dear 
 Madam," cried the stranger, " pity me — pity a poor 
 abandoned creature, for one night, and death will soon 
 do the rest ! " I instantly knew the voice of my poor 
 ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the 
 woman was dragging her along by her hair, and I 
 caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. " Welcome, 
 any way welcome, my dearest lost one — ^my treasure — 
 to your poor old father's bosom ! Though the vicious 
 forsake thee, there is yet one in the world that will 
 never forsake thee ; though thou hadst ten thousand 
 crimes to answer for, he will forgive them all ! " — " Oh, 
 my own dear " — for minutes she cotlld say 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 so much goodness ! 
 You can't forgive me, I know you cannot." — " Yes, my 
 child, from my heart I do forgive thee : only repent, 
 and we both shall yet be happy. We shall see many 
 pleasant days yet, my Olivia." — " Ah ! 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 
 
 147 L2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 too much wisdom to take the miseries of my guilt upon 
 yourself." — " Our wisdom, young woman," replied 1. 
 " Ah, why so cold a name, papa ? " cried she. " This 
 is the first time you ever called me by so cold a name." 
 — " I ask pardon, my darling," returned I ; " but I was 
 going to observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence 
 against trouble, though at last a sure one." The land- 
 lady now returned, to know if we did not choose a more 
 genteel apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown 
 to a room where we could converse inore freely. After 
 we had talked ourselves into some degree of tranquillity, 
 I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations 
 that led to her present wretched situation. "That 
 villain, Sir," said she, " from the first day of our meeting, 
 made me honourable, though private proposals." 
 
 " Villain, indeed ! " cried I ; " and yet it in some 
 measure surprises me, how a person of Mr. BurcheU's 
 good sense and seeming honour could be guilty of 
 such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to 
 undo it." 
 
 " My dear papa," returned my daughter, " you labour 
 under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never attempted 
 to deceive me : instead of that, he took every oppor- 
 tunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices 
 of Mr. Thomhill, 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. 
 Thomhill 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. BurcheU's 
 
 148 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 stiU 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. ThomhiU's baseness were 
 too well grounded : but he can triumph in security ; 
 for he is rich, and we are poor. But tell me, my child, 
 sure it was no small temptation that could thus obliterate 
 all the impressions of such an education and so virtuous 
 a disposition as thine ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph 
 to the desire I had of making him, and not myself, 
 happy. I knew that the ceremony of^our marriage, 
 which was privately performed by a^^^pisn) priest, was 
 no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but 
 his honour." — " What ! " interrupted I, " and were you 
 indeed married by a priest in orders ? " — " Indeed, Sir, 
 we were," rephed she, " though we were both sworn to 
 conceal his name." — " Why, then, my child, come to 
 my arins again ; and now you are a thousand times 
 more welcome than before ; for you are now his wife to 
 all intents and purposes ; nor can all the laws of man, 
 though written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force 
 of that sacred connection." 
 
 " Alas, papa ! " repUed she, " you are but little 
 acquainted with his villainies : he has been married 
 already by the same priest to six or eight wives more, 
 whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned." 
 
 " Has he so ? " cried I ; " then we must hang the 
 priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow." 
 
 149 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " But, Sir," returned she, " will thaUbe right, when I am 
 sworn to secrecy ? " — " My dear," I replied, " if you 
 have made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt 
 you to break it. Even though it may benefit the public, 
 you must not inform against him. In all human 
 institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater 
 good ; as, in politics, a province may be given away 
 to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a limb may be lopped 
 off to preserve the body ; but in religion, the law is 
 written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, 
 my child, is right ; for otherwise, if we commit a smaller 
 evil to procure a greater good, certain guilt would be 
 thus incurred, in expectation of contingent advantage. 
 And though the advantage should certainly follow, yet 
 the interval between commission and advantage, which 
 is allowed to be guilty, may be that in which we are 
 called away to answer for the things we have done, and 
 the volume of human actions is closed for ever. But I 
 interrupt you, my dear ; go on." 
 
 " The very next morning," continued she, " I found 
 what little expectation I was to have from his sincerity. 
 That very morning he introduced me to two unhappy 
 women more, whom, like me, he had deceived, but who 
 lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too 
 tenderly to bear such rivals in his affections, and strove 
 to forget my infamy in a tumult of pleasures. With 
 this view I danced, dressed, and talked ; but still was 
 unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me 
 every moment of the power of my charms, and this 
 only 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 
 
 150 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 ahnost 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 witfi my mamma and 
 sister now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are 
 much ; but mine are greater than theirs, for mine are 
 mixed with guilt and infamy." 
 
 " Have patience, my child," cried I, " and I hope things 
 will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, and 
 to-morrow I'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." 
 
 151 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 OFFENCES ARE EASILY PARDONED, WHERE THERE IS LOVE 
 AT BOTTOM 
 
 The next morning I took my daughter behind me, 
 and set out on my return home. As we travelled 
 along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her sorrows 
 and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the 
 presence of her offended mother. I took every oppor- 
 tunity, from the prospect of a fine country, through which 
 we passed, to observe how much kinder Heaven was to us 
 than we to each other ; and that the misfortunes of 
 nature's making were very few. I assured her, that she 
 should never perceive any change in my affections, and 
 that, during my life, which yet might be long, she might 
 depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed 
 her against the censure of the world, showed her that 
 books were sweet unreproaching companions to the 
 miserable, and that, if they could not bring us to enjoy 
 life, they would at least teach us to endure it. 
 
 The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that 
 night at an inn by the way, vsdthin about five miles from 
 my house ; and as I was willing to prepare my family 
 for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her 
 that night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied 
 by my daughter Sophia, early the next morning. It was 
 
 152 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 flight before we reached our appointed stage ; however, 
 after seeing her provided with a decent apartment, 
 and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper 
 refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. 
 And now my heart caught new sensations of pleasure, the 
 nearer I approached that peaceful mansion. As a bird 
 that had been frighted from its nest, my affections 
 outwent my haste, and hovered round my little fireside 
 with all the rapture of expectation. I called up the 
 many fond things I had to say, and anticipated the 
 welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's 
 tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. 
 As I walked but slowly, the night waned apace. The 
 labourers of the day were all retired to rest ; the lights 
 were out in every cottage ; no souiids were heard but 
 of the shrilling cock, and the deep-raouthed watch-dog, 
 at hollow distance. I approached my little abode of 
 pleasure, and, before I was within a furlong of the 
 place, our honest mastiff came running to welcome 
 me. 
 
 It was now near midnight that I came to knock at 
 my door : all was still and silent : my heart dilated 
 with unutterable happiness, when, to my amazement, 
 I saw the house burstingjiulinto a blaze of fire, and every 
 aperture red with Conflagration^ I gave a loud convul- 
 sive outcry, and fell upon the pavement, insensible. 
 This alarmed my son, who had, till this, been asleep ; 
 and he, perceiving the flames, instan^tly awaked my wife 
 and daughter ; and all running out, naked, and wild with 
 apprehension, recalled me to hfe with their anguish. 
 But it was only to objects of new terror ; for the flames 
 had, by this time, caught the roof of our dwelHng, pzirt 
 
 153 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 httle ones ? " — " They are burnt to 
 death in the flames," said my wife calmly, " and I will 
 die with them." That moment I heard the cry of the 
 babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and 
 nothing could have stopped me. " Where, where are 
 my children ? " cried I, rushing through the flames, and 
 bursting the door of the chamber in which they were 
 confined ! — " Where are my httle 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 conveyed 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 bum on, and all ray 
 possessions perish. Here they are.; I have saved my 
 treasures. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and 
 we shall yet be happy." We kissed our httle darlings 
 a thousand times ; they clasped us round the neck, and 
 seemed to share our transports, while their mother 
 laughed and wept by turns. 
 
 I now stood a calm spectator of the flames ; and, 
 after some time, began to perceive that my arm to the 
 shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was, 
 therefore, out of my power to give my son any 
 assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or 
 preventing the flames spreading to our com. By this 
 time the neighbours were alarmed,^ and came running 
 
 154 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 to our assistance; but all they could'do was to stand, 
 like us— spectators of the calamity. 
 
 My goods, among which were the notes I had reserved 
 for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, 
 except a box with some papers that stood in the kitchen, 
 and two or three things more of little consequence, 
 which my son brought away in the beginning. The 
 neighbours contributed, however, what they could to 
 Ughten our distress. They brought us clothes, and 
 furnished one of our outhouses with kitchen utensUs ; 
 so that by daylight we had another, though a wretched 
 dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour and 
 his children were not the least assiduous in providing 
 us with everything necessary, and offering whatever 
 consolation untutored benevolence could suggest. 
 
 When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity 
 to know the cause of my long stay began to take place : 
 having therefore informed them of every particular, 
 I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our lost 
 one ; and though we had nothing but wretchedness 
 now to impart, I was willing to procure her a 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 afflic- 
 tions. Being unable to go for my poor child myself, 
 as my arm grew very painful, I sent my son and 
 daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched 
 delinquent, who had not the 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 mother, " this is but a poor place you are 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 come to after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and 
 I can afford but little entertainment to persons who 
 have kept company only with people of distinction. 
 Yes, Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered 
 very much of late ; but I hope Heaven will forgive 
 you." During this reception, the unhappy victim stood 
 pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply : but 
 I could not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; 
 wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice 
 and manner, which was ever followed with instant 
 submission, " I entreat, woman, that my words may 
 now be 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 hard- 
 ships of life are now coming fast upon us ; let us not, 
 therefore, increase them by dissension among each 
 other. If we live harmoniously together, we may yet 
 be contented, as there are enough of us to shut out the 
 censuring world, and keep each other in countenance. 
 The kindness of Heaven is promised to the penitent, 
 and let ours be directed by the 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 exertion 
 of virtue than a hundred acts of justice." 
 
 156 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COMPLETELY 
 MISERABLE 
 
 Some assiduity was now required to make our present 
 abode as convenient as possible, and we were soon again 
 qualified to enjoy our former serenity. Being disabled 
 myself from assisting my son in our usual occupations, 
 I read to my family from the few books that were 
 saved, and particularly from such, as, by amusing the 
 imagination, contributed to ease the heart. Our good 
 neighbours, too, came every day, with the kindest 
 condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all 
 to assist in repairing my former dwelling. Honest 
 Farmer WilUams was not last among these visitors ; 
 but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have 
 renewed his addresses to my daughter ; but she rejected 
 them in such a manner, as totally depressed his future 
 solicitations. Her grief seemed formed for continuing, 
 and she was the only person in our little society that a 
 week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost . 
 that unblushing innocence which once taught her to / 
 respect herself, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. 
 Anxiety now had taken strong possession of her mind ; 
 her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, 
 and neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every 
 
 157 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 vvjiere it has been, so 
 her former guilt, though driven out fby repentance, left 
 jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand ways 
 to lessen her care, and even forgot my own pain in a 
 concern for hers, collecting such amusing passages of 
 history as a strong memory and some reading could 
 suggest. " Our happiness, my dear," I would say, " is 
 in the power of One who can bring it. about in a thousand 
 unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If example 
 be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my 
 child, told us by a grave though sometimes a romancing 
 historian. 
 
 " Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan 
 nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a widow 
 and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she stood one 
 day caressing her infant son in the open window of an 
 apartment which hung over the river Voltuma, the 
 child with a sudden spring leaped from her arms into 
 the flood below, and disappeared in a moment. The 
 mother, struck with instant surprise, and making an 
 effort to save him, plunged in after ; but far from being 
 able to assist the infant, she herself with great difficulty 
 escaped to the opposite shore, just when some French 
 soldiers were plundering the country on that side, who 
 immediately made her their prisoner. 
 
