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 Cornell University Library 
 PR 3660 1883 
 
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 The works of Samuel Richardson. 
 
 3 1924 013 197 045 
 
The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
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 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
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Only Seven Hundred and Fifty Copies of this Edition 
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 THIS COPY IS NUMBER 
 
THE WORKS 
 
 OF 
 
 SAMUEL RICHARDSON. 
 
 WITH A 
 
 PREFATORY CHAPTER OF BIOGRAPHICAL CRITICISM 
 
 LESLIE STEPHEN. 
 
 IN TWELVE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
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 LONDON : 136 Strand — 36 Piccadilly. 
 
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RICHARDSON'S NOVELS. 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 ' The literary artifice, so often patronised by Lord Macaulay, 
 '. of describing a character by a series of paradoxes, is of course, 
 in one sense, a mere artifice. It is easy enough to make a 
 I dark grey black and a light grey white, and to bring the 
 ;two into unnatural proximity. But it rests also upon the 
 principle, which is more of a platitude than a paradox, that 
 our chief faults often lie close to our chief merits. The 
 igreatest man is perhaps one who is so equably developed 
 that he has the strongest faculties in the most perfect 
 equilibrium, and is apt to be somewhat uninteresting to the 
 rest of mankind. The man of lower eminence has some one 
 or more faculties developed out of all proportion to the rest, 
 with the natural result of occasionally overbalancing him. A 
 nrst-rate gymnast with enormous muscular power in his arms 
 and chest, and comparatively feeble lower limbs, can some- 
 times perform the strangest feats in consequence of his con- 
 formation, but owes his awkwardness to the same singularity. 
 He astonishes us for the time more than the well-propor- 
 tioned man who can do fewer wonders and more useful 
 Tf^ork. In the intellectual world the contrasts in one man 
 are often greater. Extraordinary memories with weak 
 logical faculties, wonderful imaginative sensibility with a 
 complete absence of self-control, and other defective confor- 
 B(iations of mind, supply the raw materials for a luminary of 
 
 * Reprinted (with additions and alterations), by the kind permission of the 
 publishers, Messrs Smith, Elder, & Co., from "Hours in a Library" (first 
 sei-ies), by Leslie Stephen. 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
X -^ '^- INTRODUCTION. 
 
 t^e second order, and imply a predisposition to certain faults, 
 wHcfe are natural comi)lenients to the conspicuous merits. 
 
 Suoh reflections naturally occur in speaking of one of our 
 ^eatest literary reputations, whose popularity is far from 
 being in proportion to his celebrity. Every one knows the 
 names of Sir Charles Grandison and Clarissa Harlowe. They 
 arej:Simongst the established types which serve to point a 
 paragraph; but the volumes in which they are described 
 remain too often in undisturbed repose, sleeping peacefully 
 amongst Charles Lamb's liblia a-biUia, books which are no 
 books, or, as he explains, those books ' which no gentleman's 
 library should be without.' The modern reader shudders 
 at a novel in eight volumes, and declines to dig for amuse- 
 ment in so profound a mine ; when some bold inquirer dips 
 into their pages he generally fancies that the sleep of years 
 has been somehow absorbed into the paper; a certain 
 soporific aroma exhales from the endless files of fictitious 
 correspondence. A bare contrast between popularity and 
 celebrity is not so rare as to deserve special notice. Richard- 
 son is only one of many authors whose fame seldom rouses a 
 very lively curiosity. Richardson's slumber may be deeper 
 than that of most men of equal fame, but it is not quite 
 unprecedented. The string of paradoxes, which it would be 
 easy to apply to Richardson, would turn upon a different 
 point. The odd thing is, not that so many people should 
 have forgotten him, but that he should have been remembered, 
 by people at first sight so unlike him. Here is a man, we 
 might say, whose special characteristic it was to be a milk- 
 sop — who provoked Fielding to a coarse hearty burst of 
 ridicule — who was steeped in the incense of ceaseless adula- 
 tion from a throng of middle-aged lady worshippers — ^who 
 wrote his novels expressly to recommend little unimpeach- 
 able moral maxims, as that evil courses lead to uiJiappy 
 deaths, that ladies ought to observe the laws of propriety, 
 and generally that it is an excellent thing to be thoroughly 
 respectable ; who lived an obscure life in a petty coterie in 
 fourth-rate London society, and was in no respect at a point 
 of view more exalted than that of his companions. What 
 greater contrast can be imagined in its way than that 
 
introduction; 
 
 XI 
 
 between Richardson, with his second-rate eighteenth-century 
 priggishness and his twopenny-tract morality, and some of 
 those modern French novelists, who are certainly not prigs 
 and whose morality is by no means that of tracts ? We 
 might have expected d; priori that they would have sum- 
 marily put him down, as, indeed, M. Taine seems inclined 
 to put him down, as a hopeless Philistine. Yet Eichardson 
 has been idolised by some of their best writers ; Balzac, for 
 example, and George Sand, speak of him with reverence • 
 and a writer who is singularly unlike Richardson — Alfred de 
 Musset — calls ' Clarissa ' le premier roman du monde. What 
 is the secret which enables the steady old printer, with his 
 singular limitation to his own corner of time and space, to 
 impose upon the emancipated Parisian of the next century ? 
 Amongst his contemporaries, Diderot expresses an almost 
 fanatical admiration of Richardson for his purity and power, 
 and declares characteristically that he will place Richardson's 
 works on the same shelf with those of Moses, Homer, 
 Euripides, and other favourite writers ; he even goes so far 
 as to excuse Clarissa's belief in Christianity on the ground 
 of her youthful innocence. To continue in the paradoxical 
 vein, we might ask how the quiet tradesman could create 
 the character which has stood ever since for a type of the 
 fine gentleman of the period ; or how from the most prosaic 
 of centuries should spring one of the most poetical of 
 feminine ideals ? We can hardly fancy a genuine hero 
 with a pigtail, or a heroine in a hoop and high-heeled shoes, 
 nor believe that persons who wore those articles of costume 
 could possess any very exalted virtues. Perhaps our grand- 
 children may have the same difficulty about the race which 
 wears crinolines and chimney-pot hats. 
 
 It is a fact, however, that our grandfathers, in spite of 
 their belief in pigtails and in Pope's poetry, and other 
 matters that have gone out of fashion, had some very 
 excellent qualities, and even some genuine sentiment, in 
 their compositions. Indeed, now that their peculiarities 
 have been finally packed away in various lumber-rooms, and 
 the revolt against the old-fashioned school of thought and 
 manners has become triumphant instead of militant, we are 
 
xii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 beginning to see the picturesque side of their character. 
 They have gathered something of the halo that comes with 
 the lapse of years; and social habits that looked prosaic 
 enough to contemporaries, and. to the generation which had 
 to fight against them, have gained a touch of romance. 
 Richardson's characters wear a costume and speak a lan- 
 guage which are indeed queer and old-fashioned, but are 
 now far enough removed from the present to have a certain 
 piquancy ; and it is becoming easier to recognise the real 
 genius which created them, as the active aversion to the 
 forms in which it was necessarily clothed tends to disappear. 
 The wigs and the high-heeled shoes are not without a 
 certain pleasing quaintness ; and when we have surmounted 
 this cause of disgust, we can see more plainly what was the 
 real power which men of the most opposite schools in art 
 have recognised. 
 
 Richardson's qualifications for representing one aspect of 
 contemporary thought may be inferred from his life. Little 
 is known of him beyond the facts given in Mrs. Barbs, d's 
 biography, prefixed to the curious collection of letters pub- 
 lished in 1804. We can, however, learn enough to form a 
 tolerably distinct picture of the worthy printer. He was a 
 thoroughly typical specimen of the industrious apprentice of 
 Hogarth's period. His father was a joiner in London, a 
 business, as Richardson says, more distinct then than now — 
 ' now ' is the middle of the eighteenth century, and ' then ' 
 the last half of the seventeenth — from that of carpenter. It 
 seems from his account that the joiner of the earlier period 
 approached more nearly to the rank of builder and decorator. 
 The elder Richardson had some knowledge of architecture and 
 drawing. His talents commended him to Monmouth and the 
 first Lord Shaftesbury. He must also, it would seem, have 
 shared their principles, and been one of the London trades- 
 men who upheld the "Whig and Protestant cause in the dark 
 days of James II. After the ' decollation,' as Richardson 
 calls it, of Monmouth, he found it expedient, though a ' quiet 
 and inoffensive' man, to retire into Derbyshire. There Samuel 
 Richardson was born in 1 689. He was thus a year younger 
 than Pope, and twenty years older than Johnson. The 
 
INTRODUCTION. xili 
 
 father intended him for the Church, but was unable, through 
 losses in business, to give him the necessary education. The 
 lad loved reading, but never learnt any language except his 
 own. He was apprenticed to a printer, choosing that 
 business because he hoped that it would give him oppor- 
 tunities for reading; and after serving his time, and then 
 acting for some years as compositor and corrector of the 
 press, he set up in business for himself, first in Fleet Street, 
 and afterwards in Salisbury Court. He married his master's 
 daughter, according to precedent, and prospered in his aifairs. 
 He became known as a deserving person to various people in 
 power, and was employed by Speaker Onslow to print the 
 Journals of the House of Commons. The business was not 
 very profitable, as it appears that at one time a sum of 
 ;£^3000 was due to him, which, in spite of pressure, he had 
 been unable to obtain. He was also employed to print 
 various periodicals, and by one means or other he reached a 
 modest prosperity. He was able to afford himself the true 
 citiJi n's luxury of a country-house at North End in Ham- 
 mersmith. The region is now being rapidly swallowed up 
 in brick and mortar, though Richardson's house and garden 
 still remain, and are still sacred to art. In 1/54 he moved 
 to Parson's Green, and, so far as we can perceive from his 
 letters, his journeys rarely extended beyond these modest 
 limits. In 1 7 5 4 he also attained his highest civic honour. 
 He was elected Master of the Stationers' Company, a posi- 
 tion, we are told, profitable as well as honourable. His 
 prosperity is also proved by the fact that in 1/55 he rebuilt 
 his premises in Salisbury Court, and in 1 760 bought a 
 moiety of the patent of law-printer. The next year, on the 
 4th of July 1761, he died of apoplexy, and was buried in 
 St. Bride's Church. 
 
 Behind these prosaic facts there lies an inner history, "of 
 which we have only occasional glimpses. We hear that in 
 his childhood he, like Scott and many other novelists, was 
 famous amongst his schoolfellows for his powers of story- 
 telling. He composed a history ' on the model of Tommy 
 Pots ' — a work unknown to me even by report — which must 
 have been an odd anticipation of 'Pamela.' It recorded 
 
xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the preference of a fine young lady for a virtuous servant- 
 man above a libertine lord. Even at this period, he says, 
 his stories always had a useful moral. \He showed both his 
 didactic tendency and his passion for letter-writing at the 
 early age of eleven,) when the precocious child addressed a 
 remonstrance full of Scripture texts to a widow of fifty, 
 entreating her to give up the practice of spreading scandal. 
 Young women in the neighbourhood used to make him read 
 to them whilst they were at work, and three of them, each 
 without the knowledge of the others, employed him in the 
 composition of love-letters. Whilst an apprentice he carried 
 on a correspondence upon things in general with a gentleman 
 ' greatly his superior in degree and of ample fortune,' and in 
 later years he turned the experience thus gained to good 
 account. fTwo booksellers (Rivington and Osborne) asked him 
 to write a volume of letters to suit the taste of country readers. 
 In pursuance of this plan, he wrote some letters intended 
 to suggest proper sentiments to handsome servant-girls, who 
 might be exposed to temptation in service. The plan 
 developed under his hands, and became his first novel, 
 'Pamela.' The two first volumes were written in three 
 months in the winter of 1739-40, Richardson being already, 
 it may bo noted, fifty years old.) ' Clarissa Harlowe ' was 
 essentially a further development of the same scheme ; the 
 first four volumes appeared at the close of 1 747, and the 
 remainder about a year later. ' Sir Charles Grandison,' 
 which is a pendant to ' Clarissa Harlowe,' appeared in 
 1753- CThus one may say that Richardson's later master- 
 pieces were a working out of the vein already opened in his 
 childhood, though he did not come before the world as an 
 author until the ripe age of fifty, and then by a kind of 
 accident.) 
 
 He Md gone through domestic trials, of which we know 
 little. By his first wife he had five sons and one daughter ; 
 some of them lived to be ' delightful prattlers,' and the 
 death of one accelerated the death of the mother. By his 
 second wife, sister of a bookseller, he had five daughters and 
 one son, but only four daughters grew to maturity. Whilst 
 mentioning these losses, he speaks also of the death of his 
 
INTRODUCTION. xv 
 
 father, of two brothers, and a friend ' more valuable than 
 most brothers,' and counts ' eleven affecting deaths in two 
 years.' His nerves, he says, were greatly affected by his 
 losses, and for the last seven years (in the end of 1748) he 
 has ' forborne wine and flesh and fish.' Throughout life, 
 indeed, he seems to have been a nervous and sensitive little 
 man. He was never able to ride, and kept, we are told, a 
 ' chamber horse ' at each of his houses — an animal, we pre- 
 sume, of the rocking-horse variety, capable of affording 
 moderate exercise. For years before his death he was 
 unable to raise a glass to his lips without help. His dread 
 of possible altercations prevented him from often going 
 amongst his workmen. He preferred to give his directions 
 by notes, that he might not have the trouble of bawling 
 into the ears of a deaf foreman. /He gives a portrait of him- 
 self in a letter to a female correspondent, the fidelity of which 
 enabled her, as she afterwards tells him, to recognise him 
 ' above three hundred yards off.' The description is, there- 
 fore, worth quoting : — ' Short ; rather plump than emaciated, 
 notwithstanding his complaints ; about 5 foot 5 inches ; 
 fair wig, lightish cloth coat, all black besides ; one hand 
 generally in his bosom, the other a cane in it, which he 
 leans upon under the skirts of his coat usually that it may 
 imperceptibly serve him as a support when attacked by 
 sudden tremors or startings and dizziness, which too 
 frequently attack him, I but, thank God, not so often as 
 formerly;) looking directly fore-right, as passers-by would 
 imagine, but observing all that stirs on either hand of him 
 without moving his short neck ; hardly ever turning back ; 
 of a light-brown complexion; teeth not yet failing him; 
 smoothish faced and ruddy cheeked ; at some times looking to 
 be about sixty-five, at other times much younger ' [his true 
 age sixty] ; ' a regular, even pace, stealing away ground 
 rather than seeming to rid it ; a grey eye, too often over- 
 clouded by mistinesses from the head ; by chance lively ; 
 very lively it will be if he have hopes of seeing a lady whom 
 he loves and honours A his eye always on the ladies ; if they 
 have very large hoops/ he looks down and supercilious, and 
 as if he would be thought wise, but perhaps the sillier for 
 
xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 that ; as he approaches a lady his eye is never fixed first 
 upon her face, but upon her feet, and thence he raises it up 
 pretty quickly for a dull eye ; and one would think (if we 
 thought him at all worthy of ohservation) that from her air 
 and (the last beheld) her face, he sets her down in his mind 
 as so and so, and then passes on to the next object he meets ; 
 only then looking back, if he greatly likes or dislikes, as if he 
 would see if the lady appear to be all of a piece, in the one 
 light or the other.' The portraits tally with this bit of 
 characteristic self-portraiture. He looks like a plump white 
 mouse in a wig, with an air at once vivacious and timid ; a 
 quick, excitable nature taking refuge in the outside of a 
 smug, portly tradesman. Two coloured engravings in Mrs, 
 Barbauld's volumes give us Eichardson amidst his surround- 
 ings. One shows him toddling along at the pantiles at 
 Tunbridge Wells, amidst groups of ladies with huge hoops, 
 including the bigamous Duchess of Kingston. Amongst 
 the company are the great Mr. Pitt and Speaker Onslow, 
 and Dr. Johnson deferentially attending a bishop, and CoUey 
 Gibber following a lord in a splendid blue coat, and 'the 
 Baron (a German gamester) ' and shrivelled-up Dr. Whiston 
 (a harmless heretic with a slight crack in his understanding) 
 stealing away in one corner. Eichardson, we can see, is 
 making mental notes for ' Clarissa ; ' and though Lady Mary 
 assures us, as is indeed clear enough, that he was never 
 admitted to fashionable circles, he could catch some rapid 
 glimpses with his keen little eyes in such gatherings at the 
 old resorts of the gay world. One might walk the pantiles 
 a long time now before meeting such a mixed collection of 
 celebrities. The other picture introduces us to" Eichardson 
 at home. Half-a-dozen ladies and gentlemen are sitting by 
 the open window in his bare parlour looking out into the 
 garden. There is only one spindle-legged table and a set of 
 uncompromising wooden chairs, just enough to accommodate 
 the party. There is the admirable Miss Mulso, afterwards 
 Mrs. Chapone, whose very name has a fine flavour of 
 eighteenth - century proprieties, and two or three other 
 Mulsos; whilst Miss Highmore, whose hoop can scarcely 
 be squeezed into her strait-backed chair, is quietly sketch- 
 
INTRODUCTION. xvii 
 
 ing tte memorable scene. We are truly grateful to her ; 
 for there sits the little idol of the party 'in his usual 
 morning dress,' a nondescript brown dressing-gown, with a 
 cap on his head of the same materials. His plump little 
 frame fills the chair, and he is apparently raising one foot 
 for an emphatic stamp (or is it only that the artist has found 
 it difficult to plant both feet fairly on the ground ?) as he 
 reads a passage of ' Sir Charles Grandison.' We can see 
 that as he concludes he will be applauded with deferential 
 gasps of heartfelt admiration. 
 
 The relation of Eichardson to his little circle of admirers 
 is amusingly indicated in his correspondence. He had the 
 good sense to be thoroughly satisfied with his position in 
 life. He recognised that as a fact Temple Bar corresponded 
 to a social as well as a geographical line of distinction, and 
 declares himself to be 'very shy of obtruding himself on 
 persons of condition.' He was not servile nor ashamed of 
 his shop ; but he took it for granted, as a part of the provi- 
 dential order of society, that men in his own rank should be 
 deferential towards their social superiors. The upper classes 
 naturally took the same view, and nobody seems to have 
 wished to elevate the respectable printer into a higher sphere. 
 ^His literary talents, indeed, were unknown till he was past 
 fifty, and was too independent to desire or permit himself to 
 be petted and lionised by the aristocracy. His connection 
 with literature procured for him the acquaintance of various 
 authors. He respected them profoundly, and even gave 
 pecuniary proofs of Ms esteem. He did not, like Pope, who 
 had sprung from a similar rank in society, become the asso- 
 ciate of great men and ministers. * Pamela ' brought him 
 into commuilication with that literary phcfinix, but at a very 
 respectful distance.) Pope's lieutenant, the great Warburton, 
 wrote a letter to Tlichardson. ' Good sir ' is the form of 
 address, representing the two fingers' of dignified condescen- 
 sion. Warburton acknowledges a present of ' Pamela,' and 
 makes a suggestion from Pope and himself. Eichardson would 
 do well, thought these great men, to continue ' Pamela ' as 
 a satire upon the follies of high life, 'Pamela' being ex- 
 cellently qualified to act as an ingenue, astonished, like an 
 
xvlii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Indian amongst Europeans, by the absurdities of civilisation. 
 Kichardson had the good sense not to adopt a scheme for 
 which he had not the necessary experience. Warburton 
 condescended in 1747 to write a preface to 'Clarissa Har- 
 lowe,' pointing out very superfluously the nature of the 
 intended moral ; but he afterwards took offence — he was the 
 most easily offended of men — at a supposed reference in 
 the same book to one of Pope's satirical remarks upon 
 women. Richardson was on more familiar terms with more 
 than one of the minor luminaries, whose relations to the pair 
 of literary autocrats were anything but friendly. He was 
 intimate with Edwards, whose ' Canons of Criticism ' is a 
 very amusing attack upon the great Warburton's audacious 
 maltreatment of Shakespeare ; and with Aaron Hill, a writer 
 now remembered chiefly, if he can be properly said to be 
 remembered at all, for a controversy in which Pope, according 
 to his lamentable custom, first assailed his antagonist and 
 then tried to back out of the assault at the cost of elaborate 
 lying. Hill's letters to Richardson are worth reading, 'i'hey 
 contain as good a moral for literary vanity as could have 
 been desired by Richardson himself He writes to Richard- 
 son upon Pope's death, explaining (with Richardson's sym- 
 pathy, it seems) that the popularity of the great man was 
 already waning, .and had, been due to 'meditated little 
 personal assiduities and a certain bladdery swell of manage- 
 ment.' ' Rest his memory in peace ! ' he exclaims. ' It 
 will very rarely be disturbed by the time he is himself ashes.' 
 And then, by way of showing that his attack upon Pope 
 does not spring from jealousy, he remarks upon his own 
 indifference to fame. ' Never mortal courted her,' he says, 
 ' with less solicitude than I.' Under existing circum- 
 stances, he would rather not be famous. Unluckily Richard- 
 son is forced to explain to him, from the publisher's point of 
 view, that this modest wish is granted. As a matter of 
 fact, the world does not care for his writings, though the 
 world, as Richardson is careful to add, is entirely to blame 
 in the matter. Poor Hill has to accept this view with a very 
 wry face. He always knew and expected that his writings 
 would be unpopular, ' nor shall I see them in another light ; 
 
INTRODUCTION. xix 
 
 but there will rise a time in which they will be seen in 
 a far different one : I know it, on a surer hope than that of 
 vanity.' He proceeds to revile the taste of the times, and 
 to add that he has a piece in his desk which may have some 
 charms, in spite of ' the supercilious narrowness in vogue,' 
 and so forth. Richardson, whose ' Clarissa ' was just at 
 this time carrying all before it, probably had a better opinion 
 of the judgment of his contemporaries, but he could afford 
 to be kindly to the unpopular Hill, and indeed seems to 
 have helped him not only with praise but with more solid 
 accommodation. 
 