 " As the war was then carried on between the French 
 and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, they were 
 going at once to perpetrate^those two extremes sug- 
 gested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution, 
 however, was opposed by a young officer, who, though 
 
 158 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 their retreat required the utmost expedition, placed her 
 behind him, and brought her in safety to his native 
 city. Her beauty at first caught his eye ; her merit, 
 soon after, his heart. They were married : he rose to 
 the highest posts ; they lived long together, and were 
 happy. But the felicity of a soldier- can never be called 
 permanent : after an interval of several years, the troops 
 which he 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 pro- 
 duce more various instances of cruelty than those 
 which the French and Italians at that time exercised 
 upon each other. It was resolved by the victors, upon 
 this occasion, to put all the French prisoners to death ; 
 but particularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, 
 as he was principally instrumental in protracting the 
 siege. Their determinations were, in general, executed 
 almost as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier 
 was led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood 
 ready, while the spectators in gloomy silence awaited 
 the fatal blow, which was only suspended tiU the general 
 who presided as judge should give the signal. It was 
 in this interval of anguish and expectation that Matilda 
 came to take her last farewell of her husband and 
 deUverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the 
 cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a 
 premature death in the river Volturna, to be the spec- 
 tator 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. 
 
 159 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 He was her son, the infant for whom she had encoun- 
 tered 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 nolliing gave her ease, 
 In company she dreaded contempt ; and in solitude 
 she only found anxiety. Such was the colour of her 
 wretchedness, when we received certain information 
 that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married to Miss 
 Wilmot, for whom I always suspected he had a real 
 passion, though he took every opportunity before me 
 to express his contempt both of her person and fortune. 
 This news served only to increase poor Olivia's afHic- 
 tion : such a flagrant breach of fidehty was more than 
 her courage could support. I was resolved, however, 
 to get more certain information, and to defeat, if possible, 
 the completion of his designs, by sending my son to old 
 Mr. Wilmot's, with instructions to know the truth of 
 the report, and to deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating 
 Mr. Thomhill's conduct in my family. My son went in 
 pursuance of my directions, and in three days returned, 
 assuring us of the truth of the account ; but that 
 he had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which 
 he was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and 
 Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They 
 were to be married, he said, in a few days, having 
 appeared together at church the Sunday before he was 
 
 i6o 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 there, in great splendour, 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 
 ThornhiU, 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 ; qoncluding, that he 
 could not help thinking Mr. Thorn^ill 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 ; 
 these mouldering walls and humid floor ; my wretched 
 body thus disabled by fire, and niy children weeping 
 around me for bread : you have coine home, my child, 
 to all this ; yet here, even here, you see a man that 
 would not for a thousand worlds exchange situations. 
 Oh, my children, if you could but learn to commune 
 with your own hearts, and know what noble company 
 you can make them, you would little regard the elegance 
 and splendour of the worthless. Almost all men have 
 been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the 
 travellers. The similitude still may be improved, 
 when we observe that the good are joyful and serene, 
 like travellers that are going towards home ; the 
 wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that 
 are going into exile." 
 
 My compassion for my poor daughter overpowered 
 
 v.w. i6i M 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 by this new disaster, interrupted what I had further 
 to observe. I bade her mother suJ)port her, and after 
 a short time she recovered. She appeared from that 
 time more calm, and I imagined had gained a new 
 degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived me : 
 for her tranquillity was the languor of over-wrought 
 resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us 
 by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheer- 
 fulness among the rest of my family, nor was I displeased 
 at seeing them once more sprightly and at ease. It 
 would haye'^^een unjust to damp their satisfactions, 
 merely t^condolgjvith resolute melancholy, or to burden 
 them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more 
 the tale went round, and the song was demanded, 
 and cheerfulness condescended to hover round our 
 little habitation. 
 
 162 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 FRESH CALAMITIES 
 
 The next morning the sun arose with pecuhar 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 melan- 
 choly 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 OUvia," cried she, " let us 
 have that little melancholy air your papa was so fond of ; 
 your sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child ; 
 it will please your old father. " She complied in a manner 
 so exquisitely pathetic as moved me : 
 
 When lovely woman stoops, to folly, 
 And finds too late that men betray, 
 
 What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
 What art can wash her guilt away ? 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover, 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 
 To give repentance to her lover, 
 And wring his bosom, is-^-to die. 
 
 163 M2 
 
tHE ViCAk Q^ WAkfetlELD 
 
 As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an 
 interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar 
 softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at 
 a distance alarmed us all, but particularly increased 
 the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of 
 shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her 
 sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from his 
 chariot, and making up to the place where I was still 
 sitting, inquired after my health \^th 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 before me. 
 But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my passions, 
 and my calhng restrains them." 
 
 " I vow, my dear Sir," returned He, " I am amazed at 
 aU this ; nor can I understand what it means ! I hope 
 you do not think your daughter's late excursion with 
 me had anjrthing criminal in it ? " 
 
 " Go," cried I ; " thou art a wretch, a poor, pitiful 
 wretch, and every way a liar : but your meanness 
 secures you from my anger ! Yet, Sir, I am descended 
 from a family that would not have borne this !— And 
 so, thou vile thing, to gratify a riiomentary passion, 
 thou hast made one poor creature wretched for hfe, and 
 polluted a family that had nothing but honour for their 
 portion ! " 
 
 " If she or you," returned he, " are resolved to be 
 miserable, I cannot help it. But you may stiU be 
 happy ; and whatever opinion you may have formed of 
 me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. 
 We can marry her to another in a short time ; and, 
 
 164 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 what is more, she_may keep her loverbesjdfi.; for I 
 protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard 
 for her." 
 
 I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading 
 proposal ; for though the mind may often be calm 
 under great injuries, little villainy can at any time get 
 within the soul, and sting it into rage. — " Avoid my 
 sight, thou reptile ! " cried I, " nor continue to insult 
 me with thy presence. Were my brave son at home, 
 he would not suffer this ; but I am old and disabled, 
 and every way undone." 
 
 " I find," cried he, " you are bent upon obliging me 
 to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. But as 
 I have shown you what may be hoped from my friend- 
 ship, it may not be improper to represent what may be 
 the consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to 
 whom your late bond has been transferred, threatens 
 hard ; nor do I know how to prevent the course of 
 justice, except by paying the money myself ; which, as 
 I have been at some expenses lately previous to my 
 intended marriage, is not so easy to be done. And 
 then my steward talks of driving for the rent ; it is 
 certain he knows his duty ; for I never trouble myself 
 with affairs of that nature. Yet still I could wish to 
 serve you, and even to have you and your daughter 
 present at my marriage, which is shortly to be solemnised 
 with Miss Wilmot ; it is even the request of my charming 
 Arabella herself, whom I hope you wUl not refuse." 
 
 " Mr. Thornhill," replied I, " hear me once for all : 
 as to your marriage with any but my daughter, that I 
 never will consent to ; and though your friendship 
 could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me 
 
 165 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 to the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast 
 once wofully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my 
 heart upon thine honour, and have' found its baseness. 
 Never more, therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, 
 and possess what fortune has given thee — beauty, 
 riches, health, and pleasure. Go, arid 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 I." — Upon 
 which he departed abruptly. 
 
 My wife and son, who were present at this interview, 
 seemed terrified with apprehension. My daughters also, 
 finding that he was gone, came ©ut 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 threatened 
 in vain; for the very next morning his steward came 
 to demand my annual rent, which, by the train of 
 accidents aheady related, I was unable to pay. The 
 consequence of my incapacity was his driving my cattle 
 that evening, and their being appraised and sold the 
 next day for less than half their value. My wife and 
 children now therefore entreated me to comply upon 
 
 i66 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 any terms, rather than incur certain destruction. They 
 even begged of me to admit his visits once more, and 
 used all their little eloquence to paint the calamities I 
 was going to endure, — the terrors of a prison in so 
 rigorous a season as the present, with the danger that 
 threatened my health from ■ the late accident that 
 happened by the fire. But I continued inflexible. 
 
 " Why, my treasures," cried I, " why will you thus 
 attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not right ? 
 My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but my con- 
 science will not permit me to approve. Would you 
 have me applaud to the world what my heart must 
 internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely sit 
 down and flatter our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid 
 a prison, continually suffer the more galhng 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, where we can look around 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 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. 
 
 167 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " My friends," said I, " this is severe weather in 
 which you are 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 terrible manner, and it 
 has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want clothes 
 to cover me, and I am now too wdak 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 
 prepare immediately for leaving this place. I en- 
 treated them to be expeditious ; and desired my son 
 to assist his eldest sister, who, from a consciousness 
 that she was the cause of our calamities, was fallen, 
 and had lost anguish in insensibihty. I encouraged 
 my wife, who, pale and trembhng, clasped our affrighted 
 little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in 
 silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In 
 the meantime my youngest daughter prepared for our 
 departure, and as she received several hints to use 
 despatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart. 
 
 i68 
 

CHAPTER XXV 
 
 NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT HAS 
 SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT 
 
 We set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, 
 and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being en- 
 feebled by a slow fever, which had begun for some days 
 to undermine her constitution, one of the officers who 
 had a horse kindly took her behind him ; for even 
 these men cannot entirely divest themselves of humanity. 
 My son led one of the little ones by the hand, and my wife 
 the other, while I leaned upon my youngest girl, whose 
 tears fell, not for her own, but my 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 parish- 
 ioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, soon seized 
 upon the two officers of justice, and swearing they would 
 never see their minister go to gaol while they had a drop 
 of blood to shed in his defence, were going to use them 
 with great severity. The consequence might have been 
 fatal, had I not immediately interposed, and with some 
 difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the 
 enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon my 
 delivery now as certain, appeared transported with 
 joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures. 
 
 169 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 But they soon were undeceived, upon hearing me address 
 the poor deluded people, who camcj as they imagined, 
 to do me service. 
 
 " What ! my friends," cried I, " and is this the way 
 you love me ? Is this the manner you obey the instruc- 
 tions I have given you from the pulpit ? Thus to 
 fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on your- 
 selves and me ? Which is your ringleader ? Show me 
 the man that has thus seduced you. As sure as he 
 lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my dear 
 deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe to God, 
 to your country, and to me. I shall yet perhaps one 
 day see you in greater feUcity here, and contribute to 
 make your lives more happy. But, let it at least be 
 my comfort, when I pen my fold for immor tality , that 
 not one here shall be wantingv" 
 
 They now seemed all repentance, and, melting into 
 tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. I 
 shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them my 
 blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any further 
 interruption. Some hours before night, we reached the 
 town, or rather village ; for it consisted but of a few 
 mean houses, having lost all its former opulence, and 
 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 I supped with my family with my usual cheerfulness. 
 After seeing them properly 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, 
 
 170 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 and paved with stone, common to both felons and debtors 
 at certain hours in the four-and-twenty. Besides this, 
 every prisoner had a separate cell, where he was locked 
 in for the night. 
 
 I expected, upon my entrance, to find nothing but 
 lamentations and various sounds of misery ; but it was 
 very different. The prisoners seerned aU employed in 
 one common design, that of forgetting thought in merri- 
 ment or clamour. I was apprised of the usual per- 
 quisite required upon these occasions, and immediately 
 comphed with the demand, though the little money I 
 had was very near being all exhausted. This was 
 immediately sent away for liquor, and the whole prison 
 was soon filled with riot, laughter, and profaneness. 
 
 " How ! " cried I to myself, " shall men so very wicked 
 be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ? I feel only 
 the same confinement with them, and I think I have 
 more reason to be happy." 
 
 With such reflections I laboured to become cheerful ; 
 but cheerfulness was never yet produced by effort, 
 which is itself painful. As I was sitting, therefore, in 
 a corner of the gaol, in a pensive posture, one of my 
 fellow-prisoners came up, and, sitting by me, entered 
 into conversation. It was my constant rule in life 
 never to avoid the conversation of any man who seemed 
 to desire it ; for, if good, I might profit by his instruction ; 
 if bad, he might be assisted by mine. I found this to be 
 a 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 circumstance I had never once attended to. 
 
 171 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " That's unfortunate," cried he, " as you are allowed 
 here nothing but straw, and your apartment is very large 
 and cold. However, you seem to be something of a 
 gentleman, and, as I have been one myself in my time, 
 part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your service." 
 
 I thanked him, professing my surprise at finding such 
 humanity in a gaol in misfortunes ; adding, to let him 
 see that I was a scholar, " That the ancient sage seemed 
 to understand the value of company in affliction, when 
 he said Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton etairon ; and, in fact," 
 continued I, " what is the world if it affords only 
 solitude ? " 
 
 " You talk of the world. Sir," returned my fellow- 
 prisoner ; " the world is in its dotage ; and yet the 
 cosmogony or 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 OceUus Lucanus, 
 have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these 
 words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which impUes " 
 — " 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 Wel- 
 bridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson ? " 
 At this demand he only sighed. " I suppose you must 
 recollect," resumed I, " one Doctor Primrose, from 
 whom you bought a horse ? " 
 
 He now at once recollected me ; for the gloominess of 
 the place and the approaching night had prevented his 
 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 neigh- 
 
 172 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 bour Flamborough is tbe-ojily prosefcutor I am any way 
 afraid of at the nextV^saze^ 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," rephed I, " your kindness in offering me 
 assistance when you could expect no return, shall be 
 repaid with my endeavours to soften, or totally suppress 
 Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I Will send my son to 
 him for that purpose the first opportunity ; nor do I in 
 the least doubt but he will 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 surprised 
 at the present youthful change in his aspect ; for at the 
 time I had seen him before, he appeared at least sixty. 
 " Sir," answered he, " you are little acquainted with the 
 world ; I had, at that time, false hair, and have learned 
 the art of counterfeiting every age from seventeen to 
 seventy. Ah, Sir ! had I but bestowed half the pains 
 in learning a trade that I have in learning to be a 
 scoundrel, I might have been a rich man at this day. 
 But, rogue as I am, still I may be your friend, and 
 that, perhaps, when you least expect it." 
 
 We were now prevented from further conversation 
 by the arrival of the gaoler's servants, who came to call 
 over the prisoners' names, and lock up for the night. 
 
 173 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 Corrector, 
 I laid myself down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity 
 till morning. 
 
 ^74 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 A REFORMATION IN THE GAOL : TO MAKE LAWS COMPLETE, 
 THEY SHOULD REWARD AS WeLl AS PUNISH 
 
 The next morning early, I was awakened by my family, 
 whom I found in tears at my bedside. The gloomy 
 appearance of everything about us, it seems, had daunted 
 them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, assuring them I 
 had never slept with greater tranquillity ; and next 
 inquired after my eldest daughter, who was not among 
 them. They informed me that yesterday's uneeisiness and 
 fatigue had increased her fever, and it was judged proper 
 to leave her behind. My next care was to send my 
 son to procure a room or two to lodge my family in, as 
 near the prison as conveniently could be found. He 
 obeyed ; but could only find one apartment, which was 
 hired at a small expense for his mother and sisters, the 
 gaoler, with humanity, consenting to let him and his two 
 little brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed was 
 therefore prepared for them in a corner of the room, 
 which I thought answered very conveniently. I was 
 willing, however, previously to know whether my little 
 children chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright 
 them upon entrance. 
 
 " Well," cried I, " my good boys, how do you like 
 
 175 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 any- 
 where, 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 labour 
 of your hands we must all hope to be supported. Your 
 wages as a day-labourer will be fully sufficient, with 
 proper frugality, to maintain us all, and comfortably too. 
 Thou art now sixteen years old, and hast strength ; and 
 it was given thee, my son, for very useful purposes ; 
 for it must save from famine your helpless parents and 
 family. Prepare then, this evening, to look out for work 
 against to-morrow, and bring home every night what 
 money you earn for our support." 
 
 Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I 
 walked down to the common prison, where I could enjoy 
 and room. But I was not long there when the 
 (execration^ 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 labouring to make themselves 
 a future and tremendous enemy. 
 
 Their insensibiUty excited my highest compassion, 
 and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. It 
 even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt 
 
 176 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 to reclaim them. I resolved, therefore, once more to 
 return, and, in spite of their contempt, to give them my 
 advice, and ^co nquer thein by perseverance. Going, 
 therefore, among them again, I informed Mr. Jenkinson 
 of my design, at which he laughed heartily, but com- 
 municated it to the rest. The proposal was received 
 with the greatest good humour, as it promised to afford 
 a new fund of entertainment to persons who had now 
 no other resource for mirth but what could be derived 
 from ridicule or debauchery. 
 
 I therefore read them a portion of the service with 
 a loud, imaffected voice, and found my audience per- 
 fectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, groans 
 of contrition burlesqued, winking and coughing, alter- 
 nately excited laughter. However, I continued with my 
 natural solemnity to read on, sensible that what I 
 did might amend some, but could itself receive no 
 contamination from any. 
 
 After reading, I entered upon my exhortation, which 
 was rather calculated at first to amuse them than to 
 reprove. I previously observed, that no other motive 
 but their welfare could induce me to this ; that I was 
 their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by preaching, 
 I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very profane ; 
 because they got nothing by it, and might lose a great 
 deal: "For be assured, my friends," cried I, — "for 
 you are my friends, however the world may disclaim 
 our friendship, — though you swore twelve thousand 
 oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in your 
 purse. Then what signifies calling every moment upon 
 the devil, and courting his friendship, since you find 
 how scurvily he uses you ? He has given you nothing 
 
 v,w. 177 N 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 bne 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 
 malicious being than any thief-taker of them all ; for 
 they only decoy and then hang you ; but he decoys 
 and hangs, and, what is worst of all, will not let you 
 loose after the hangman has done." 
 
 When I had concluded, I received the compUments 
 of my audience, some of whom came and shook me by 
 the hand, swearing that I was a very honest fellow, and 
 that they desired my further acquaintance. I therefore 
 promised to repeat my lecture next day, and actually 
 conceived some hope 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 pleasure, as he was 
 kind enough to express it, of my conversation. He 
 had not yet seen my family ; for as they came to my 
 apartment by a door in the narrow passage already 
 
 178 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 described, by this means they avoided the common 
 prison. Jenkinson, at the first interview, therefore, 
 seemed not a little struck with the beauty of my youngest 
 daughter, which her pensive air contributed to heighten ; 
 and my little ones did not pass unnoticed. 
 
 " Alas, Doctor ! " cried he, " these children are too 
 handsome and too good for such a place as this ! " 
 
 " Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, " thank Heaven, 
 my children are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if they 
 be good, it matters little for the rest." 
 
 " I fancy. Sir," returned my fellow-prisoner, " that it 
 must give you great comfort to have this little 
 family about you." 
 
 " A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson ! " rephed I ; " yes, it is 
 indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them for 
 all the world ; for they can make a dungeon seem a 
 palace. There is but one way in this hfe of wounding 
 my happiness, and that is by injuring 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 injured, and by whom 
 I wish to be forgiven." 
 
 My son immediately recollected his voice and features, 
 though he had before seen him in disguise, and taking 
 him by the hand, with a smile, forgave him. " Yet," 
 continued he, " I can't help wondering at what you 
 could see in my face, to think me a proper mark for 
 deception." 
 
 " My dear Sir," returned the other, " it was not your 
 face, but your white stockings, and the black ribbon in 
 your hair, that allured me. But no disparagement to 
 your parts, I have deceived wiser men than you in my 
 
 179 N2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 time ; and yet, with all my tricks, the blockheads have 
 been too many for me at last." 
 
 " I suppose," cried my son, " that the narrative of 
 such a life as yours must be extremely instructive and 
 amusing." 
 
 " Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson. 
 " Those relations which describe the tricks and vices 
 only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in life, 
 retard our success. The traveller that distrusts every 
 person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance 
 of every man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives 
 in time at his journey's end. 
 
 " Indeed, I think, from my own experience, that the 
 knowing one is the siUiest 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 rne. Thus I was at 
 last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and have 
 hved ever since, my head throbbing with schemes to 
 deceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of detection. 
 I used often to laugh at your honest simple neighbour 
 Flamborough, and, one way or another, generally 
 cheated him once a year. Yet still the honest man 
 went forward without suspicion, and grew rich, while 
 I still continued tricksy and cunning, and was poor, 
 without the consolation of being Honest, However," 
 continued he, " let me know your case, and what has 
 brought you here ; perhaps, though I have not skill to 
 avoid a gaol myself, I may extricate my friends." 
 
 i8o 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him of 
 the whole train of accidents and follies that had plunged 
 me into my present troubles, and my utter inability to 
 get free. 
 
 After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, 
 he slapped his forehead, as if he had hit upon something 
 material, and took his leave, saying, Jie would try what 
 ^ould be done. 
 
 i8l 
 
V 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED 
 
 The next morning I communicated to my wife and 
 children the scheme I had planned of reforming the 
 prisoners, which they received with universal dis- 
 approbation, alleging the impossibility and impropriety 
 of it ; adding that my endeavours would in no way 
 contribute to their amendment, but might probably 
 disgrace my calling. 
 
 " Excuse me," returned I ; " these people, however 
 fallen, are still men ; and that is a very good title to 
 my affections. Good counsel rejected, returns to enrich 
 the giver's bosom ; and though tjie instruction I com- 
 municate 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 dungeon is as precious as that seated upon a throne. 
 Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, I will : perhaps 
 they will not all despise me. Perhaps I may catch up 
 even one from the gulf, and that will be great gain ; for 
 is there upon earth a gem so precious as the human 
 soul ? " 
 
 Thus saying, 1 left them, and descended to the 
 common prison, where I found the prisoners very 
 
 182 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 merry, expecting my arrival ; and each prepared with 
 some gaol trick to play upon the Doctor. Thus, as I 
 was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by 
 'accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, who 
 stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting through 
 his teeth, which fell in showers upon my book. A 
 third would cry Amen ! in such an affected tone, as 
 gave the rest great delight. A fourth had slyly picked 
 my pocket of my spectacles. But there was one whose 
 trick gave more universal pleasure than all the rest ; 
 for, observing the manner in which I had disposed my 
 books on the table before me, he very dexterously 
 displaced one of them, and put an obscene jest-book 
 of his own in the place. However, I took no notice of 
 all that this mischievous group of little beings could 
 do, but went on, perfectly sensible that what was 
 ridiculous in my attempt would excite mirth only the 
 first or second time, while what was serious would be 
 permanent. My design succeeded, and in less than 
 six days some were penitent, and all attentive. 
 
 It was now that I applauded my perseverance and 
 address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested 
 of every moral feeling, and now began to think of 
 doing them temporal services also, by rendering their 
 situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time had 
 hitherto been divided between famine and excess, 
 tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only em- 
 ployment was quarrelling among each other, playing at 
 cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this 
 last mode of idle industry I took the hint of setting 
 such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists 
 and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a 
 
 183 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 general subscription, and, when manufactured, sold by 
 my appointment ; so that each earned something every 
 day — a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain him. 
 
 I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the pimish- 
 ment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar industry. 
 Thus, in less than a fortnight I had formed them into 
 something social and humane, and had the pleasure 
 of regarding myself as a legislator, who had brought 
 men from their native ferocity into friendship and 
 obedience. 
 