 Eichardson was familiar with other and more famous men. 
 His letters show that he exchanged compliments and criti- 
 cism with Young of the ' Night Thoughts,' whose peculiar 
 vein of religious sentimentalism was congenial to the author 
 of ' Clarissa.' Some phrases in Young's letters seem to 
 point to more tangible assistance. Johnson was another of 
 Richardson's friends. The only number of the 'Rambler' 
 which had a large sale came from Richardson's pen. Johnson 
 was released by Richardson from an arrest for debt, and he 
 always spoke of Richardson, in turn, in a strain of eulogy 
 which certainly does not err from want of warmth. All the 
 critics repeat the Johnsonian statement that Richardson 
 taught the passions to move at the command of virtue ; and 
 we may remember the rather unlucky statement that Fielding 
 only saw the hands of the clock, whereas Richardson knew 
 the working of the wheels. The same comparison, one may 
 remark in passing, is made by Richardson himself to Field- 
 ing's sister, in order to illustrate the superiority of her own 
 knowledge of human nature to her brother's. The quaintest 
 of all these friendships was that with Oolley Gibber, a man 
 who in real life would have been an admirer of Lovelace 
 much more than of Sir Charles Grandison — a gi-aceless, 
 frivolous, conceited old fop, who had abundant sprightliness 
 and good temper, but who is a queer contrast to the reputable 
 Richardson. It is odd that the man whom Fielding most 
 heartily despised as a representative, both on and off the 
 stage, of the frivolous rake of the old comedy, should have been 
 taken up by Fielding's didactic censor. A hearty admiration 
 
XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 for ' Clarissa ' covered a goocl many faults. Mrs. Pilkington, 
 a disreputable adventuress, known chiefly for her acquaintance 
 with Swiit, writes to Richardson, whose charity supported her 
 in her worst distress, to describe Gibber's raptures over the 
 unpublished 'Clarissa.' 'The dear gentleman,' she says, 
 ' did almost rave. When I told him that she (Clarissa) 
 must die, he said G — d — n him if she should, and that he 
 should no longer believe Providence or Eternal Wisdom or 
 Goodness governed the world if merit and innocence and 
 beauty were to be so destroyed. " Nay," added he, " my 
 mind is so hurt with the thought of her being violated, that 
 were I to see her in heaven, sitting on the knees of the 
 Blessed Virgin and crowned with glory, her sufferings would 
 still make me feel horror, horror distilled." These were his 
 strongly emphatical expressions.' As a delicate return for 
 this praise, we may notice that Clarissa finds amongst the 
 books which have been put by Lovelace in her lodgings, 
 in order to convince her of the respectable character of the 
 house, ' that genteel comedy of Mr. Gibber's,' the ' Careless 
 Husband,' a comedy which has its merits, but which would 
 scarcely even then have served as a credential of respectability 
 along with the ' Spectator,' Steele's virtuous comedies, and 
 other edifying literature. Gibber, when he comes to write 
 himself, is hardly so emphatic, but is quite as lively, as in 
 Mrs. Pilkington's version. ' The delicious meal I made off 
 Miss Byron on Sunday last,' he writes, ' has given me an 
 appetite for another slice of her, off from the spit, before she 
 is served up to the public table ; if about five o'clock to- 
 morrow afternoon will not be inconvenient, Mrs. Brown and I 
 will come and nibble upon a bit more of her.' And we have 
 grace after meat as well as before. 'The devil take the 
 insolent goodness of your imagination ! ' exclaims the lively 
 old buck, who had now passed his eightieth year, and was 
 as brisk and well preserved as if he had never been exposed 
 to Pope's ' scathing ' satire (does satire ever ' scathe ' ?) or 
 Pielding's rough ridicule. One of Richardson's lady admirers 
 sees Gibber still flirting with fine ladies at Tunbridge Wells 
 in 1754 (te was bom in 1 671), and miserable when he 
 found himself neglected for a moment by the greatest Idle 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxi 
 
 m the society. He professed to be only seventy-seven! 
 This may bring us back to the inner circle of admirers whom 
 Richardson really preferred, in passing, to poets and moralists 
 with little vanities of their own requiring attention. A whole 
 congregation of enthusiastic young ladies gathered round the 
 old gentleman, whose writings had touched their hearts. 
 They called him their dear papa. They passed long days 
 at his feet at North End and Parson's Green. He was 
 allowed to escape for a time to a little summer-house in the 
 garden, to add a charming letter to the correspondence of 
 Clarissa or Miss Byron. After an early dinner all the ladies 
 called for a reading, though the poor man complains with 
 amusing naivete that they were sometimes inclined to take 
 a walk when he was ready to read. Generally they got out 
 their embroidery or their drawing-boards, and he sat down 
 to give them the promised treat. Then followed a delightful 
 consultation. They considered the fates of the characters, 
 or discussed the little points of morality which arose. When 
 they were absent, he wrote letters which are obviously con- 
 tinuations of the verbal utterances. They are full of little 
 friendly quarrels, picked in order to be made up ; reproaches 
 and caresses, and small confidences ; and keen discussions of 
 the burning questions of the day. Is Lovelace's soul to be 
 saved ? Is Sir Charles to be allowed to fight a duel ? Does 
 a reformed rake make the best husband ? Should a lady 
 be allowed to learn Latin? What are the proper limits 
 of parental authority? Should a young woman indulge 
 herself in a correspondence, and if so, should she ven- 
 ture to write to persons of another sex ? Richardson in 
 his childhood had been a confidant, and now he became a 
 kind of confessor. The relation was natural and harmless 
 enough, though the style is gossippy and twaddling ; and it 
 must be admitted that the incessant steam of incense was 
 hardly calculated to strengthen his moral fibre. But at the 
 time of the novel-reading Richardson was old enough to be 
 beyond much risk of spoiling. That had been done already, 
 so far as it could be done. Perhaps the biggest compliment 
 that he ever received was the assertion that if some of the 
 ' Clarissa ' letters had been found in the Bible, they would 
 
xxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 be regarded as manifest proofs of divine inspiration. This, 
 indeed, came from a 'minister of tlie gospel.' But Eichard- 
 son's recognised position was tliat which is assigned to him by 
 Miss Collier. She regards him as the ' only champion and 
 protector ' of her sex. Women thought that he understood 
 the feminine heart, as their descendants afterwards thought 
 of Balzac. They ought to be the best judges ; and at any 
 rate, he knew how to make them adore him. Amongst the 
 various feminine worshippers, Miss Mulso, and Miss Fielding, 
 and Miss Highmore, and Miss Westcomb, and others who 
 play more or less conspicuous parts in the correspondence, 
 two are specially remarkable. The letters of Mrs. Klopstock, 
 the wife of the ' very German Milton,' are admirably touching 
 in their pretty broken English. Her account of her little 
 love-story is perfect in its way, but I have only space to 
 quote her own introduction of herself to Richardson, as an 
 indication of the power which he was exerting beyond the 
 limits of his own country. ' Honoured sir,' she writes, 
 ' will you permit me to take this opportunity, in sending a 
 letter to Dr. Young, to address myself to you ? It is very 
 long ago that I wished to do it. Having finished your 
 " Clarissa " (oh, the heavenly book !), I would have prayed 
 you to write the history of a manly Clarissa, but I had not 
 courage enough at that time. I should have it no more 
 to-day, as this is only my first English letter ; but I have 
 it ! It may be because I am now Klopstock's wife (I believe 
 you know my husband by Mr. Hohorst), and then I was only 
 the single young girl. You have since written the manly 
 Clarissa without my prayer; oh, you have done it to the 
 great joy and thanks of all your happy readers ! Now you 
 can write no more, you must write the history of an angel ! ' 
 
 Poor Mrs. Klopstock died shortly afterwards ; but she had 
 the pleasure of learning by experience that Richardson was not 
 RO rare an exception to the race of authors as to resent such 
 a charming intrusion. His correspondence with Lady Brad- 
 shaigh is much longer, and indeed, though only a selection 
 is given, is nearly a quarter of the whole. She was the 
 wife of a Lancashire country gentleman, a sensible, whole- 
 some, fresh-coloured lady, who discharged her domestic 
 
INTR OD UCTION. xxiii 
 
 duties energetically, but having no family, was able to devote 
 mucli time to reading. She had all the horror of a respect- 
 able person of the day for the strange, anomalous creatures 
 who wrote books. She felt so strongly upon this point, that 
 having obtained Richardson's portrait, she altered the name 
 on the frame to Dickenson, in order that no one might sus- 
 pect her of corresponding with an autjior. After reading 
 the first four volumes of ' Clarissa,' she at last wrote under a 
 feigned name to entreat him to alter the impending catas- 
 trophe. She spoke as the mouthpiece of a ' multitude of 
 admirers,' who were anxious to see Lovelace reformed and 
 married to Clarissa. ' Sure you will think it worth your 
 while to save his soul, sir ! ' she exclaims. Richardson, 
 whatever his failings, was far too good an artist not to see 
 the objections to this plan, though in ' Pamela ' he had fallen 
 into an error of the same kind. He was rewarded by her 
 account of her emotions upon reading the last volumes. She 
 laid down the book in agonies, took it up again, let fall a 
 flood of tears, and threw herself upon her couch to compose 
 her mind. Her husband, who was plodding along after her, 
 begged her to read no more. But she had promised Richard- 
 son to go through with it. She nerved herself for the task 
 again : her sleep was disturbed, she awoke up crying in the 
 night, and burst into tears at her meals. In short, she 
 enjoyed her misery with a heartiness not to be exceeded, and 
 became Richardson's friend for the rest of her life, though it 
 was a long time before she could get courage to reveal her 
 name and meet a real live author face to face. 
 
 Lady Bradshaigh, in spite of this little extravagance, 
 seems to have been a really sensible woman, and could 
 discuss various small social problems with plenty of vivacity 
 and common sense. The only thing, in fact, which is rather 
 painful in Richardson's letters is the spirit in which he re- 
 garded contemporaries. He had some of the spitefulness of 
 the true lover of gossip, and a large share of an author's 
 jealousy. He is on the look-out for discreditable anecdotes 
 against Pope and Swift, and his tone about Fielding is 
 offensive. Fielding had provoked him by ridiculing ' Pamela ' 
 (not more, perhaps, than it deserved) in ' Joseph Andrews.' 
 
xxiv introduction: 
 
 Very few readers of ' Joseph Andrews ' will think that Field- 
 ing's offence was very grave, as, indeed, ' Pamela ' is now 
 remembered chiefly as having served in some degree to 
 suggest Fielding's admirable performance. The only re- 
 ference to Eichardson to be found in Fielding's later works 
 is a generous compliment. But Richardson is never tired 
 of abusing his famon s contemporary, whilst his correspondents 
 evidently make their court to him by adopting the same 
 strain. He claims to have been himself the cause of Field- 
 ing's success. ' The " Pamela," ' he says, ' which he abused 
 in his " Shamela" taught him how to write to please, though 
 his manners are so difierent. Before his " Joseph Andrews " 
 (hints and names taken from that story with h lewd and 
 ungenerous engraftment) the poor man wrote without being 
 read, except when his " Pasquins," &c., roused party atten- 
 tion.' ' I could not help telling his sister,' he says elsewhere, 
 a sister whose merits Fielding had acknowledged with his 
 usual warmth of generosity, ' that I was equally surprised 
 at and concerned for his continued lowness. Had your 
 brother, said I, been born in a stable, or been a runner at 
 a spunging-house, we should have thought him a genius, 
 and wished he had had the advantage of a liberal education, 
 
 and of being admitted into good company, but now ' 
 
 It is painful to read this kind of stuff, and yet it shows only 
 too plainly what we might have anticipated, that Richard- 
 son, cockered and courted by his female senate, had acquired 
 a morbid sensitiveness, which was outraged beyond bearing 
 at a touch of ridicule. 
 
 Another great writer came just in time to receive Richard- 
 son's judgment. ' Who is this Torick ? ' asks a bishop, who 
 hears that 'Tristram Shandy' has been countenanced — 
 dreadful to relate ! — by some ' ingenious Dutchess.' Richard- 
 son briefly replies that the bishop cannot have looked into 
 the books, ' execrable I cannot but call them.' There is 
 indeed, one extenuating circumstance about them : they are 
 ' too gross to be inflaming.' 
 
 Richardson may be excused, indeed, for some protest 
 against the moral tone of Sterne's writings. He would have 
 been astonished if he had been told that he was not altogether 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxv. 
 
 free from responsibility in the matter. Yet it is undeniable 
 that Richardson gave one of the first impulses to that kind 
 of morbid sentimentalism which Sterne turned to account 
 with greater artistic power than his own. The use of the 
 phrase in its modern acceptation is noticed in a letter of 
 Lady Bradshaigh's, written apparently in 1 749. ' What 
 is the meaning,' she asks, ' of the word sentimental, so much 
 in vogue amongst the polite, both in town and country ? 
 Everything clever and agreeable is comprehended in that 
 word ; but I am convinced a wrong interpretation is given, 
 because it is impossible everything clever and agreeable can 
 be so common as that word.' She has heard of a sentimental 
 man, a sentimental party, or a sentimental walk, and has been 
 applauded for applying the same phrase to a letter. In 
 1752 the word is still used in an older sense in the title to 
 a pamphlet ' on sentimental differences in point of faith ' — 
 meaning, differences of sentiment. When, a few years later, 
 Sterne published his ' Sentimental Journey,' Wesley asked 
 what was the meaning of the new phrase, and remarked that 
 you might as well say continental. The growth of the new 
 epithet implies the growth of a peculiar vein of feeling, the 
 analysis of which may be left to philosophical historians. 
 For our purpose, it is enough to note Eichardson's position 
 in the matter. He had become, as I have said, a kind of 
 Protestant confessor. \He was more skilled than any of his 
 contemporaries in the mysteries of the feminine heart. He 
 knew what his worshippers liked, and was prepared to supply 
 it in any quantities.^ Now we may say roughly that at this 
 period there was a vast amount of vague feeHng longing 
 for some effective channels of utterance. The theology of 
 the time was cold and too exclusively logical, according to 
 modem writers, and is too faithfully reflected in such frigid 
 performances as Pope's 'Essay on Man.' A vague desire 
 for something warmer and more emotional was showing itself 
 in various directions. It may be observed, for example, in 
 Young's ' Night Thoughts,' in Hervey's ' Meditations,' and' in 
 much of the religious writings of the, school which sympa- 
 thised with Wesley and Whitfield. In literature proper, the 
 tendency is equally marked. The contagion of Eichardson's 
 Vol. I. c 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 sentimentalism spread rapidly on the Continent, as is indi- 
 cated by poor Mrs. Klopstock's enthusiasm. 
 
 The influence of his novels in Germany is noticed in 
 the ' Warheit und Dichtung,' and was amongst the causes 
 predisposing to the Wertherism of the succeeding genera- 
 tion. ' Clarissa ' doubtless transmigrated into the heroine 
 of the 'Nouvelle Heloise,' dropping some of her insular 
 prejudices on the way. And though his countrymen 
 generally sympathised with Fielding's masculine contempt 
 for this sickly sentimentalism, the readers of Richardson 
 were prepared to receive ' Ossian ' with enthusiasm, and 
 to weep over 'Tristram Shandy.' Richardson's creed was 
 doubtless as different as can well be conceived from 
 that of Rousseau, and he regarded Sterne as unmistak- 
 ably one of the wicked; but the creed to which a man 
 may swear allegiance gives but a very vague indication of 
 the sentiment which he encourages. There are many wor- 
 shippers, and even sincere and genuine worshippers, of 
 respectability, who are stimulating the very revolt which 
 would most shock their prejudices. The time was favour- 
 able. Richardson in fact, though the good orthodox little 
 man had no suspicion of his own tendencies, was encouraging 
 a tone of thought ominous of many things. The temporary 
 eclipse of the priest, the natural spiritual guide of feminine 
 natures, gave a chance to such lay preachers to enjoy a 
 homage not altogether healthy to those who rendered or to 
 those who received it. Nothing, however, can be imagined 
 less revolutionary in intention than Richardson's writings. 
 He is a sentimentalist pure and simple, who means nothing 
 less than to direct the feelings which he evokes against 
 either kings or priests. He is a Tory by principle, though 
 he may be a corrupter by temperament. He describes 
 passion sympathetically, but he holds that it should be con- 
 fined within the strictest limits of decorum and morality. 
 He is not the only writer who has helped to evoke a spirit 
 which he would be the last to sanction. 
 
 Meanwhile his sympathy with women gives a remarkable 
 power to his works. Nothing is more rare than to find a 
 great novelist who can satisfactorily describe the opposite 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxvii 
 
 sex. Women's heroes are women in disguise, or mere lay- 
 figures, walking gentlemen who parade tolerably through 
 their parts, but have no real vitality. Miss Bronte, for 
 example, showed extraordinary power in ' Jane Eyre ; ' but 
 Jane Eyre's lovers, Kockingham and St. John, are painted 
 from the outside ; they are, perhaps, what some women 
 think men ought to be, but not what any man of power at 
 all comparable to Miss Bronte's could ever have imagined. 
 Her most successful men — such as M. Paul, in ' Villette ' — 
 are those who have the strongest feminine element in their 
 composition. On the other hand, the heroines of male 
 writers are for the most part unnaturally strained or quite 
 colourless ; male hands are too heavy for the delicate work 
 required. Milton could draw a majestic Satan, but his Eve 
 is no better than a good managing housekeeper who knows 
 her place. It is, therefore, remarkable that Eichardson's 
 greatest triumph should be in describing a woman, and that 
 most of his feminine characters are more life-like and more 
 delicately discriminated than his men. Unluckily, his con- 
 ■ spicuous faults result from the same cause. His moral pros- 
 ings savour of the endless gossip over a dish of chocolate 
 in which his heroines delight ; we can imagine the applause 
 with which his admiring feminine circle would receive his 
 demonstration of the fact, that adversity is harder to bear 
 than prosperity, or the sentiment that ' a man of principle, 
 whose love is founded in reason, and whose object is mind 
 rather than person, must make a worthy woman happy.' 
 These are admirable sentiments, but they savour of the 
 serious tea-party. If ' Tom Jones ' has about it an occasional 
 suspicion of beer and pipes at the bar, ' Sir Charles Grandi- 
 son ' recalls an indefinite consumption of tea and small-talk. 
 In short, the feminine part of Richardson's character has a 
 little too much affinity to Mrs. Gamp — not that he would 
 ever be guilty of putting gin in his cup, but that he would 
 have the same capacity for spinning out indefinite twaddle 
 of a superior kind. And, of course, he fell into the faults 
 which beset the members of mutual admiration societies in 
 general, but especially those which consist chiefly of women. 
 Men who meet for purposes of mutual flattery become un- 
 
xxviii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 naturally solemn and priggisli ; they never free themselves 
 from the suspicion that the older members of the coterie 
 may be laughing at them behind their backs. But the 
 flattery of women is bo much more delicate, and so much 
 more sincere, that it is far more dangerous. It is a poultice 
 which in time softens the hardest outside. Richardson 
 yielded as entirely as any curate exposed to a shower of 
 slippers. He evidently wrote under the impression that he 
 was not merely an imaginative writer of the highest order, 
 but also a great moralist. Richardson thought that, in 
 Johnson's phrase, he was placing the passions under the 
 command of virtue. He was reforming the world, put- 
 ting down vice, sending duelling out of fashion, and in- 
 culcating the lessons of the pulpit in a far more attractive 
 form. A modern novelist is half-ashamed of his art ; he 
 disclaims earnestly any serious purpose ; his highest aim 
 is to amuse his readers, and his greatest boast that he 
 amuses them by honourable or at least by harmless means. 
 There are, indeed, novelists vrith a purpose, who write to 
 inculcate High-Church or Low-Ohurch principles, or to 
 prove that society at large is out of joint ; but a direct 
 intention to prove that men ought not to steal or get 
 drunk, or commit any other atrocities, is generally con- 
 sidered to be beside the novelist's function, and its intro- 
 duction to be a fault of art. Indeed, there is much to 
 be said against it. In our youth we used to read a poem 
 about a cruel little boy who went out to fish and was punished 
 by somehow becoming suspended by his chin from a hook in 
 the larder. It never produced much effect upon us, because 
 we felt that the' accident was, to say the least, rather excep- 
 tional ; at most, we fished on, and were careful about the 
 larder. The same principle applies to the poetic justice dis- 
 tributed by most novelists. When Richardson kills off his 
 villains by violent deaths, we know too well that many 
 villains live to a good old age, leave handsome fortunes, and 
 are buried under the handsomest of tombstones, with the 
 most elegant of epitaphs. This very rough device for incul- 
 cating morality is of course ineffectual, and produces some 
 artistic blemishes. The direct exhortations to his readers to 
 
INTR OD UCTI ON. xxix 
 
 be good are still more annoying ; no human being can long 
 endure such a mixture of preaching and story-telling. For 
 Heaven's sake, we exclaim, tell us what happens to Clarissa, 
 and don't stop to prove that honesty is the best policy ! In 
 a wider sense, however, the seriousness of Richardson's pur- 
 pose is of the highest value. He is so keenly in earnest, so 
 profoundly interested about his characters, so determined to 
 make us enter into their motives, that we cannot help being 
 carried away ; if he never spares an opportunity of giving 
 us a lecture, at least his zeal in setting forth an example 
 never flags for an instant. The effort to give us an ideally 
 perfect character seems to stimulate his imagination, and 
 leads to a certain intensity of realisation which we are apt 
 to miss in the purposeless school of novelists. He is always, 
 as it were, writing at high-pressure and under a sense of 
 rgsponsibility. 
 
 The method which he adopts lends itself very conveni- 
 ently to heighten this efiect. Richardson's feminine delight 
 in letter-writing was, as we have seen, the immediate cause 
 of his plunge into authorship. Richardson's novels, indeed, 
 are not so much novels put for convenience under the form 
 of letters, as letters expanded till they become novels. A 
 genuine novelist who should put his work into the unnatural 
 shape of a correspondence would probably find it a very 
 awkward expedient ; but Richardson gradually worked up to 
 the novel from the conception of a collection of letters; and his 
 method, therefore, came spontaneously to him. He started 
 from the plan of writing letters to illustrate a certain point 
 of morality, and to make them more effective attributed them 
 to a fictitious character. The result was the gigantic tract 
 called 'Pamela' — beyond all comparison the worst of his 
 works — of which it is enough to say at present that it suc- 
 ceeds neither in being moral nor amusing. It shows, however, 
 a truly amazing fertility in a specially feminine art. We 
 have all suffered from the propensity of some female minds 
 (the causes of which we will not attempt to analyse) for pour- 
 ing forth indefinite floods of correspondence. We know the 
 heartless fashion in which some ladies, even in these days of 
 penny postage, will fill a sheet of note-paper and proceed to 
 
XXX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 cross their writing till the page becomes a chequer-work of 
 unintelligible hieroglyphics. But we may feel gratitude in 
 looking back to the days when time hung heavier, and 
 letter-writing was a more serious business. The letters of 
 those times may recall the fearful and wonderful labours 
 of tapestry in which ladies employed their needles by way of 
 killing time. The monuments of both kinds are a fearful 
 indication of the ennui from which the perpetrators must 
 have suffered. We pity those who endured the toil as we 
 pity the prisoners whose patient ingenuity has carved a 
 passage through a stone wall with a rusty nail. Richardson's 
 heroines, and his heroes too, for that matter, would have been 
 portents at any time. We will take an example at hazard. 
 Miss Byron, on March 22, writes a letter of fourteen pages 
 (in the old edition of collected works). The same day she 
 follows it up by two of six and of twelve pages respectively. 
 On the 2 3rd she leads off with a letter of eighteen pages, and 
 another of ten. On the 24th she gives us two, filling 
 together thirty pages, at the end of which she remarks that 
 she is forced to lay down her pen, and then adds a post- 
 script of six more ; on the 2 5 th she confines herself to two 
 pages ; but after a Sunday's rest she makes another start of 
 equal vigour. In three days, therefore, she covers ninety- 
 six pages. Two of the pages are about equal to three in 
 this volume. Consequently, in three days' correspondence, 
 referring to the events of the day, she would fill something 
 like a hundred and forty-four of these pages — a task the 
 magnitude of which may be appreciated by any one who 
 will try the experiment. We should say that she must 
 have written for nearly eight hours a day, and are not 
 surprised at her remark, that she has on one occasion only 
 managed two hours' sleep. 
 