 And it were highly to be wished, that legislative 
 power would thus direct the law rather to reformation 
 than severity ; that it would soon be convinced that 
 the work of eradicating crimes is not by making 
 punishments famiUar, but formidable. Then, instead 
 of our present prisons, which find or make men 
 guilty, which enclose wretches for the commission 
 of one crime, and return them, if returned alive, 
 fitted for the perpetration of thousands ; it were to 
 be wished we had, as in other parts of Europe, 
 places of penitence and solitude, where the accused 
 might be attended by such as would give them 
 repentance, if guilty, or new motives to virtue, if inno- 
 cent. And this, but not the increasing punishments, 
 is the way to mend a state. Nor can I avoid even 
 questioning the validity of that right which social 
 combinations have assumed, of capitally punishing 
 offences of a slight nature. In cases of murder, their 
 right is obvious, as it is the duty of us all, from the 
 law of self-defence, to cut off that man who has shown 
 a disregard for the Ufe of another. Against such, all 
 nature rises in arms ; but it is not so against him who 
 
 184 
 
-i^ fu*^-r'^ 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 steals my property. Natural law gives me no right to 
 take away his life, as, by that, the horse he steals is as 
 much his property as mine. If, then, I have any 
 right, it must be from a compact made between us, that 
 he who deprives the other of his horse shall die. But 
 this is a false compact ; because no man has a right 
 to barter his life no more than to take it away, as it 
 is not his own. And 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 trifling 
 inconvenience, 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 a 
 hundred or a hundred thousand ; for as ten millions of 
 circles can never make a square, so the united voice of 
 of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation to 
 falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and untutored 
 nature says the same thing. Savages, that are directed 
 by natural law alone, are very tender of the lives of 
 each other ; they seldom shed blood but to retaliate 
 former cruelty. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, had 
 but few executions in times of peace ; and, in all com- 
 mencing 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. Goj^emmmt, while it grows older, 
 seems to acquire the moroseness)of age ; and, as if our 
 property were become dearerlnproportion as it increased 
 — as if the more enormous our wealth the more extensive 
 our fears — all our possessions are, paled up with new 
 
 185 
 
v/ 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 edicts every day, and hung round with gibbets to scare 
 every invader. 
 
 I cannot tell whether it is frona 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 
 perceiving no distinction in the penalty, the people are 
 led to lose all sense of distinction fri the crime, and this 
 distinction is the bulwark of all morality : thus the 
 multitude of laws produces new vices, and new vices call 
 for fresh restraints. 
 
 It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of 
 contriving new laws to punish vice? ; instead of drawing 
 hard the cords of society till a convulsion come to burst 
 them ; instead of cutting away wretches as useless 
 before we have tried their utility ; instead of converting 
 correction into vengeance, — it were to be wished that 
 we tried the restrictive arts of government, and 
 made law the protector, but not the tyrant of the 
 people. We should then find that creatures, whose 
 souls are held as dross, only wanted the hand of a 
 refiner ; we should then find that wretches, now stuck 
 up for long tortures, lest luxury shotild feci a momentary 
 pang, might, if properly treated, serve to sinew the 
 state in times of danger ; that as their faces are like 
 ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds are so 
 base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that a man 
 may see his last crime without dying for it ; and that 
 very little blood will serve to cemept our security. 
 
 i86 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OF PRUDENCE 
 THAN OF VIRTUE IN THIS LIFE ; TEMPORAL EVILS OR 
 FELICITIES BEING REGARDED BY ,HEAVEN AS THINGS 
 MERELY IN THEMSELVES TRIFLING, AND UNWORTHY 
 ITS CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION 
 
 I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but 
 had not since my arrival been visited by my dear Olivia, 
 and I greatly longed to see her. Having communicated 
 my wishes to my wife, the next morning the poor girl 
 entered my apartment, leaning on her sister's arm. 
 The change which I saw in her countenance struck me. 
 The numberless graces that once resided there were now 
 fled, and the hand of death seemed to have moulded 
 every feature to alarm me. Her temples were sunk, 
 her forehead was tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon 
 iher cheek. 
 
 " I am glad to see thee, my deatr," cried I ; " but 
 why this dejection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have 
 too great a regard for mc to permit disappointment 
 thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. Be 
 cheerful, child, and we may yet see happier days." 
 
 " You have ever. Sir," replied she, " been kind to me, 
 and it adds to my pain that I shall never have an 
 opportunity of sharing the happiness you promise. 
 Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me here ; 
 
 187 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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. Thomhill ; it may in some measure 
 induce him to pity you, and it will give me relief in 
 dying." 
 
 " Never, child," repHed 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 refusing a submission 
 which promised to give me freedom. He observed, that 
 the rest of my family were not to "be sacrificed to the 
 peace of one child alone, and she the only one who had 
 offended me. " Besides," added he, " I don't know if it 
 be just thus to obstruct the union of man and wife, which 
 you do at present, by refusing to consent to a match 
 which you cannot hinder, but may render unhappy." 
 
 " Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the 
 man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no 
 submission I can make could proctlre me hberty even 
 for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a 
 debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. 
 But though my submission and approbation could 
 transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment 
 he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as some- 
 
 188 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 thing 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 resent- 
 ment of my own, to attempt putting asunder those 
 who wish for a union. No ; villain as he is, I should 
 wish him married, to prevent the consequences 
 of his future debaucheries. But now, should I not 
 be the most cruel of fathers to sign an instrument 
 which must send my child to the grave, merely to avoid 
 a prison myself ; and thus, to escape one pang, break 
 my child's heart with a thousand ? " 
 
 He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but could 
 not avoid observing, that he feared my daughter's 
 life was already too much wasted to keep me long a 
 prisoner. " However," continued he, " though you 
 refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have no 
 iDbjections 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 hfe for it, that in three days you shall have an 
 answer." I thanked him for the hint, and instantly set 
 about complying ; but I wanted paper, and unluckily 
 all our money had been laid out that morning in 
 provisions : however, he suppUed me. 
 
 For the three ensuing days I was in a state of anxiety 
 to know what reception my letter might meet with ; 
 but in the meantime was frequently solicited by my 
 wife to submit to any conditions rather than remain 
 here, and every hour received repeated accounts of the 
 decline of my daughter's health. The third day and the 
 
 189 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 fourth arrived, but I received no answer to my letter ; 
 the complaints of a stranger against a favourite nephew 
 were no way likely to succeed ; so that these hopes 
 soon vanished like all my former. My mind, however, 
 still supported itself, though confinement and bad air 
 began to make a visible alteration in my health, and 
 my arm that had suffered in the fire grew worse. My 
 children, however, sat by me, and while I was stretched 
 on my straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept 
 at my instructions. But my daughter's health declined 
 faster than mine : every message from her contributed 
 to increase my apprehension and pain. The fifth morn- 
 ing 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 expiring, and yet I was debarred the small 
 comfort of weeping by her. My fellow-prisoner, some 
 time after, came with the last account. He bade me be 
 patient : she was dead !^ — The next morning he returned, 
 and found me with my two little ones, now my only 
 companions, who were using all their innocent efforts to 
 comfort me. They entreated to read to me, and bade me 
 not to cry, for I was now too old to weep. " And is not 
 my sister an angel now, papa ? " cried the elder ; " and 
 why, then, are you sorry for her ? I wish I were an 
 angel out of this frightful place, if my papa were with 
 me."—" Yes," added my younger darling, " Heaven, 
 where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there 
 
 190 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 are none but good people there, and the people here are 
 very bad." 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle by 
 observing, that, now my daughter was no more, I should 
 seriously think of the rest of my family, and attempt 
 to save my own hfe, which was every day declining for 
 want of necessaries and wholesome air. He added 
 that it was now incumbent on me to sacrifice any pride 
 or resentment of my own to the welfare of those who 
 depended on me for support ; and that I was now, both 
 by reason and justice, obliged to try to reconcile my 
 landlord. 
 
 " Heaven be praised ! " replied I, " there is no pride 
 left me now : I should detest my own heart if I saw either 
 pride or resentment lurking there. On the contrary, 
 as my 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 vengeance. I 
 am now willing to approve his marriage : and, if this 
 submission can do him any pleasure, let him know that 
 if I have done him any injury I am sorry for it." 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down 
 my submission nearly as I have expressed it, to which 
 I signed my name. My son was employed to carry the 
 letter to Mr. Thomhill, who was then at his seat in the 
 country. He went, and, in about six hours, returned 
 with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, he 
 said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants 
 
 191 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 humblest 
 manner, and delivered the letter, which when Mr. 
 Thomhill had read, he said that all submission was now 
 too late and unnecessary ; that he had heard of our appli- 
 cation to his uncle, which met with the contempt it 
 deserved ; and, as for the rest, that all future appHcations 
 should be directed to his attorney, not to him. He 
 observed, however, that as he had a very good opinion 
 of the discretion of the two young ladies, they might 
 have been the most agreeable 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 a 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 heavenly 
 Father." 
 
 Just as I spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen that 
 day before, appeared with looks of terror, and making 
 efforts, but unable, to speak. '" Why, my love," 
 cried I, " why will you thus increase my afflictions by 
 your own ? What though no submission can turn our 
 severe master, though he has doomed me to die in this 
 place of wretchedness, and though we have lost a 
 
 193 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 darling child, yet you will find comfort in your other 
 children when I shall be no more." — " We have indeed 
 lost," returned she, " a darling child. My Sophia, my 
 dearest, is gone ; snatched from us, carried off by 
 ruffians ! " — " How, madam," cried my fellow-prisoner, 
 " Miss Sophia carried off by villains ? sure it cannot be ! " 
 
 She could only answer by a fixed look, and a flood 
 of tears. But one of the prisoners' wives who was 
 present, and came in with her, gave us a more distinct 
 account : she informed us, that as my wife, my daughter, 
 and herself were taking a walk together on the great 
 road, a little way out of the village, a post-chaise and 
 pair drove up to them, and instantly stopped ; upon 
 which a well-dressed man, but not Mr. ThornhiU, 
 stepping out, clasped my daughter round the waist, 
 and forcing her in, bade the postilion drive on, so that 
 they were out of sight in a moment. 
 
 " Now," cried I, " the sum of my miseries is made 
 up, nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give 
 me another pang. What ! not one left ! — not leave 
 me one ! — The monster ! — The child that was next my 
 heart ! — she had the beauty of an angel, and almost 
 the wisdom of an angel. — But support that woman, nor 
 let her fall. Not to leave me one ! " 
 
 " Alas ! my husband," said my wife, " you seem to 
 want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are 
 great, but I could bear this and more, if I saw you but 
 easy. They may ta ke away my children, and all the 
 world, if they leave me but you." 
 
 My son, who was present, endeavoured to moderate 
 our grief ; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that 
 we might still have reason to be thankful. " My 
 
 V.W. 193 O 
 
V 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 child," cried I, " look round the world, and see if there 
 be any happiness left me now. Is not every ray of 
 comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects only 
 lie beyond the grave ? " — " My dear father," returned 
 he, "I hope there is still something that will give you 
 an interval of satisfaction ; for I have a letter from my 
 brother George." — " What of him, child ? " interrupted 
 I ; " does he know our misery ? I hope my boy is 
 exempt from any part of what his wretched family 
 suffers ? " — " Yes, Sir," returned he, " he is perfectly 
 gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter brings nothing 
 but good news ; he is the favourite „of his colonel, who 
 promises to procure him the very next Ueutenancy that 
 becomes vacant." 
 
 " But 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 profcure you comfort, I 
 am sure that will." — " But are you 'sure," stiU repeated 
 she, " that the letter is from himself, and that he is 
 really so happy ? " — " Yes, Madam," repUed he, " it is 
 certainly his, and he will one day be the credit and 
 support of our family." — " Then, I thank Providence," 
 cried she, " that my last letter to him has miscarried. 
 Yes, my dear," continued she, turning to me, " I will 
 now confess, that though the hand of Heaven is sore 
 upon us in other instances, it has been favourable here. 
 By the last letter I wrote my son, which was in the 
 bitterness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother's 
 blessing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice 
 done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But, 
 
 194 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 thanks be to Him who directs all things, it has mis- 
 carried, 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 I what a tremendous 
 gulf hast thou escaped, that would have buried both 
 thee and him in endless ruin ! Providence, indeed, 
 has here been kinder to us than we to ourselves. It 
 has reserved that son to be the father and protector 
 of my children when I shall be away. How unjustly 
 did I complain of being stripped of every comfort, 
 when still I hear that he is happy, and insensible of 
 our afflictions ; still kept in reserve to 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 follows : 
 
 Honoured Sir, — I have called off my imagination 
 a few moments from the pleasures that surround me, 
 to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, — the 
 dear little fireside at home. My fancy draws that 
 harmless group, as listening to every line of this with 
 great composure. I view those faces with delight, 
 which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or 
 distress ! But, whatever your happiness may be at 
 home, I am sure it wiU 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 kirigdom. The colonel, who professes himself 
 
 195 3 
 
THE VICAR OF" WAKEFIELD 
 
 my friend, takes me with him to all companies where he 
 is acquainted, and, after my first visit, I generally find 
 myself received with increased respect upon repeating it. 
 