 It would, of course, be the height of pedantry to dwell 
 upon this, as though a fictitious personage were to be in all 
 respects bounded by the narrow limits of human capacity. 
 It is not the object of a really good novelist, nor does it 
 come within the legitimate means of high art in any 
 department, to produce an actual illusion. Showmen in 
 certain mansions call upon us to admire paintings which 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxi 
 
 we cannot distinguish from bas-reliefs ; tlie deception is, of 
 course, a more trick, and the paintings are simply childish. 
 On the stage we do not require to believe that the scenery- 
 is really what it imitates, and the attempt to introduce 
 scraps of real life is a clear proof of a low artistic aim. 
 Similarly a novelist is not only justified in writing so as to 
 prove that his work is fictitious, bui he almost necessarily 
 hampers himself, to the prejudice of his work, if he imposes 
 upon himself the condition that his book shall be capable of 
 being mistaken for a genuine narrative. Every good novel- 
 ist lets us into secrets about the private thoughts of his 
 characters which it would be impossible to obtain in real 
 life. When Mr. Pendennis relates the history of the New- 
 comes, he very excusably gives us long conversations, and 
 even soliloquies and meditations, of which a real Mr. 
 Pendennis must have been necessarily ignorant. We do 
 not, therefore, blame Richardson because his characters have 
 a power of writing which no mortal could ever attain. His 
 fault, indeed, is exactly the contrary. He very erroneously 
 fancies that he is bound to convince us of the possibility of 
 all his machinery, and often produces the very shock to our 
 belief which he seeks to avoid. He is constantly trying to 
 account by elaborate devices for the fertile correspondence 
 of his characters, when it is perfectly plain that they are 
 simply writing for purposes of the fiction. We should 
 never have asked a question as to the authenticity of the 
 letters, if he did not force the question upon us ; and no 
 art can induce us for a moment to accept the proffered 
 illusion. For example. Miss Byron gives us a long account 
 of conversations between persons whom she did not know, 
 which took place ten years before. It is much better that 
 the impossibility should be frankly accepted, on the clear 
 ground that authors of novels, and consequently their 
 creatures, have the prerogative of omniscience. At least, 
 the slightest account of the way in which she came by the 
 knowledge would be enough to satisfy us for all purposes of 
 fiction. Richardson is not content with this, and elaborately 
 demonstrates that she might have known a number of 
 minute details which it is perfectly plain that a real Miss 
 
xxxii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Byron could never have known, and thus dashes into our 
 faces an improbability which we should have been quite 
 content to pass unnoticed. 
 
 The method, however, of telling the story by the corre- 
 spondence of the actors produces more important effects. 
 The hundred and forty-four pages we have noticed are all 
 devoted to the proceedings of three days. They are filled, 
 for the most part, with interminable conversations. The 
 story advances by a very few steps ; but we know all that 
 every one of the persons concerned has to say about the 
 matter. We discover what was Sir Charles Grandison's 
 relation at a particular time to a certain Italian lady, Cle- 
 mentina. We are told exactly what view he took of his 
 own position ; what view Clementina took of it ; what Miss 
 Byron had to say to Sir Charles on the subject, and what 
 advice her relations bestowed upon Miss Byron. Then we 
 have all the sentiments of Sir Charles Grandison's sisters, 
 and of his brothers-in-law, and of his reverend old tutor ; 
 and the sentiments of all the Lady Clementina's family, 
 and the incidental remarks of a number of subordinate 
 actors. In short, we see the characters all round in all 
 their relations to each other, in every possible variation 
 and permutation ; we are present at all the discussions 
 which take place before every step, and watch the gradual 
 variation of all the phases of the positions. We get the 
 same sort . of elaborate familiarity with every aspect of affairs 
 that we should receive from reading a blue-book full of some 
 prolix diplomatic correspondence ; indeed, ' Sir Charles 
 Grandison ' closely resembles such a blue-book, for the plot 
 is carried on mainly by elaborate negotiations between three 
 different families, with proposals, and counter-proposals, and 
 amended proposals, and a final settlement of the very com- 
 plicated business by a deliberate signing of two different 
 sets of articles.- One of them, we need hardly say, is a 
 marriage settlement ; the other is a definite treaty between 
 the lady who is not married and her family, the discussion 
 of which occupies many pages. The extent to which we 
 are drawn into the minutest details may be inferred from the 
 fact that nearly a volume is given to marrying Sir Charles 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxiii 
 
 Grandison to Miss Byron, after all difficulties have been 
 surmounted. We have at full length all the discussions by 
 which the day is fixed, and all the remarks of the unfor- 
 tunate lovers of both parties, and all the criticisms of both 
 families, and finally an elaborate account of the ceremony, 
 with the names of the persons who went in the separate 
 coaches, the dresses of the bride and bridesmaids, and the 
 sums which Sir Charles gave away to the village girls who 
 strewed flowers on the pathway. Surely the feminine 
 element in Richardson's character was a little in excess. 
 
 The result of all this is a sort of Dutch painting of 
 extraordinary minuteness. The art reminds us of the 
 patient labour of a line-engraver, who works for days at 
 making out one little bit of minute stippling and cross-hatch- 
 ing. The characters are displa^d to us step by step and 
 line by line. We are gradually forced into familiarity with 
 them by a process resembling that by which we learn to 
 know people in real life. We are treated to few set analyses 
 or summary descriptions, but by constantly reading their 
 letters and listening to their talk we gradually form an 
 opinion of the actors. We see them, too, all round ; instead 
 of regarding them steadily, as is usual in modem novels, 
 from one point of view ; we know what each person 
 thinks of every one else, and what every one else thinks of 
 him ; they are brought into a stereoscopic distinctness by 
 combining the different aspects of their character. Of 
 course, a method of this kind involves much labour on the 
 part both of writer and reader. It is evident that Richard- 
 son did not think of amusing a stray half-hour in a rail- 
 way-carriage or in a club smoking-room ; he counted upon 
 readers who would apply themselves seriously to a task, in 
 the hope of improving their morals as much as of gaining 
 some harmless amusement. This theory is explicitly an- 
 nounced in the preface to ' Clarissa,' contributed by Warbur- 
 ton. Warburton was one of the worst of critics, and his 
 approbation is anything but a recommendation. But it must 
 also be said that, considering the cumbrous nature of the pro- 
 cess, the spirit with which it is appKed is wonderful. Richard- 
 son's own interest in his actors never flags. The distinct style 
 
xxxiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of every correspondent is faithfully preserved with singular 
 vivacity. When we have read a few letters we are never at 
 a loss to tell, from the style alone of any short passage, who 
 is the imaginary author. Consequently, readers who can 
 bear to have their amusement diluted, who are content with 
 an imperceptibly slow development of plot, and can watch 
 without impatience the approach of a foreseen incident 
 through a couple of volumes, may find the prolixity less 
 intolerable than might be expected. If they will be content 
 to skip two letters out of every three, they may be enter- 
 tained with a series of pictures of character and manners 
 skilfully contrasted and brilliantly coloured, though with a 
 limited allowance of incident. Within his own sphere, no 
 writer exceeds him in clearness and delicacy of conception. 
 
 In another way, the machinery of a fictitious correspond- 
 ence is rather troublesome. As the author never appears 
 in his own person, he is often obliged to trust his characters 
 with trumpeting their own virtues. Sir Charles Grandison 
 has to tell us himself of his own virtuous deeds ; how he 
 disarms ruffians who attack him in overwhelming numbers, 
 and converts evil-doers by impressive advice ; and, still more 
 awkwardly, he has to repeat the amazing compliments which 
 everybody is always paying him. Richardson does his best 
 to evade the necessity; he couples all his virtuous heroes 
 with friendly confidants, who relieve the virtuous heroes of 
 the tiresome task of self-adulation : he supplies the heroes 
 themselves with elaborate reasons for overcoming their 
 modesty, and makes them apologise profusely for the unwel- 
 come task. Still, ingenious as his expedients may be, and 
 willing as we are to make allowance for the necessities of 
 his task, we cannot quite free ourselves from an unpleasant 
 suspicion as to the simplicity of his characters. ' Clarissa ' 
 is comparatively free from this fault, though Clarissa takes 
 a questionable pleasure ill uttering the finest sentiments and 
 posing herself as a model of .virtue. But in 'Sir Charles 
 Grandison ' the fulsome interchange of flattery becomes offen- 
 sive even for fiction. The virtuous characters give and 
 receive an amount of eulogy enough to turn the strongest 
 stomachs. How amiable is A. ! says B. ; how virtuous is 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxv 
 
 C, and how marvellously witty is D. ! And then A., C, 
 and D. go through the same performance, adding a proper 
 compliment to B. in place of the exclamation appropriate to 
 themselves. The only parallel in modern times is to be 
 found at some of the public dinners, where every man pro- 
 poses his neighbour's health with a tacit understanding that 
 he is himself to furnish the text for a similar oration. But 
 then at dinners people have the excuse of a state of modified 
 sobriety. 
 
 This fault is, as we have said, aggravated by the epistolary 
 method. That method makes it necessary that each person 
 should display his or her own virtues, as in an exhibition 
 of gymnastics the performers walk round and show their 
 muscles. But the fault lies a good deal deeper. Every 
 writer, consciously or unconsciously, puts himself into his 
 novels, and exhibits his own character even more distinctly 
 than that of his heroes. And Eichardson, the head of a 
 little circle of conscientious admirers of each other's virtues, 
 could not but reproduce on a different scale the tone of his 
 own society. The Grandisons, and the families of Miss 
 Byron and Clementina, merely repeat a practice with which 
 he was tolerably familiar at home ; whilst his characters 
 represent to some extent the idealised Eichardson himself; 
 — and this leads us to the most essential characteristic of 
 his novels. The greatest woman in France, according to 
 Napoleon's brutal remark, was the woman who had the most 
 children. In a different sense, the saying may pass for 
 truth. The greatest writer is the one who has produced 
 the largest family of immortal children. Those of whom 
 it can be said that they have really added a new type to the 
 fictitious world are indeed few in number. Cervantes is 
 in the front rank of all imaginative creators, because he has 
 given birth to Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Eichard- 
 son's literary representatives are far indeed below these, but 
 Eichardson too may boast that, in his narrower sphere of 
 thought, he has invented two characters that have still 
 a strong vitality. They show all the weaknesses inseparable 
 from the age and country of their origin. They are far 
 inferior to the highest ideals of the great poets of the world ; 
 
xxxvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 they are cramped and deforraed by the frigid convention- 
 alities of their century and the narrow society in which 
 they move and live. But for all that they stir the emotions 
 of a distant generation with power enough to show that 
 their author must have pierced below the surface into the 
 deeper and more perennial springs of humaln passions. 
 These two characters are, of course, Clarissa and Sir Charles 
 Grandison; and I may endeavour shortly to analyse the 
 sources of their enduring interest. 
 