 I danced last night with Lady G , and, could I 
 
 forget you know whom, I might be perhaps successful. 
 But it is my fate still to remember others, while I am 
 myself forgotten by most of my absent friends ; and in 
 this number, I fear. Sir, that I must consider you ; for 
 I have long expected the pleasure of a letter from 
 home, to no purpose. Olivia and Sophia too promised to 
 write, but seem to have forgotten me. Tell them they 
 are two arrant little baggages, and that I am, at this 
 moment, in a most violent passion with them ; yet still, 
 I know not how, though I want to bluster a little, my 
 heart is respondent only to softer emotions. Then, tell 
 them. Sir, that, after all, I love them. affectionately ; and 
 be assured of my ever remaining 
 
 Your dutiful Son. 
 
 " In all our miseries," cried I, " what thanks have we 
 not to return, that one at least of our family is exempted 
 from what we suffer ! Heaven be his guard, and 
 keep my boy thus happy, to be the support of his 
 widowed mother, and the father of these two babes, 
 which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him ! 
 May he keep their innocence from the temptations of 
 want, and be their conductor in the paths of honour ! " 
 I had scarce said these words, when a noise Uke that 
 of a timiult seemed to proceed from the prison below : 
 it died away soon after, and a clanking of fetters was 
 heard along the passage that led to my apartment. 
 The keeper of the prison entered, holding a man all 
 
 196 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 bloody, wounded, and fettered with- the heaviest irons. 
 I looked with compassion upon "the wretch as he 
 approached me, but with horror, when I found it was 
 my own son. " My George ! my George ! and do I behold 
 thee thus ? Wounded — fettered ! Is this thy happiness ? 
 Is this the manner you return to me ? Oh that this 
 sight could break my heart at once, and let me die ! " 
 
 " Where, Sir, is your fortitude ? " returned my son, 
 with an intrepid voice. " I must suffer ; my hfe is 
 forfeited, and let them take it." 
 
 I tried to restrain my passion for a few minutes in 
 ■silence, but I thought I should have died with the 
 effort. — " Oh, my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee 
 thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment 
 that I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, to 
 behold thee thus again ! Chained — .wounded ; and yet 
 the death of the youthful is happy. But I am old, a 
 very old man, and have lived to see this day ! To 
 see my children all untimely falling about me, while I 
 continue a wretched survivor in the midst of ruin ! 
 May all the curses that ever sunk a soul fall heavy upon 
 the murderer of jny children ! May he live, like me, to 
 see " 
 
 " Hold, Sir ! " replied my son, " or I shall blush for 
 thee. How, SirJ^Jorgetful of your age, your holy 
 calling, thus t(/arrogatg/the justice of Heaven, and 
 fling those curses upward that must soon descend to 
 crush thy own grey head with destruction ! No, Sir, 
 let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death I 
 must shortly suffer ; to arm me with hope and resolu- 
 tion ; to give me courage to drink of that bitterness 
 which must shortly be my portion." 
 
 197 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " 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 un- 
 pardonable one. When I received my mother's letter 
 from home, I immediately came down, determined to 
 punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent him an 
 order to meet me, which he answered, not in person, 
 but by despatching four of his domestics to seize me. 
 I wounded one who first assaulted me, and I fear desper- 
 ately ; but the rest made me their prisoner. The 
 coward is determined to put the law in execution against 
 me ; the proofs are undeniable : I have sent a challenge, 
 and as I am the first aggressor 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 shaU find -them. I am now 
 raised above the world, and all the pleasures it can 
 produce. From this moment I break from my heart 
 aU 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 shall both shortly answer. But let 
 us not be niggardly in our exhortations, but let all our 
 feUow-prisoners have a share. Good gaoler, let them 
 be permitted to stand here while I attempt to improve 
 them." Thus saying, I made an effort to rise from the 
 
 198 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 straw, but wanted strength, and was able only to 
 recline against the wall. The prisoners assembled 
 according to my directions, for they loved to hear my 
 Counsel : my son and his mother supported me on either 
 side ; I looked and saw that none were wanting, and 
 then addressed them with the following exhortation. 
 
 igg 
 
CHAPTER XXrX 
 
 THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMONSTRATED WITH 
 REGARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE MISERABLE HERE 
 BELOW. THAT, FROM THE NATURE OF PLEASURE AND 
 PAIN, THE WRETCHED MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE 
 OF THEIR SUFFERINGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER 
 
 My friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, when I 
 reflect on the distribution of good and evil here below, 
 I find that much has been given man to enjoy, yet stiU 
 more to suffer. Though we should examine the whole 
 world, we shall not find one man so happy as to have 
 nothing left to wish for ; but we daily see thousands 
 who by suicide show us they have nothing left to hope. 
 In this life, then, it appears that we cannot be entirely 
 blessed, but yet we may be completely miserable. 
 
 " Why man should thus feel pain ; why our wretched- 
 ness should be requisite in the formation of universal 
 felicity ; why, when all other systems are made perfect 
 by the perfection of their subordinate parts, the great 
 system should require for its perfection parts that are 
 not only subordinate to others, but imperfect in them- 
 selves — these are questions that never can be explained, 
 and might be useless if known. On this subject, 
 Providence has thought fit to elude our curiosity, satisfied 
 with granting us motives to consolation, 
 
 " In this situation man has called in the friendly 
 
 200 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 assistance of philosophy ; and Heaven, seeing the 
 incapacity of that to console him, has given him the 
 aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy are 
 very amusing, but often fallacious : it teUs 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 
 hfe is a place of comfort, its shortness must be misery, 
 and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus 
 philosophy is weak ; but reUgion comforts in a higher 
 strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, and 
 preparing it for another abode. When the good man 
 leaves the body, and is all a glorious mind, he will 
 find he has been making himself a heaven of happiness 
 here ; while the wretch that has been maimed and 
 contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body with 
 terror, and finds that he has anticipated the vengeance 
 of Heaven. To rehgion, 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 i y 
 a continuance of bliss ; to the wretched, a change from "^ 
 pain. 
 
 " But though reUgion is very kind to all men, it 
 has promised pecuUar rewards to the unhappy : the 
 sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, and the 
 prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our sacred 
 law. The Author of our religion evar57where professes 
 himself the wretch's friend, and, unlike the false ones 
 
 aoi 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 of this world, bestows all his caresses upon the forlorn. 
 The unthinking have censured this as partiality, as a 
 preference without merit to deserve it. But they never 
 reflect, that it is not in the power even of Heaven itself 
 to make the offer of 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 ad- 
 vantage ; for it diminishes their pain here, and rewards 
 them with heavenly bliss hereafter. 
 
 " But Providence is in another respect kinder to the 
 poor than to the rich ; for as it thus makes the life 
 after death more desirable, so it smooths the passage 
 there. The wretched have had a long famiUarity with 
 every face of terror. The man of "sorrows lays himself 
 quietly down, with no possessions to regret, and but 
 few ties to stop his departure : he feels only nature's 
 pang in the final separation, and this is no way greater 
 than he has often fainted under before ; for, after a 
 certain degree of pain, every new breach that death 
 opens in the constitution nature kindly covers with 
 insensibility. 
 
 " Thus Prov idmce has g iven to ^thp y^ptrlipH -two 
 adva ntages o verthel iappym this 5fe, — ^greater felicity 
 in" dvlng. an3 injieaven all that s uperiority of pleasur e 
 w^^^~arS^ from ^ contrasted enjoyment. And this 
 supenorityTTiiy'TfiSids, is no small advantage, and 
 seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor man in 
 the parable ; for though he was already in heaven, and 
 felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was mentioned 
 as an addition to his happiness, that he had once been 
 wretched, and now was comforted ; that he had known 
 
 202 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 enjojTnents to nearly the same standard. It 
 gives to both rich and poor the skme happiness here- 
 after, and equal hopes to aspire "after it ; but if the 
 rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasure here, the 
 poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing what it 
 was once to be miserable, when crowned with endless 
 fehcity ■ hereafter ; and even though this should be 
 called a small advantage, yet, being an eternal 
 one, it must make up by duration what the tem- 
 poral happiness of the great may have exceeded by 
 intenseness. 
 
 " These are, therefore, the consolations which the 
 wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which 
 they are above the rest of mankind : in other respects 
 they are below them. They who would know the 
 miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. To 
 'declaim>)n the temporal advantages they enjoy, is 
 only repeating what none either beUeve or practise. The 
 men who have the necessaries of living, are not poor ; 
 and they who want them, must be miserable. Yes, my 
 friends, we must be miserable. No vain efforts of a 
 refined imagination can soothe the wants of nature, can 
 give elastic sweetness to the dank vapour of a dimgeon, 
 or ease the throbbings of a broken heart. Let the 
 philosopher from his couch of softness tell us that we 
 can resist all these ; alas ! the effort by which we 
 resist them is still the greatest pain. Death is shght, 
 
 203 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 and any man may sustain it ; but torments are dreadful, 
 and these no man can endure. 
 
 " To us then, my friends, the prpmises of happiness 
 in heaven should be pecuUarly dear ; for if our reward 
 be in this life alone, we are indeed of all men the 
 most miserable. When I look round these gloomy 
 walls, made to terrify as well as to confine us ; this 
 light, that only serves to show the horrors of the place ; 
 those shackles, that tyranny has imposed, or crime 
 made necessary ; when I survey these emaciated looks, 
 and hear those groans — oh, my friends, what a glorious 
 exchange would heaven be for these ! To fly through 
 regions 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 hfe worth having ? 
 when I think of these things, what is there that should 
 not be spumed away ? kings in their palaces should 
 groan for such advantages ; but we, humbled as we are, 
 shoiild yearn for them. 
 
 "And shall these things be ouis ? Ours they will 
 certainly be, if we but try for them ; and, what is a 
 comfort, we are shut out from many temptations that 
 would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them, 
 and they will certainly be ours ; and, what is still a 
 comfort, shortly too : for if we look back on past hfe, 
 it appears but a very short span, and whatever we may 
 think of the rest of hfe, it will yet be found of less 
 
 304 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 burden laid by Heaven upon 
 us ; and though death, the only friend of the wretched, 
 for a little while mocks the weary traveller with the 
 view, and Uke his horizon stiU flies before him ; yet the 
 time will certainly and shortly come, when we shall 
 cease from our toil ; when the luxurious great ones of 
 the world shall no more tread us to the earth ; when 
 we shall think with pleasure of our sufferings below ; 
 when we shall be surrounded with all our friends, or 
 such as deserved our friendship ; when our bhss shall 
 ttg^ unutterable, and still, to crown all, unending." 
 
 205 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 HAPPIER PROSPKCTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET US BE IN- 
 FLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST CHANGE IN 
 OUR FAVOUR 
 
 When I had thus finished, and my audience was retired, 
 the gaoler, who was one of the most humane of his 
 profession, hoped I would not be displeased, as what 
 he did was but his duty, observing, that he must re- 
 move 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 gentleman's company, and 
 that they had stopped at a neighbouring village for 
 refreshment, and seemed as if returning to town. He 
 had scarce delivered this news when the gaoler came, 
 with looks of haste and pleasure, to inform me that my 
 daughter was found. Moses came running in a moment 
 after, crying out that his sister Sophia was below and 
 coming up with our old friend Mr. Burchell. 
 
 206 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl entered 
 and, with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to kiss me, 
 in a transport of affection. Her mother's tears and 
 silence also showed her pleasure. "Here, papa," cried 
 the charming girl, " here is the brave man to whom I 
 owe my delivery ; to this gentleman's intrepidity I am 
 
 indebted for my happiness and safety " A kiss 
 
 from Mr. BurcheU, whose pleasure seemed even greater 
 than hers, interrupted what she was going to add. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. BurcheU ! " 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 discovered 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 behold your face ; yet I hope you'll forgive 
 me, as I was deceived by a base ungenerous wretch, 
 who, under the mask of friendship, has undone me." 
 