 Sir Charles Grandison has passed into a proverb. When 
 Carlyle calls Lafayette a Grandison-Cromwell, he hits off 
 one of those admirable nicknames which paint a character 
 for us at once. Sir Charles Grandison is the model fine 
 gentleman of the eighteenth century — the master of correct 
 deportment, the unimpeachable representative of the old 
 school. Eichardson tells us with a certain naweU that he 
 has been accused of describing an impossible character ; 
 that Sir Charles is a man absolutely without a fault, or at 
 least with faults visible only on a most microscopic observa- • 
 tion. In fact, the only fault to which Sir Charles himself 
 pleads guilty, in seven volumes, is that he once rather loses 
 his temper. Two ruffians try to bully him in his own 
 house, and even draw their swords upon him. Sir Charles 
 so far forgets himself as to draw his own sword, disarm both 
 of his opponents, and turn them out of doors. He cannot 
 forgive himself, he says, that he has been ' provoked by two 
 such men to violate the sanctity of his own house.' His 
 only excuse is, ' that there were two of them ; and that tho' 
 I drew, yet I had the command of myself so far as only to 
 defend myself, when I might have done with them what I 
 pleased.' According to Richardson, this venial offence is 
 the worst blot on Sir Charles's character. We certainly do 
 not blame him for the attempt to draw an ideally perfect 
 hero. It is a perfectly legitimate aim in fiction, and the 
 only question can be whether he has succeeded : for Richard- 
 son's own commendation cannot be taken as quite sufficient 
 nor can we quite accept the ingenious artifice by which 
 all the secondary characters perform as decoy-birds to attract 
 our admiration. They do their very best to induce us to 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxvii 
 
 join in their hymns of praise. ' Grandison,' says a Roman 
 Catholic bishop, ' were he one of us, might expect canonisa- 
 tion.' ' How,' exclaims his uncle, after a conversation with 
 his paragon of a nephew, ' how shall I bear my own little- 
 ness ? ' A party of reprobates about town have a long dis- 
 pute with him, endeavouring to force him into a duel. At 
 the end of it one of them exclaims admiringly, ' Curse me, 
 if I believe there is such another man in the world ! ' 'I 
 never saw a hero till now,' says another. ' I had rather 
 have Sir C. Grandison for my friend than the greatest prince 
 on earth,' says a third. ' I had rather,' replies his friend, 
 ' be Sir C. Grandison for this one past hour than the Great 
 Mogul all my life.' And the general conclusion is, ' what 
 poor toads are we ! ' ' This man shows us,' as a lady 
 declares, ' that goodness and greatness are synonymous 
 words ; ' and when his sister marries, she complains that her 
 brother ' has long made all other men indiiferent to her. 
 Such an infinite difference ! ' In the evening, according to 
 custom, . she dances a minuet with her bridegroom, but 
 whispers a friend that she would have performed better had 
 she danced with her brother. 
 
 The structure, however, of the story itself is the best 
 illustration of Sir Charles's admirable qualities. The plot 
 is very simple. He rescues Miss Byron from an attempt at 
 a forcible abduction. Miss Byron, according to her friends, 
 is the queen of her sex, and is amongst women what Sir 
 Charles is amongst men. Of course, they straightway fall 
 in love. Sir Charles, however, shows symptoms of a singu- 
 lar reserve, which is at last explained by the fact that he 
 is already half-engaged to a noble Italian lady, Clementina. 
 He has promised, in fact, to marry her if certain objections 
 on the score of his country and religion can be surmounted. 
 The interest lies chiefly in the varying inclinations of the 
 balance, at one moment favourable to Miss Byron, and at 
 another to the ' saint and angel ' Clementina. When Miss 
 Byron thinks that Sir Charles will be bound in honour to 
 marry Clementina, she begins to pine; 'she visibly falls 
 away ; and her fine complexion fades ; ' her friends ' watch 
 in silent love every turn of her mild and patient eye, every 
 
XXX viii INTR OD UCTION. 
 
 change of her charming countenance; for they know too 
 well to what to impute the malady which has approached 
 the best of hearts; they know that the cure cannot he 
 within the art of the physician.' When Clementina fears 
 that the scruples of her relatives will separate her from Sir 
 Charles, she takes the still more decided step of going mad ; 
 and some of her madness would be very touching, if it did not 
 remind us a trifle too much of the conventional pattern of 
 feminine madness in Sheridan's ' Critic' Whilst these two 
 ladies are breaking their hearts about Sir Charles they do 
 justice to each other's merits. Harriet will never be happy 
 unless she knows that the admirable Clementina has reconciled 
 herself to the loss of her adored; when Clementina finds 
 herself finally separated from her lover, she sincerely im- 
 plores Sir Charles to marry her more fortunate rival. Never 
 was there such a display of fine feeling and utter absence of 
 jealousy. Meanwhile a lovely ward of Sir Charles finds it 
 necessary to her peace of mind to be separated from her 
 guardian ; and another beautiful, but rather less admirable, 
 Italian actually follows him to England to persuade him to 
 accept her hand. Four ladies — all of them patterns of all 
 physical, moral, and intellectual excellence — ^are breaking 
 their hearts ; and though they are so excellent that they 
 overcome their natural jealousy, they can scarcely look upon 
 any other man after having known this model of all his sex. 
 Indeed, every woman who approaches him falls desperately 
 in love with him, unless she is his sister or old enough to 
 be his grandmother. The plot of the novel depends upon 
 an attraction for the fair sex which is apparently irresistible ; 
 and the men, if they are virtuous, rejoice to sit admiringly 
 at his feet, and if they are vicious retire abashed from his 
 presence, to entreat his good advice when they are upon 
 their deathbeds. 
 
 All this is simple enough. A novelist can make his women 
 fall in love with his hero as easily as, with a stroke of the 
 pen, he can endow .him with fifty thousand a year, or bestow 
 upon him every virtue under heaven. Neither has he any 
 difiSculty in making him the finest dancer in England, or 
 giving him such marvellous skill with the small-sword that 
 
INTRODUCTION. xxxix 
 
 he can avoid the sin of duelling by instantaneously disarm- 
 ing his most formidable opponents. The real question is, 
 whether he can animate this conglomerate of all conceivable 
 virtues with a real human soul, set him before us as a living 
 and breathing reality, and make us feel that if we had 
 known him, we too should have been ready to swell the full 
 chorus of admiration. It is rather more difficult to convey 
 the impression which a perusal of his correspondence and 
 conversation leaves upon an unprejudiced mind. Does Sir 
 Charles, when we come to know him intimately — for, with 
 the ample materials provided, we really seem to know him — 
 fairly support the amazing burden thrown upon him ? Do 
 we feel a certain disappointment when we meet the man 
 whom all ladies love, and in whom every gentleman confesses 
 a superior nature ? 
 
 A couple of characteristic anecdotes about Sir Charles 
 may be enough to suggest some answer. Voltaire, we 
 know, ridiculed the proud English, who with the same 
 scissors cut off the heads of their kings and the tails 
 of their horses. To this last weakness Sir Charles was 
 superior. His horses, says Miss Byron, ' are not docked ; 
 their tails are only tied up when they are on the road.' 
 She. would wish to find some fault with him, but as she 
 forcibly says, 'if he be of opinion that the tails of these 
 noble animals are not only a natural ornament, but of real 
 use to defend them from the vexatious insects that in 
 summer are so apt to annoy them, how far from a dispraise 
 is this humane consideration ! ' Here is another instance 
 of exquisite propriety. When Sir Charles goes to church he 
 does not, like some other gentlemen, bow low to the ladies of 
 his acquaintance, and then to others of the gentry. No ! ' Sir 
 Charles had first other devoirs to pay. He paid us his 
 second compliments.' Prom these two exemplary actions 
 we might infer his whole character. The most trifling details 
 of his conduct are regulated on the most serious considerations. 
 He is one of those solemn beings who can't shave them- 
 selves without implicitly asserting a great moral principle. 
 He finds sermons in his horses' tails; he could give an 
 excellent reason for the quantity of lace on his coat, which 
 
xl INTRODUCTION. 
 
 was due, it seems, to a sentiment of filial reverence ; and 
 he could not fix his hour for dinner without an eye to the 
 reformation of society. In short, he was a prig of the 
 first water; self-conscious to the last degree; and so 
 crammed with little moral aphorisms that they drop out of 
 his mouth whenever he opens his lips. And then his 
 religion is in admirable keeping. It is intimately connected 
 with the excellence of his deportment; and is, in fact, 
 merely the application of the laws of good society to the 
 loftiest sphere of human duty. He pays his second compli- 
 ments to his lady, and his first to the object of his adora- 
 tion. He very properly gives the precedence to the being 
 he professes to adore — ^but it is only a precedence. As he 
 carries his solemnity into the pettiest trifles of life, so he 
 considers religious duties to be simply the most important 
 part of social ^etiquette. He would shrink from blasphemy 
 even more than from keeping on his hat in the presence of 
 ladies ; but the respect which he owes in one case is of the 
 same order with that due in the other : it is only a degree 
 more important. 
 
 We feel, indeed, a certain affection for Sir Charles 
 Grandison. He is pompous and ceremonious to an insuf- 
 ferable degree ; but there is really some truth in his sister's 
 assertion, that his is the most delicate of human minds ; 
 through the cumbrous formalities of his century there shines 
 a certain quickness and sensibility ; he even condescends to 
 be lively after a stately fashion, and to indulge in a little 
 ' raillying,' only guarding himself rather too carefully 
 against unbecoming levity. Indeed, though a man of the 
 world at the present day would be as much astonished at 
 his elaborate manners as at his laced coat and sword, he 
 would admit that Sir Charles was by no means wanting in 
 tact ; his talk is weighted with more elaborate formulte than 
 we care to employ, but it is good vigorous conversation in 
 the main, and, if rather overlaid with sermonising, can at 
 times be really amusing. His religion is not of a very ex- 
 alted character ; he rises to no sublime heights of emotion, 
 and would simply be puzzled by the fervours or the doubts 
 of a more modem generation. In short, it seems to be 
 
INTRODUCTION'. xli 
 
 compounded of common sense, and a regard for decorum — 
 and those are not bad things in their way, though not the 
 highest. He is not a very ardent reformer ; he doubts 
 whether the poor should be taught to read, and is very 
 clear that every one should be made to know his station ; 
 but still he talks with sense and moderation, and even gets 
 so far as to suggest the necessity of reformatories. He is 
 not very romantic, and displays an amount of self-command 
 in judicially settling the claims of the various ladies who 
 are anxious to marry him, which is almost comic ; he is 
 perfectly ready to marry the Italian lady, if she can sur- 
 mount her religious scruples, though he is in love with Miss 
 Byron; and his mind is evidently in a pleasing state of 
 equilibrium, secure, in all events, of the happiness which he 
 deserves. Indeed, for so chivalric a gentleman, his view of 
 love and marriage is far less enthusiastic than we should 
 now require. One of his benevolent actions, which throws 
 all his admirers into fits of eulogy, is to provide one of his 
 uncles with a wife. The gentleman is a peer, but has 
 hitherto been of disreputable life. The lady, though of 
 good family and education, is above thirty, and her family 
 have lost their estate. The match of convenience which 
 Sir Charles patches up between them has obvious prudential 
 recommendations ; and of course it turns out admirably. 
 But one is rather puzzled to know what special merits Sir 
 Charles can claim for bringing it to pass. 
 