 "It is impossible," cried Mr. BurcheU, " that I 
 should forgive you, as you never deserved my resent- 
 ment. 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 that carried thee away ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Sir," replied she, "as to the villain who 
 carried me off, I am yet ignorant. For, as my 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, 
 
 207 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 but they disregarded my entreaties. In the meantime, 
 the ruffian himself used every art to hinder me from 
 crying out : he flattered and threatened by turns, and 
 swore that, if I continued but silent, he intended no 
 harm. In the meantime, I had broken the canvas 
 that he had drawn up, and whom should I perceive at 
 some distance but your old friend Mr. Burchell, walking 
 along with his usual swiftness, with the great stick for 
 which we used so much to ridicule him. As soon as 
 we came within hearing, I called out to him by name, 
 and entreated his help. I repeated my exclamations 
 several times, upon which, with a very loud voice, he 
 bade the postihon 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 postihon to the 
 ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon stopped 
 of themselves, and the ruffian, stepping out, with oaths 
 and menaces, drew his sword, and ordered him at his 
 peril, to retire ; but Mr. Burchell, tunning up, shivered 
 his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near a 
 qucirter of a mile ; but he made his escape. I was at 
 this time come out myself, wilUng to-assist my dehverer ; 
 but he soon returned to me in triumph. The postilion, 
 who was recovered, was going to make his escape too ; 
 but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril to mount again 
 and drive back to town. Finding it impossible to 
 resist, he reluctantly complied, though the wound he 
 had received seemed, to me at least, to be dangerous. 
 He continued to complain of the pain as we drove along, 
 so that he at last excited Mr. Burchell "s compassion, who, 
 
 206 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 t my request, exchanged him for another, at an inn 
 here we called on our return." 
 
 "Welcome, then," cried I, " my child ! and thou, 
 er gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Though 
 Lir cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready to 
 jceive you. Ai^j ^now, Mr. Burchell, as you hav e 
 elivered mv girl, if yoi Lthmk her a recompense, she is 
 ours : if you can stoo p to an aUiance with a family so 
 odr~ils miaeri:gKenier |_ jobtain _h er consent , — as I 
 now you ha ve^her heart.-r ra nd you have mine. And 
 it me tell you. Sir, that I give you no small treasure : she 
 as been celebrated for beauty, it is true, but that is 
 ot my meaning, — I give you a treasure in her mind." 
 
 " But I suppose. Sir," cried Mr. Burchell, " that you 
 re apprised of my circumstances, and of my incapacity 
 D support her as she deserves ? " 
 
 " If your present objection," replied I, " be meant 
 s an evasion of my offer, I desist;: but I know no 
 lan so worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I could 
 ive her thousands, and thousands sought her from me, 
 et my honest brave Burchell should be my dearest 
 toice." 
 
 To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mortifying 
 ifusal : and, without the least reply to my offer, 
 e demanded if he could not be furnished with refresh- 
 lents from the next inn ; to which being answered 
 I the affirmative, he ordered them to send in the 
 est dinner that could be provided upon such short 
 otice. He bespoke also a dozen of their best wine, 
 nd some cordials for me ; adding, with a smile, that he 
 'ould stretch a little for once, and, though in a prison, 
 sserted he was never better disposed to be merry. 
 
 v.w. 209 p 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 The waiter soon made his appearance with preparations 
 for dinner ; a table was lent us by the gaoler, who 
 seemed remarkably assiduous ; the wine was disposed 
 in order, and two very well dressed dishes were 
 brought in. 
 
 My daughter had not yet heard of her poor brother's 
 melancholy situation, and we all Seemed unwilling to 
 damp her cheerfulness by the relation. But it was in 
 vain that I attempted to appear cheerful ; the circum- 
 stances of my unfortunate son broke through all efforts 
 to dissemble; so that I was at last obliged to damp 
 our mirth by relating his misfortunes, and wishing 
 that he might be permitted to share with us in this 
 little interval of satisfaction. After my guests were 
 recovered from the consternation my account had 
 produced, I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, a fellow- 
 prisoner, might be admitted, and the gaoler granted my 
 request with an air of unusual submission. The clanking 
 of my son's irons was no sooner heard along the passage, 
 than his sister ran impatiently to meet him, while 
 Mr. Burchell, in the meantime, asked me if my son's 
 name was George ; to which replying in the affirmative, 
 he still continued silent. As soon as my boy entered 
 the room, I could perceive he regarded Mr. Burchell 
 with a look of astonishment and reverence. " Come 
 on," cried I, " my son ; though we are fallen very low, 
 yet Providence has been pleased to grant us some 
 small relaxation from pain. Thy sister is restored 
 to us, and there is her deUverer : to that brave man 
 it is that I am indebted for yet having a daughter : give 
 him, my boy, the hand of friendship ; he deserves our 
 warmest gratitude." 
 
 210 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 My son seemed all this while regardless of what I 
 aid, and still continued fixed at a respectful distance. 
 
 My dear brother," cried his sister., " why don't you 
 hank my good dehverer ? the brave should ever love 
 ach other." 
 
 He still continued his silence and astonishment, till 
 ur guest at last perceived himself to be known, and, 
 ssuming all his native dignity, desired my son to come 
 Drward. Never before had I seen anything so truly 
 lajestic as the air he assumed on this occasion. The 
 reatest object in the universe, says a certain philo- 
 opher, is a good man struggling with adversity ; yet 
 liere is still a greater, which is the good man that 
 omes to reUeve it. After he had regarded my son for 
 3me time with a superior air — " I again find," said he, 
 
 unthinking boy, that the same crime " But here 
 
 e was interrupted by one of the gaoler's servants, who 
 ame to inform us that a person of distinction, who had 
 riven into town with a chariot and several attendants, 
 ent his respects to the gentleman that was with us, 
 nd begged to know when he should think proper to 
 e waited upon. " Bid the fellow wait," cried our 
 uest, " till I shall have leisure to receive him : " and 
 den turning to my son, " I again fifid. Sir," proceeded 
 e, " that you are guilty of the same offence for which 
 ou once had my reproof, and for which the law is now 
 reparing its justest punishments. You imagine, per- 
 aps, that a contempt for your own life gives you a 
 ight to take that of another : but where, Sir, is the 
 ifference between a duellist, who hazards a life 
 f no value, and the murderer who acts with 
 reater security ? Is it any diminution of the 
 
 211 P2 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 gamester's fraud, when he alleges that he staked a 
 counter ? " 
 
 " Alas, Sir," cried I, " whoever you are, pity the 
 poor misguided creature ; for what Jie has done was in 
 obedience to a deluded mother, whb, 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. " T3lis*^ 
 says he, " though not a perfect excuse, is such a Mfliation 
 of his fault as induces me to forgive him. An3~no^ 
 Sir," continued he, kindly taking my son by the hand, 
 " I see you are surprised at finding me here ; but I 
 have often visited prisons upon occasions less interesting. 
 I am now come to see justice done a worthy man, for 
 whom I have the most sincere esteem. I have long been 
 a disguised spectator of thy father^s benevolence. I 
 have, at his httle dwelhng, enjoyed respect uncon- 
 taminated by flattery ; and have received that happiness 
 that courts could not give, from the amusing simplicity 
 around his fireside. My nephew has been apprised of 
 my intentions of coming here, and I find he 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 
 ThomhiU." 
 
 We now found that the personage whom we had so 
 long entertained as a harmless amusing companion, was 
 no other than the celebrated Sir Wilham ThomhiU, to 
 whose virtues and singularities scarce any were strangers. 
 
 213 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 The poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a man of large 
 fortune and great interest, to wh6m senates listened 
 with applause, and whom party heard with conviction ; 
 who was the friend of his country, but loyal to his 
 king. My poor wife, recollecting her former familiarity, 
 seemed to shrink with apprehension ; but Sophia, who 
 a few moments before thought him her own, now per- 
 ceiving the immense distance to which he was removed 
 by fortune, was unable to conceal her tears. 
 
 " Ah ! Sir," cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, 
 " how is it possible that I can ever have your forgive- 
 ness ? The slights you received from me the last time 
 I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and the 
 jokes which I audaciously threw out — ^these. Sir, I fear, 
 can never be forgiven." 
 
 " My dear good lady," returned he with a smile, " if 
 you had your joke, I had my answer : I'll leave it to 
 all the 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 cannot be positive ; yet 
 now I recollect, he had a large mark over one of his 
 eyebrows." — " I ask pardon, Madam," interrupted 
 Jenkinson, who was by, " but be so good as to inform me 
 if the fellow wore his own red hair ? " — " Yes, I think 
 so," cried Sophia. " And did your honour,'' continued 
 he, turning to Sir William, " observe the length of his 
 legs ? " — " I can't be sure of their length," cried the 
 
 213 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Baronet, " but I am convinced of their swiftness ; for 
 he outran me, which is what I thought few men in the 
 kingdom could have done." — " Please your honour," 
 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 honour will bid Mr. Gaoler let 
 two of his men go with me, I'll engage to produce him 
 to you in an hour at farthest." Upon this the gaoler 
 was called, who instantly appearing. Sir WiUiam de- 
 manded if he knew him. " Yes, please your honour," 
 rephed the gaoler, " I know Sir WiUiam Thornhill well, 
 and everybody that knows anything of him will desire 
 to know more of him." — " Well, then," said the Baronet, 
 " my request is, that you will permit this man and 
 two of your servants to go upon a message by my 
 authority ; and as I am in the commission of the peace, 
 I undertake to secure you." — " Your promise is suffi- 
 cient," replied the other, " and you may, at a minute's 
 warning, send them over England whenever your 
 honour thinks fit." 
 
 In pursuance of the gaoler's compliance, Jenkinson 
 was despatched in search of Timothy Baxter, while we 
 were amused with the assiduity of our youngest boy Bill, 
 who had just come in and climbed up to Sir William's 
 neck, in order to kiss him. His mother was immediately 
 going to chastise his familiarity, but the worthy man 
 prevented her ; and taking the child, aU 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 
 
 21^ 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 shall find I have not forgot you." So saying, he gave 
 each a large piece of gingerbread, 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 profession : this being sent to an apothecary 
 who lived in the place, my arm was dressed, and I found 
 almost instantaneous relief. We were waited upon at 
 dinner by the gaoler himself, who was willing to do our 
 guest all the honour in his power. But before we had 
 well dined, another message was brought from his 
 nephew, desiring permission to appear in order to 
 i'indicate his innocence and honour ; with which 
 request the Baronet complied, and desired Mr. Thomhill 
 to be introduced. 
 
 213 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOW REPAID WITH UNEXPECTED 
 INTEREST 
 
 Mr. Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, which 
 he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace his 
 uncle, which the other repulsed with an air of disdain. 
 " No fawning. Sir, at present," cried the Baronet, with 
 a look of severity ; " the only way to my heart is by the 
 road of honour ; but here I only see complicated instances 
 of falsehood, cowardice, and oppi;ession. 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 hospitaUty, and he 
 himself thrown into 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 should object that as a crime, which his re- 
 peated instructions alone have persuaded me to avoid ? " 
 
 " Your rebuke," cried Sir William, " is just ; you 
 have acted, in this instance, prudently and well, though 
 not quite as your father would have done : my brother, 
 
 indeed, was the soul of honour ; but thou Yes, 
 
 you have acted, in this instance, perfectly right, and it 
 has my warmest approbation." 
 
 216 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " And I hope," said his nephew, '* that the rest of my 
 conduct wiU 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 unable to pay them, it is their business 
 to proceed in this manner : and I see no hardship or 
 injustice in pursuing the most legal means of redress." 
 
 " If this," cried Sir WilUam, " 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 gentleman to be oppressed by 
 subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least equitable." 
 
 " He cannot contradict a single particular," replied 
 the Squire ; "I defy him to do so ; and several of my 
 servants are ready to attest what I say. Thus, Sir," 
 continued he, 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 resent- 
 ment that I cannot govern. And this, too, at a time 
 when his son was actually preparing to take away 
 my hfe,^this, I say, was such guilt, that I am deter- 
 mined to let the law take its course. I have here the 
 challenge that was sent me, and two witnesses to prove 
 
 217 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 it : one of my servants has been wounded dangerously ; 
 and even though my uncle himself ishould 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 eis 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 Jenkihson and the gaoler's 
 
 two servants now called off our attention, who entered, 
 hauling in a tall man, very genteelly dressed, and an- 
 swering the description already given of the ruffian who 
 had carried off my daughter. " Here," cried Jenkinson, 
 pulling him in, " here we have him ; and if ever there 
 was a candidate for Tyburn, this is one." 
 
 The moment Mr. Thomhill perceived the prisoner, 
 and Jenkinson who had him in custody, he seemed to 
 shrink back with terror. His face became pale with 
 conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn, but 
 Jenkinson, who perceived his design, stopped him. 
 " What, Squire," cried he, " are you ashamed of your 
 two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter ? But 
 this is the way all great men forget their friends, 
 though I am resolved we will not forget you. Our 
 prisoner, please your honour," continued he, tinrning to 
 Sir William, "has already confessed all. This is the 
 gentleman reported to be dangerously wounded. He 
 declares that it was Mr. Thomhill who first put him 
 
 3l8 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 upon the affair ; that he gave him the clothes he now 
 wears, to appear Uke a gentleman, and furnished him 
 with a 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. Thomhill was to come in, in the meantime, 
 as if by accident, to her rescue ; and that they should 
 fight a while, and then he was to run off, — ^by which Mr. 
 Thornhill would have the better opportunity of gaining 
 her affections himself, under the character of her 
 defender." 
 
 Sir William remembered the coat to have been worn 
 by his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner himself 
 confirmed by a more circumstantial account ; concluding, 
 that Mr. Thornhill had often declared to him that he 
 was in love with both sisters at the same time. 
 
 " Heavens ! " cried Sir William, " what a viper have 
 I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of public 
 justice, too, as he seemed to be ! But he shall have it : 
 secure him, Mr, Gaoler — Yet, hold ! I fear there is no 
 legal evidence to detain him." 
 
 Upon this Mr. Thomhill, with the utmost humihty, 
 entreated that two such abandoned wretches might 
 hot be admitted as evidence against him, but that 
 his servants should be examined. " Your servants ! " 
 replied Sir William. " Wretch ! call them yours no 
 longer ; but come, let us hear what those fellows have 
 to say ; let his butler be called." 
 
 When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived 
 by his former master's looks that all his power was 
 now over. " Tell me," cried Sic William, sternly, 
 " have you ever seen your master, and that fellow 
 
 219 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 dressed up in his clothes, in company together ? " — 
 " Yes, please your honour," cried the butler, " a thous- 
 and times : he was the man that always brought him his 
 ladies." — " How ! " interrupted young Mr. Thomhill, 
 " this to my face ? "— " Yes," replied the butler, " or 
 to any man's face. To tell you a truth, Master Thomhill, 
 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 honour whether you know 
 anything of me." — " I can't say," replied the butler, 
 " that I know much good of you. The night that gentle- 
 man's daughter was deluded to our house, you were 
 one of them." — " So then," cried Sir William, " I 
 find you have brought a very fine witness to prove your 
 innocence : thou stain to humanity ! to associate 
 with such wretches ! But," continuing his examination, 
 " you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was the person who 
 brought him this old gentleman's daughter." — " No, 
 please your honour," replied the butler, " he did not 
 bring her, for the Squire himself undertook that busi- 
 ness ; but he brought the priest that pretended to 
 marry them." — " It is but too true," cried Jenkinson; 
 " I cannot deny it ; that was the employment assigned 
 me, and I confess it to my confusion." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed the Baronet, " how 
 every new discovery of his viUainy alarms me ! All his 
 guilt is now too plain, and I find his present prosecution 
 was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and revenge. At 
 my request, Mr. Gaoler, set this young ofi&cer, 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 
 
 220 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 him. But where is the unfortunate. young lady herself ? 
 Let her appear to confront this wretch : I long to 
 know by what arts he has seduced her. Entreat her to 
 come in. Where is she ? " 
 
 " Ah ! sir," said I, " that question stings me to the 
 heart : I was once indeed happy in a daughter, but her 
 
 miseries " Another interruption here prevented 
 
 me ; for who should make her appearance but Miss 
 Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to have been 
 married to Mr. Thomhill. Nothirig could equal her 
 surprise at seeing Sir William and his nephew here 
 before her ; for her arrival was qjiite 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. 
 Thomhill should be consummated at her house ; but 
 stopping for refreshment, they put up at an inn at the 
 other end of the town. It was there, from the window, 
 that the young lady happened to observe one of my httle 
 boys playing in the street, and instantly sending a foot- 
 man to bring the child to her, she learned from him some 
 account of our misfortunes ; but was still kept ignorant 
 of young Mr. Thomhill's being the cause. Though 
 her father made several remonstrances on the impro- 
 priety of her 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 fortuitous concurrence do we not 
 
 2ZX 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 owe every pleasure and convenienc© of our lives ! How 
 many seeming accidents must unite before we can be 
 clothed or fed ! The peasant must be disposed to labour, 
 the shower must fall, the wind fill the merchant's sail, 
 or numbers must want the usual suf)ply. 
 
 We all continued silent for sopie moments, while 
 my charming pupil, which was the name I generally 
 gave this young lady, united in her looks compassion 
 and astonishment, which gave new finishing to her 
 beauty. — " Indeed, my dear Mr. Thomhill," cried she 
 to the Squire, who she supposed was come here to 
 succour, and not to oppress us, " I take it a little unkindly 
 that you should come here without me, or never inform 
 me of the situation of a family so dear to us both : you 
 know I should take as much pleasure in contributing 
 to the relief of my reverend old master here, whom I 
 shaU ever esteem, as you can. But I find that, like your 
 uncle, you take a pleasure in doing good in secret." 
 
 " He find pleasiure in doing good i " 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 humanity, A wretch, who, 
 after having deluded this poor man's daughter, after 
 plotting against the innocence of her sister, has thrown 
 the father into prison, and the eldest son into fetters 
 because he had the courage to face* her betrayer. And 
 give me leave. Madam, now to congratulate you upon 
 an escape from the embraces of sucb a monster." 
 
 " O goodness ! " cried the lovely girl, " how have I 
 been deceived ! Mr. Thomhill informed me for certain 
 that this gentleman's eldest son. Captain Primrose, was 
 gone off to America with his new-married lady.' 
 
 222 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 " My sweetest miss," cried my wife, " he has told you 
 nothing but ^Isehoods. My son Gporge never left the 
 kingdom, nor ever was mairied. Though you have 
 forsaken him, he has always loved you too well to 
 think of anybody else ; and I have heard him say, he 
 would die a bachelor for your sake." She then pro- 
 ceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's 
 passion : she set his duel with Mr. Thomhill 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 pictm-e of his cowardice. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " cried Miss Wilmot, " how very 
 near have I been to the brink of ruin ! But how great 
 is my pleasure to have escaped it ! Ten thousand false- 
 hoods has this gentleman told me ! He had at last art 
 enough to persuade me, that my promise to the only 
 man I esteemed was no longer binding, since he had 
 been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I Wcis taught to 
 detest one equally brave and generous." 
 
 But by this time my son was freed from the encum- 
 brances of justice, as the person supposed to be wounded 
 was detected to be an imj)ostor. Mr. Jenkinson, also, 
 who had acted as his valet-de-chambre, had dressed 
 up his hair, and furnished him with whatever was 
 necessary to make a genteel appearance. He now there- 
 fore entered handsomely dressed in his regimentals ; 
 and, without vanity (for I am above it), he appeared as 
 handsome a feUow as ever wore a military dress. As he 
 entered, he made Miss Wilmot a modest and distant bow, 
 for he was not as yet acquainted with the change which 
 the eloquence of his mother had wrought in his favour. 
 But no decorums could restrain the impatience of his 
 
 223 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 blushing mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, 
 all contributed to discover the real sensations of her 
 heart, for having forgotten her former promise, and 
 having suffered herself to be deluded 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," 
 rephed she ; "I have been deceived, basely deceived, 
 else nothing could have ever made me unjust to my 
 promise. You know my friendship — ^you have long 
 known it — ^but forget what I have done, and as you 
 once had my warmest vows of constancy, you shall now 
 have them repeated ; and be assured, that, if your 
 Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be another's." 
 — " And no other's you shall be," cried Sir William, 
 " if I have any influence with your father." 
 
 This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who 
 immediately flew to the inn where the old gentleman 
 was, to inform him of every circumstance that had 
 happened. But in the meantime, the Squire, perceiving 
 that he was on every side undone, how 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 and hardy villain. " I find, then," cried he, 
 " that I am to expect no justice here ; but I am resolved 
 it shall be done me. You shall know. Sir," turning to 
 Sir William, " I am no longer a poor dependent upon 
 your favours. I scorn them. Nothing can keep Miss 
 Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I thank her father's 
 assiduity, is pretty large. The articles, and a bond for 
 
 224 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 er fortune, are signed, and safe in my possession. It 
 ^as her fortune, not her person, that induced me to 
 rish for this match ; and, possessed of the one, let who 
 /ill take the other." 
 
 This was an alarming blow. Sir William was 
 ensible of the justice of his claims, ft)r he had been in- 
 trumental in drawing up the marriage articles himself; 
 Ess Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that her fortune 
 ras irretrievably lost, turning to my son, she asked 
 : the loss of fortune could lessen her value to him ? 
 
 Though fortune," said she, " is out of my power, at 
 ;ast I have my hand to give." 
 
 " And that. Madam," cried the real lover, " was 
 ideed all that you ever had to give ; at least all that 
 
 ever thought worth the acceptance. And I now 
 rotest, my Arabella, by all that's happy, your want of 
 Drtune this moment increases my pleasure, as it serves 
 D convince my sweet girl of my sincerity." 
 
 Mr. Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little 
 leased at the danger his daughter had just escaped, 
 nd readily consented to a dissolution of the match. 
 Jut finding that her fortune, which was seciu-ed to Mr. 
 "homhill by bond, would not be given up, nothing 
 ould exceed his disappointment. He now saw that 
 is money must all go to enrich one who had no fortune 
 f his own. He could bear his being a rascal, but to 
 rant an equivalent to his daughter's fortune was 
 wormwood. He sat, therefore, for some minutes 
 mployed in the most mortifying speculations, tiU Sir 
 KUiam attempted to lessen his ^xiety. " I must 
 onfess. Sir," cried he, " that your present disappoint- 
 lent does not entirely displease me. Your immoderate 
 
 v.w. 225 Q 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 passion for wealth is now justly punished. But though 
 the young lady cannot be rich, she has still a com- 
 petence to give content. Here you see an honest 
 young soldier, who is wiUing to take her without fortune : 
 they have long loved each other ; -and, for the friend- 
 ship 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 WiUiam," rephed the old gentleman, " be 
 assured I never yet forced her incUnations, nor will I 
 now. If she still continues to love this young gentleman, 
 let her have him, with all my heart. There is still, 
 thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your promise will 
 make it something more. Only let my old friend here " 
 (meaning me) " give me a promise of settling six thousand 
 pounds upon my girl if ever he should come to his 
 fortune, and I am ready, this night, to be the first to 
 join them together." 
 