 Such a hero as this may be worthy and respectable, 
 but is not a very exalted ideal. Neither do his circum- 
 stances increase our interest. It would be rather a curious 
 subject of inquiry why it should be so impossible to make 
 a virtuous hero interesting in fiction. In real life, the 
 men who do heroic actions are certainly more attractive 
 than the villains. Domestic affection, patriotism, piety, 
 and other good qualities, are pleasant to contemplate in the 
 world ; why should they be so often an unspeakable bore 
 in novels ? Principally, no doubt, because our conception 
 of a perfect man is apt to bring the negative qualities into 
 too great prominence ; we are asked to admire men because 
 they have not passions — not because they overcome them. 
 Vol. I. d 
 
xlii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 But there are further difBculties ; for example, in a novel it 
 is generally so easy to see what is wrong and what is right 
 — the right-hand path branches off so decidedly from the 
 left, — that we give a man little credit for making the proper 
 choice. Still more is it difficult to let us sufficiently into a 
 man's interior, to let us see the struggle and the self- 
 sacrifice which ought to stir our sympathies. We witness 
 the victories, but it is hard to make us feel the cost at 
 which they are won. Now, Richardson has, as we shall 
 directly remark, overcome this difficulty to a great extent 
 in ' Clarissa; ' but in ' Sir Charles G-randison ' he has entirely 
 shirked it ; he has made everything too plain and easy for his 
 hero. Becky Sharp's famous reflection upon the moral efiect of 
 five thousand a year might have been suggested by Sir Charles's 
 history. To be young, handsome, healthy, active, with a fine 
 estate and a grand old house ; to be able, by your eloquence, 
 to send a sinner into a fit (as Sir Charles does once) ; to be 
 the object of a devoted passion from three or four amiable, 
 accomplished, and beautiful women — each of whom has a 
 fine fortune, and only begs you to throw your handkerchief 
 towards her, whilst she promises to bear no grudge if you 
 throw it to her neighbour — all these are favourable con- 
 ditions for virtue — especially if you mean the virtues of 
 being hospitable, generous, a good landlord and husband, 
 and in every walk of life thoroughly gentlemanlike in your 
 behaviour. But the whole design is rather too much 
 in accordance with the device of enabling Sir Charles to 
 avoid duels by having a marvellous trick of disarming his 
 adversaries. 'What on earth is the use of my fighting 
 with you,' says King Padella to Prince Giglio, ' if you have 
 got a fairy sword and a fairy horse ? ' And what merit is 
 there in winning the battle of life, when you have every 
 single circumstance in your favour? It is to be hoped 
 that we are not moved by jealousy ; but we begin to resent 
 the superlative good luck of this prosperous young Sir 
 Charles, rich with every gift the gods can give him, and 
 of whom the most we can say is, that the possession 
 of all those gifts, if it has made him rather pompous 
 and self-conscious, has not made him close-fisted or hard- 
 
INTRODUCTION. xliii 
 
 hearted. Sir Charles, then, represents a rather carnal ideal ; 
 he suggests to us those well-fed, almost beefy and cor- 
 pulent angels, whom the contemporary school of painters 
 sometimes . portray. No doubt they are angels, for they 
 have wings and are seated in the clouds ; but there is 
 nothing ethereal in their whole nature. We have no love 
 for asceticism ; but a few hours on the column of St. Simon 
 Stylites, or a temporary diet of locusts and wild honey, 
 might have purified Sir Charles's exuberant self-satisfaction. 
 For all this, he is not without a certain solid merit, and the 
 persons, by whom he is surrounded — on whom we have not 
 space to dwell — have a large share of the vivacity which 
 amuses us in the real men and women of their time. Their 
 talk may not be equal to that in Boswell's ' Johnson ; ' but 
 it is animated and amusing, and they compose a gallery 
 of portraits which would look well in a solid red-brick 
 mansion of the Georgian era. 
 
 We must, however, leave Sir Charles, to say a few words 
 upon that which is Richardson's real masterpiece, and 
 which, in spite of a full share of the defects we have 
 noticed in Grandison, will always command the admiration 
 of persons who have courage enough to get through eight 
 volumes of correspondence. The characters of the little 
 world in which the reader will pass his time are in some 
 cases the same who reappear in Grandison. The lively 
 Lady G. in the last, is merely a new version of Miss Howe 
 in the former. Clarissa herself is Miss Byron under altered 
 circumstances, and receives from her friends the same 
 shower of superlatives whenever they have occasion to touch 
 upon her merits. Richardson's ideal lady is not at first 
 sight more prepossessing than his gentleman. After Clarissa's 
 death, her friend Miss Howe writes a glowing panegyric on 
 her character. It vsdll be enough to give the distribution 
 of her time. To rest it seems she allotted six hours only. 
 Her first three morning hours were devoted to study and 
 to writing those terribly voluminous letters which, as one 
 would have thought, must have consumed a still longer 
 period. Two hours more were given to domestic manage- 
 ment, for, as Miss Howe explains, 'she was a perfect 
 
xliv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 mistress of tlie foup principal rules of arithmetic.' Five 
 hours were spent in music, drawing, and needlework, this 
 last especially, and in conversation with the venerable 
 parson of the parish. Two hours she devoted to breakfast 
 and dinner ; and as it was hard to restrict herself to this 
 allowance, she occasionally gave one hour more to dinner- 
 time conversation. One hour more was spent in visiting 
 the neighbouring poor, and the remaining four hours to 
 supper and conversation. These periods, it seems, were not 
 fixed for every day ; for she kept a kind of running account, 
 and permitted herself to have an occasional holiday by 
 drawing upon the reserved fund of the four hours for 
 supper. 
 
 Setting aside the fearfully systematic nature of this 
 arrangement — ^the stern determination to live by rule and 
 system — it must be admitted that Miss Harlowe was what 
 used, in outworn phrase, to be called a very ' superior ' person. 
 She would have made an excellent housekeeper, or even a 
 respectable governess. Wo feel a certain gratitude to her for 
 devoting four hours to supper; and, indeed, Richardson's 
 characters are always well cared for in the victualling depart- 
 ment. They always take their solid three meals, with a hberal 
 intercalation of dishes of tea and chocolate. Miss Harlowe, 
 we- must add, knew Latin, although her quotations of 
 classical authors are generally taken from translations. 
 Her successor, Miss Byron, was not allowed this accomplish- 
 ment, Richardson's doubts of its suitability to ladies having 
 apparently gathered strength in the interval. Notwith- 
 standing this one audacious excursion into the regions of 
 manly knowledge, Miss Harlowe appears to us as, in the 
 main, a healthy, sensible country girl, with sound sense, 
 the highest respect for decorum, and an exaggerated regard 
 for constituted, especially paternal, authority. We cannot 
 expect, from her, any of the outbreaks against the laws of 
 society customary with George Sand's heroines. If she had 
 changed places with Maggie Tulliver, she would have 
 accepted the society of the ' Mill on the Floss ' with perfect 
 contentment, respected all the family of aunts and uncles, 
 and never repined against the tyranny of her brother Tom. 
 
INTRODUCTION. xlv 
 
 She would have been conscious of no vague imaginative 
 yearnings, nor have beaten herself against the narrow bars 
 of stolid custom. She would have laid up a vast store of 
 linen, and walked thankfully in the path chalked out for 
 her. Certainly she would never have run away with Mr. 
 Stephen Guest without tyranny of a much more tangible 
 kind than that which acts only through the finer spiritual 
 tissues. When Clarissa went off with Lovelace, it was not 
 because she had unsatisfied aspirations after a higher order 
 of life, but because she had been locked up in her room, as 
 a solitary prisoner, and her family had tried to force her 
 into marriage with a man whom she had excellent reasons 
 for hating and despising. The worst point in Clarissa's 
 character is perhaps that which is indicated in a very shrewd 
 remark of Johnson's. There is always something, he said, 
 which Clarissa prefers to truth. I do not know that this 
 charge could be justified in detail ; but it is a fact that 
 Clarissa's love of respectability involves some insincerity. 
 We feel that she is a little over-anxious to keep up appear- 
 ances, or, as a stem censor might say, too tolerant of shams. 
 A juster sense of the relation between true morality and 
 conventional propriety would raise her in our esteem. 
 
 Yet the long tragedy in which Clarissa is the victim is 
 not the less aflFecting because the torments are of an in- 
 telligible kind, and require no highly-strung sensibility to 
 give them keenness. The heroine is first bullied and then 
 deserted by her family, cut off from the friends who have a 
 desire to help her, and handed over to the power of an un- 
 scrupulous libertine. When she dies of a broken heart, the 
 most callous and prosaic of readers must feel that it is the 
 only release possible for her. .And in the gradual develop- 
 ment of his plot, the slow accumulation of horrors upon the 
 head of a virtuous victim, Eichardson shows the power which 
 places him in the front rank of novelists, and finds pre- 
 cisely the field in which his method is most effective and 
 its drawbacks least annoying. In the first place, in spite of 
 his enormous prolixity, the interest is throughout con- 
 centrated upon one figure. In 'Sir Charles Grandison ' 
 there are episodes meant to illustrate the virtues of the 
 
xlvl mTRODUCTION. 
 
 ' next-to-divine man' which have nothing to do with the 
 main narrative. In ' Clarissa ' every subordinate plot — and 
 they abound — bears immediately upon the central action of 
 the story, and produces a constant alternation of hope and 
 foreboding. The last volumes, indeed, are dragged out in a 
 way which is injurious in several respects. Clarissa, to use 
 Charles II.'s expression about himself, takes an unconscion- 
 able time about dying. But until the climax is reached, we 
 see the clouds steadily gathering, and yet cherish an increas- 
 ing hope that they may be suddenly cleared up. The only 
 English novel which produces a similar effect, and impresses 
 us with the sense of an inexorable fate, slowly but steadily 
 approaching, is the ' Bride of Lammermoor ' — in some 
 respects the best and most artistic of Scott's novels. Superior 
 as is Scott's art in certain directions, we scarcely take the 
 same interest in his chief characters, though there is the 
 same unity of construction. We cannot feel for the Master 
 of Ravenswood the sympathy which Clarissa extorts. For in 
 Clarissa's profound distress we lose sight of the narrow 
 round of respectabilities in which her earlier life is passed ; 
 the petty pompousness, the intense propriety which annoy 
 us in ' Sir Charles Grandison ' disappear or become pathetic. 
 When people are dying of broken hearts we forget their 
 little absurdities of costume. A more powerful note is 
 sounded, and the little superficial absurdities are forgotten. 
 We laugh at the first feminine description of her dress — 
 a Brussels-lace cap, with sky-blue ribbon, pale crimson- 
 coloured paduasoy, with cuffs embroidered in a running 
 pattern of violets and their leaves ; but we are m^ore dis- 
 posed to cry (if many novels have not exhausted all our 
 powers of weeping) when we come to the final scene. ' One 
 faded cheek rested upon the good woman's bosom, the kindly 
 warmth of which had overspread it with a faint but charming 
 flush ; the other paler and hollow, as if already iced over by 
 death. Her hands, white as the lily, with her meandering 
 veins more transparently blue than ever I had seen even 
 hers, hanging lifelessly, one before her, the other grasped by 
 the right hand of the kindly widow, whose tears bedewed 
 the sweet face which her motherly bosom supported, though 
 
INTRODUCTION. xlvii 
 
 unfelt by the fair sleeper ; and either insensibly to the good 
 woman, or what she would not disturb her to wipe off or to 
 change her posture. Her aspect was sweetly calm and 
 serene ; and though she started now and then, yet her sleep 
 seemed easy ; her breath indeed short and quick, but 
 tolerably free, and not like that of a dying person.' Allow- 
 ing for the queer grammar, this is surely a touching and 
 simple picture. The epistolary method, though it has its 
 dangers, lends itself well to heighten our interest. Where 
 the object is rather to appeal to our sympathies than to give 
 elaborate analyses of character, or complicated narratives of 
 incident, it is as well to let the persons speak for themselves. 
 A hero cannot conveniently say, like Sir Charles Grandison, 
 ' See how virtuous and brave and modest I am ; ' nor is it 
 easy to make a story clear when it has to be broken up 
 and distributed amongst people speaking from different 
 points of view ; it is hard to make the testimonies of the 
 different witnesses fit into each other neatly. But a cry 
 of agony can come from no other quarter so effectively as 
 from the sufferer's own mouth. ' Clarissa Harlowe ' is in fact 
 one long lamentation, passing gradually from a tone of 
 indignant complaint to one of despair, and rising at the 
 end to Christian resignation. So prolonged a performance 
 in every key of human misery is indeed painful from its 
 monotony ; and we may admit that a limited selection from 
 the correspondence, passing through more rapid grada- 
 tions, would be more effective. We might be spared some 
 of the elaborate speculations upon various phases of the 
 affair which pass away without any permanent effect. 
 Richardson seems to be scarcely content even with drawing 
 his characters as large as life; he wishes to apply a 
 magnifying-glass. Yet, even in this incessant repetition 
 there is a certain element of power. We are forced to 
 drain every drop in the cup, and to appreciate every 
 ingredient which adds bitterness to its flavour. We are 
 annoyed and wearied at times ; but as we read we not only 
 wonder at the number of variations performed upon one 
 tune, but 'feel that he has succeeded in thoroughly forcing 
 upon our minds, by incessant hammering, the impression 
 
xl viii INTR OD UCTION. 
 
 which he desires to produce. If the blows are not all very 
 powerful, each blow tells. There is something impressive 
 in the intensity of purpose which keeps one end in view 
 through so elaborate a process, and the skill which forms 
 such a multitudinous variety of parts into one artistic whole. 
 The proportions of this gigantic growth are preserved 
 with a skill which would be singular even in the normal 
 scale; a respect in which most giants, whether human or 
 literary, are apt to break down. 
 