 As it now remained with me to make the young 
 couple happy, I readily gave a promise of making the 
 settlement he required ; which, to one who had such 
 httle expectations as I, was no great favour. We had 
 now, therefore, the satisfaction of seeing them fly into 
 each other's arms in a transport. " After all my mis- 
 fortunes," cried my son George, "to be thus rewarded ! 
 Sure this is more than I could ever have presumed to 
 hope for. To be possessed of all that's good, and after 
 such an interval of pain ! My warmest wishes could 
 never rise so high ! " 
 
 " Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride, " now 
 let the wretch take my fortune ; since you are happy 
 
 226 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 without it, so am I. Oh, what an exchange have I 
 made, — from the basest of men to the dearest, best ! 
 Let him enjoy our fortune, I now can be happy even 
 in indige;ice." — " And I promise you," cried the Squire, 
 with a maUcious grin, " that I shall be very happy with 
 what you despise." — " Hold, hold. Sir," cried Jenkinson, 
 " there are two words to that bargain. As for that 
 lady's fortune, Sir, you shall never touch a single stiver 
 of it. Pray, your honour," continued he to Sir WilUam, 
 " can the Squire have this lady's fortune if he be married 
 to another ? " — " How can you make such a simple 
 demand ? " rephed 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 friendship for him. But I must declare, well 
 as I love him, that this contract is not worth a tobacco- 
 stopper, for he is married already." — " You lie, like a 
 rascal ! " returned the Squire, who seemed roused by 
 this insult ; "I never was legally married to any 
 woman." 
 
 " Indeed, begging your honour's pardon," rephed the 
 other, " you were : and I hope you will show a proper 
 return of friendship to your own honest Jenkinson, who 
 brings you a wife ; and if the company restrain their 
 curiosity a few minutes, they shall see her." So sa5dng, 
 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 
 Jnay have done, I defy him there. I am too old now 
 to be frightened with squibs." 
 
 " I am surprised," said the Baronet, " what the 
 fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of humour. 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 I suppose ! " — " Perhaps, Sir," replied I, " he may have 
 a more serious meaning. For when we reflect on the 
 various schemes this gentleman has laid to seduce 
 innocence, perhaps some one more artful than the 
 rest has been found able to deceive him. When we 
 consider what numbers he has ruined, how many 
 parents now feel, with anguish, the infamy and the 
 contamination which he has brought into their families, 
 it would not surprise me if some one of them — Amaze- 
 ment ! Do I see my lost daughter ? Do I hold her ? 
 It is, it is my Kfe, my happiness ! I thought thee lost, 
 my Olivia, yet still I hold thee — and still thou shalt live 
 to bless me." The warmest transports of the fondest 
 lover were not greater than mine, when I saw him 
 introduce my child, and held my daughter in my arms, 
 whose silence only spoke her raptures. 
 
 " And art thou returned to me, my darling," cried I, 
 " to be my comfort in age ? " — " That she is," cried 
 Jenkinson ; " and make much of her, for she is your 
 own honourable child, and as honest a woman as any 
 in the whole room, let the other be who she will. And 
 as for you. Squire, as sure as you stand there, this 
 young lady is your lawful wedded wife : and to convince 
 you that I speak nothing but the truth, here is the 
 license by which you were married together." So 
 saying, he put the license into the Baronet's hands, 
 who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. 
 " And now, gentlemen," continued he, " I find you are 
 surprised at all this ; but a few words will explain the 
 difficulty. That there Squire of renown, for whom I 
 have a great friendship (but that's between ourselves), 
 has often employed me in doing odd little things for 
 
 228 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 him. Among the rest, he commissioned me to procm-e 
 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 gener- 
 osity 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 Jthe prisoners them- 
 selves sympathised, 
 
 And shook their chains 
 
 In transport and rude harmony. 
 
 Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even 
 Olivia's cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be 
 thus restored to reputation, to friends, and fortune at 
 once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of 
 decay, and restore former health and vivacity. But, 
 perhaps, among all, there was not one who felt sincerer 
 pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child in 
 my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were not 
 delusion. " How could you," cried I, turning to Mr. 
 Jenkinson, " how could you add to my miseries by the 
 story of her death ? But it matters not ; my pleasure 
 at finding her again is more than a recompense for the 
 pain." 
 
 " As to your question," replied Jenkinson, " that is 
 easily answered. I thought the only probable means 
 of freeing you from prison was by submitting to the 
 
 229 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other 
 young lady. But these you had vowed never to grant 
 while your daughter was living : there was therefore no 
 other method to bring things to bear, but by persuading 
 you that she was dead. I prevailed on your wife to 
 join in the deceit, and we have not had a fit opportunity 
 of undeceiving you till now." 
 
 In the whole assembly now there appeared only 
 two faces that did not glow with transport. Mr. 
 Thomhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him : he 
 now saw the gulf of infamy and want before him, and 
 trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on his 
 knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing misery 
 implored compassion. Sir William was going to spurn 
 him away, but at my request he raised him, and, after 
 pausing a few moments, " Thy vices, crimes, and 
 ingratitude," cried he, " deserve no tenderness ; yet 
 thou shalt not be entirely forsaken,^-a bare competence 
 shall be supphed to support the wants of life, but not 
 its foUies. 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 supplies for the future." He 
 was going to express his gratitude for such kindness in 
 a set speech ; but the Baronet prevented him, by bid- 
 ding 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 WiOiam very politely 
 stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and wished 
 
 230 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 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 honour. 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 on the looks of all except 
 that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we 
 could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. 
 " I think now," cried he, with a smile, "that all the 
 company except one or two seem perfectly happy. 
 There remains only an act of justice for me to do. 
 You are sensible, Sir," continued he, turning to me, " of 
 the obligations we both owe to Mr.: Jenkinson ; and it 
 is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss 
 Sophia will, I am sure, make him very happy, and he 
 shall have from me five hundred poiinds as her fortune ; 
 and upon this I am sure they can Uve very comfort- 
 ably together. Come, Miss Sophia, what say you to 
 this match of my making? Will you have him.?" 
 My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her mother's 
 arms at the hideous proposal. " Have him, Sir ! " 
 cried she faintly ; " no, Sir, never ! " — " What ! " cried 
 he again, " not have Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, a 
 handsome young fellow, with five hundred pounds, and 
 good expectations ? " — " I beg. Sir," returned she, 
 scarce able to speak, " that you'll desist, and not make 
 me so very wretched." — " Was ever such obstinacy 
 known ? " cried he again, " to refuse a man whom the 
 
 231 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 family have such infinite obhgations to, who has 
 preserved your sister, and who has five hundred pounds ! 
 What ! not have him ! " — " No, Sir, never ! " replied 
 she angrily ; " I'd sooner die first." — " If that be the 
 case, then," cried he, " if you will not have him — I 
 think I must have you myself." And, so saying, he 
 caught her to his breast with ardour. " My loveliest, 
 my most sensible of girls," cried he, " how could you 
 ever think your own Burchell could deceive you, or 
 that Sir WilUam Thomhill 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 I had merit as a man. 
 After having tried in vain, even amongst the pert and 
 the ugly, how great at last must be my rapture to have 
 made a conquest over such sense and such heavenly 
 beauty." Then turning to Jenkinson : " As I cannot. 
 Sir, part with this young lady myself, for she has 
 taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense 
 I can make is to give you her fortune ; and you may 
 call upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred 
 pounds." Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, 
 and Lady Thomhill 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 ordered forty pounds to be dis- 
 tributed among the prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced 
 by his example, gave half that sum. We were received 
 below by the shouts of the villagers, and I saw and 
 
 232 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 shook by the hand two or three of my*honest parishioners, 
 who were among the number. They attended us to our 
 inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, and 
 coarser provisions were distributed in great quantities 
 among the populace. 
 
 After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the 
 alternation of pleasure and pain which they had 
 sustained during the day, I asked permission to with- 
 draw ; 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. 
 
 233 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 The next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found my 
 eldest son sitting by my bedside, wjho came to increase 
 my joy with another turn of fortune in my favour. 
 First having released me from the settlement that I 
 had made the day before in his favour, he let me know 
 that my merchant, who had failed in town, was arrested 
 at Antwerp, and there had given up effects to a much 
 greater amount than what was due to his creditors. 
 My boy's generosity pleased me almost as much as this 
 unlooked-for good fortune ; but I had some doubts 
 whether I ought, in justice, to accept his offer. While 
 I was pondering upon this Sir William entered the 
 room, to whom I communicated my doubts. 'His 
 opinion was that, as my son was already possessed of a 
 very affluent fortune by his marriage, I might accept 
 his offer without hesitation. His business, however, 
 was to inform me, that as he had the night before sent 
 for the licenses, and expected them every hour, he 
 hoped that I would not refuse my assistance in making 
 all the company happy that morning. A footman 
 entered while we were speaking, to teU us that the 
 messenger was returned ; and as I was by this time 
 ready, I went down, where I found the whole company 
 
 234 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 as merry as affluence and innocence could make them. 
 However, as they were now preparing for a very solemn 
 ceremony, their laughter entirely displeased me. I told 
 them of the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment 
 they should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read 
 them two homiUes, and a thesis of my own composing, 
 in order to prepare them. Yet they still seemed 
 perfectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we 
 were going along to church, to which I led the way, all 
 gravity had quite forsaken them, and I was often 
 tempted to turn back in indignation. In church a new 
 dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. This 
 was, which couple should be married first : my son's 
 bride warmly insisted that Lady Thomhill (that was to 
 be) should take the lead ; but this the other refused 
 with equal ardour, protesting she would not be guilty 
 of such rudeness for the world. The argument was 
 supported for some time between both, with equal 
 obstinacy and good breeding. But, as I stood all this 
 time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of 
 the contest ; and, shutting it, " I perceive," cried I, 
 " that none of you have a mind to be married, and I 
 think we had as good go back again ; for I suppose 
 there will be no business done here to-day." This at 
 once reduced them to reason. The Baronet and his 
 lady were first married, and then my son and his lovely 
 partner. 
 
 I had previously, that morning, given orders that 
 a coach should be sent for my honest neighbour 
 Flamborough and his family; by which means, upon 
 our return to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding 
 the two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. 
 
 235 
 
THE VICAR OF WAtEFIELD 
 
 Jenkinson gave his hand to the feldest, 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, than numbers of my parishioners, hearing of my 
 success, came to congratulate me ; but, among the rest, 
 were those who rose to rescue me, and whom I formerly 
 rebuked with such sharpness. I told the story to Sir 
 WiUiam, my son-in-law, who went out and reproved 
 them with great severity ; but finding them quite dis- 
 heartened by his harsh reproof, he gave them half a 
 guinea apiece to drink his health, and raise their dejected 
 spirits. 
 
 Soon after this we were called to a very genteel 
 entertainment, which was dressed by Mr. ThomhiU'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 hked, 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 Uttle melancholy, in 
 spirits, and in learning to blow the French horn. My 
 eldest daughter, however, stiU remembers him with 
 regret ; and she has 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, whether my eldest daughter, as being a matron, 
 should not sit above the two young brides ; but the 
 
 236 
 
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 debate was cut short by my son George, who proposed 
 that the company should sit iinMscriminately, 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 the meat for all the company. 
 But, notwithstanding this, it is impossible to describe 
 our good humour. I can't say whether we had more 
 wit among us now than usual ; but I am certain we 
 had more laughing, which answered the end as well. 
 One jest, I particularly remember : old Mr. Wilmot 
 drinking to Moses, whose head was turned another way, 
 my son replied, " Madam, I thank you." Upon which 
 the old gentleman, winking upon the rest of the com- 
 pany, observed that he was thinking of his mistress. 
 At which jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs 
 would have died with laughing. As soon as dinner 
 was over, according to my old custom, I requested that 
 the table might be taken away to have the pleasure of 
 seeing all my family assembled once more by a cheerful 
 fireside. My two Uttle ones sat upon each knee, the 
 rest of the company by their partners. I had nothing 
 now on this side the grave to wish for : all my cares 
 were over ; my-gteasui e was unsp eakable. It now only 
 remained, that my gratitude in good fortune should 
 exceed my former submission in adversity. 
 
 THE END 
 
 237 
 
PRINTED BY 
 THE PRESS PRINTERS, LIMITED 
 69, LONG ACRE, LONDON, W.C. 
 
Cornell University Library 
 
 PR3490.A1 1911 
 
 The Vicar of Wakefield; 
 
 3 1924 014 159 002