 To make the story complete, the plot should have been 
 as effectively conceived as Clarissa herself, and the other 
 characters should be equally worthy of their position. 
 Here there are certain drawbacks. The plot, it might 
 easily be shown, is utterly incredible. Eichardson has the 
 greatest difficulty in preventing his heroine from escaping, 
 and at times we must not look too closely for fear of detect- 
 ing the flimsy nature of her imaginary chains. There is, 
 indeed, no reason for looking closely; so long as the 
 situations bring out the desired sentiment, we may accept 
 them for the nonce, without asking whether they could 
 possibly have occurred. It is of more importance to judge 
 of the consistency of the chief agent in the persecution. 
 Lovelace is by far the most ambitious character that 
 Eichardson has attempted. To heap together a mass of 
 virtues, and christen the result Clarissa Harlowe or Charles 
 Grandison, is comparatively easy; but it is a harder task 
 to compose a villain, who shall be by nature a devil, and 
 yet capable of imposing upon an angel. Some of Eichard- 
 son's judicious critics declared that he must have been 
 himself a man of vicious life, or he could never have 
 described a libertine so vividly. This is one of the smart 
 sayings which are obviously the proper thing to say, but 
 which, notwithstanding, are little better than silly. Love- 
 lace is evidently a fancy character — if we may use the 
 expression. He bears not a single mark of being painted 
 from life, and is formed by the simple process of putting 
 together the most brilliant quaUties which his creator could 
 devise to meet the occasion. We do not say that the result 
 is psychologically impossible ; for it would be very rash to 
 
INTRODUCTION. xlix 
 
 dogmatise on any such question. No one can say wliat 
 strange amalgams of virtue and vice may have sufficient 
 stability to hold together during a journey through this 
 world. But it is plain that Lovelace is not a , result of 
 observation, but an almost fantastic mixture of qualities 
 intended to fit him for the difficult part he has to play. To 
 exalt Clarissa, for example, Lovelace's family are represented 
 as all along earnestly desirous of a marriage between them ; 
 and Lovelace has every conceivable motive, including the 
 desire to avoid hanging, for agreeing to the match. His 
 refusal is unintelligible, and Eichardson has to supply him 
 with a reason so absurd and so diabolical that we cannot 
 believe in it. It reminds us of Hamlet's objecting to killing 
 his uncle whilst at prayers, on the ground that it would be 
 sending him straight to heaven. But we may, if we please, 
 consider Hamlet's conceit as a mere pretext invented to 
 excuse his irresolution to himself; whereas Lovelace specu- 
 lates so long and so seriously upon the marriage, that we 
 are bound to consider his far-fetched arguments as sincere. 
 And the supposition makes his wickedness gratuitous, if we 
 believe in his sanity. Lovelace suffers, again, from the 
 same necessity which injures Sir Charles Grandison ; as the 
 virtuous hero has to be always expatiating on his own 
 virtues, the vicious hero has to boast of his own vices. It 
 is true that this is, in an artistic sense, the least repulsive 
 habit of the two ; for it gives reason for hating not a hero 
 but a villain. Unluckily it is also a reason for refusing to 
 beheve in his existence. The improbability of a thorough- 
 paced scoundrel writing daily elaborate confessions of his 
 criminality to a friend, even when the friend condemns him, 
 expatiating upon atrocities that deserved hanging, and 
 justifiying his vices on principle, is rather too glaring to 
 be admissible. And by another odd inconsistency, Love- 
 lace is described as being all the time a steady believer in 
 eternal punishment and a rebuker of sceptics — Richardson 
 being apparently of opinion that infidelity would be too 
 bad to be introduced upon the stage, though a vice might 
 be described in detail. A man who has broken through all 
 moral laws might be allowed a little free-thinking. We 
 
1 INTRODUCTION'. 
 
 might add that Lovelace, in spite of the cleverness attri- 
 buted to him, is really a most imbecile schemer. The first 
 principle of a villain should be to tell as few lies as will 
 serve his purpose ; but Lovelace invents such elaborate and 
 complicated plots, presenting so many chances of detection 
 and introducing so many persons into his secrets, that it is 
 evident that in real life he would have broken down in a 
 week. 
 
 Granting the high improbability of Lovelace as a real 
 living human being, it must be admitted that he has every 
 merit but that of existence. The letters which he writes 
 are the most animated in the voluminous correspondence. 
 The respectable domestic old printer, who boasted of the 
 perfect purity of his own life, seems to have thrown himself 
 with special gusto into the character of a heartless reprobate. 
 He must have felt that there was a certain piquancy in writing 
 down the most atrocious sentiments in his own respectable par- 
 lour. He would show that the quiet humdrum old tradesman 
 could be on paper as sprightly and audacious as the most 
 profligate man about town. As quiet people are apt to do, 
 he probably exaggerated the enormities which such men 
 would openly avow ; he fancied that the world beyond his 
 little circle was a wilderness of wild beasts who could gnash 
 their teeth and show their claws after a terribly ostentatious 
 fashion in their own dens ; they doubtless gloated upon all 
 the innocent sheep whom they had devoured without any 
 shadow of repentance. And he had a fancy that, in their 
 way, they were amusing monsters too ; Lovelace is a lady's 
 villain, as Grandison is a lady's hero; he is designed by 
 a person inexperienced even in the observation of vice ; and 
 inclined perhaps to exaggerate the charm a good deal more 
 than the atrocity. "We must also admit that when the old 
 printer was put upon his mettle he could be very lively 
 indeed. Lovelace, like everybody else, is at times unmerci- 
 fully prolix; he never leaves us to guess any detail for 
 ourselves; but he is spirited, eloquent, and a thoroughly 
 fine gentleman after the Chesterfield type. An admirer of 
 Clarissa, indeed, has complained of the application of such a 
 title to a villain. ' The devil take such fine gentlemen ! ' 
 
INTRODUCTION. li 
 
 he exclaims ; and indeed, if the devil does not, I see little use 
 (to quote the proverbial old lady) in having a devil. But as 
 Johnson adduces Lovelace to prove that a very wicked man 
 may be also ' very genteel,' I shall venture to use the phrase. 
 Eichardson lectures us very seriously on the evil results which 
 are sure to follow bad courses ; but he evidently holds in his 
 heart that, till the Nemesis descends, the libertines are far the 
 most amusing part of the world. In Sir Charles Grandi- 
 son's company, we should be treated to an intolerable deal 
 of sermonising, with an occasional descent into the regions 
 of humour — ^but the humour is always admitted under 
 protest. With Lovelace we might hear some very question- 
 able morality, but there would be a never-ceasing flow of 
 sparkling witticisms. The devil's advocate has the laugh 
 distinctly on his side, whatever may be said of the argument. 
 Finally, we may say that Lovelace, if too obviously con- 
 structed to work the plot, certainly works it well. When 
 we coolly dissect him and ask whether he could ever have 
 existed, we may be forced to reply in the negative. But 
 whilst we read we forget to criticise ; he seems to possess 
 more vitality than most living men ; he is so full of 
 eloquent brag, and audacious sophistry, and unblushing 
 impudence, that he fascinates us as he is supposed to have 
 bewildered Clarissa. The dragon who is to devour the 
 maiden comes with all the flash and glitter and overpowering 
 whirl of wings that can be desired. He seems to be 
 irresistible — we admire him and hate him, and some time 
 elapses before we begin to suspect that he is merely a 
 stage dragon, and not one of those who really walk this 
 earth. 
 
 Eichardson's defects and limitations are of course obvious 
 enough. It would be waste of time to insist upon the defects 
 of his style, or to point out his want of certain qualities 
 which we, perhaps, are inclined to over-estimate. Nobody, 
 for example, could care less than Eichardson for what we 
 now call the beauties of nature. He was quite content with 
 the views to be obtained in a walk from Hyde Park Corner to 
 North End, Hammersmith. There is scarcely throughout his 
 books one description showing the power of appealing to emo- 
 
Hi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tions through scenery claimed by every modem scribbler. In 
 passing the Alps, the only remark which one of his characters 
 has to make, beyond describing the horrible dangers of the 
 Mont Cenis, is that ' every object which here presents itself 
 is excessively miserable.' His ideal scenery is a ' large and 
 convenient country-house, situated in a spacious park,' with 
 plenty of ' fine prospects,' which you are expected to view 
 from a ' neat but plain villa, built in the rustic taste.' And 
 his views of morality are as contracted as his taste in land- 
 scapes. The most distinctive article of his creed is that 
 children should have a reverence for their parents which 
 would be exaggerated in the slave of an Eastern despot. 
 We can pardon Clarissa for refusing to die happy until her 
 stupid and ill-tempered old father has revoked a curse 
 which he bestowed upon her. But we cannot .quite excuse 
 Sir Charles Grandison for writing in this fashion to his 
 disreputable old parent, who has asked his consent to a 
 certain family arrangement in which he had a legal right to 
 be consulted : — 
 
 ' As for myself,' he says, ' I cannot have one objection ; 
 but what am I in this case ? My sister is wholly my 
 father's ; I also am his. The consideration he gives me in 
 this instance confounds me. It binds me to him in double 
 duty. It would look like taking advantage of it, were I so 
 much as to offer my humble opinion, unless he were pleased 
 to command it from me.' 
 
 Even one of Eichardson's abject lady correspondents 
 was revolted by this exaggerated servility. But narrow 
 as his vision might be in some directions, his genius is not 
 the less real. He is a curious example of the power which 
 a real artistic insight may exhibit under the most dis- 
 advantageous forms. To realise his characteristic power, 
 we should take one of the great French novelists whom we 
 admire for the exquisite proportions of his story, the unity 
 of the interest and the skill — so unlike our common English 
 clumsiness — with which all details are duly subordinated. 
 It is remarkable, indeed, that Eichardson describes himself 
 as writing without a plan. He compares himself to a poor 
 woman laying herself down upon the hearth to blow up a 
 
INTRODUCTION. liii 
 
 wretched little fire of green sticks. He had, it seems, to 
 live from hand to mouth. But the want of a plan, in the 
 sense of an elaborate plot, is .not fatal to the unity of design. 
 He seems rather to be watching the development of the 
 situation than devising it. He has so lively a faith in his 
 characters that he does not lay down a course of action, but 
 is a spectator asking how they will act. This gives at 
 turns an air of rather too much deliberation to his actors. 
 They do not move by impulses, but by careful reflection 
 on all the circumstances of the case. Yet, on the other 
 hand, it implies an evolution of the story from the very 
 necessities of the characters, under a given situation, which 
 involves a certain unity, and gives an air of necessary 
 scientific deduction to the whole scheme of his stories. Our 
 imaginary artist should have, too, the comparative weakness 
 of French novelists, a defective perception of character, a 
 certain unwillingness in art as in politics to allow indivi- 
 dual peculiarities to interfere with the main flow of events ; 
 for, admitting the great excellence of his minor performers, 
 Eichardson's most elaborately designed characters have a 
 certain stamp of artificiality, due to the careful adaptation 
 to the leading purpose of the story. Then we must 
 cause our imaginary Frenchman to transmigrate into the 
 body of a small, plump, weekly printer of the eighteenth 
 century. We may leave him a fair share of his vivacity, 
 though considerably narrowing his views of life and 
 morality ; but we must surround him with a court of silly 
 women whose incessant flatteries must generate in him an 
 unnatural propensity to twaddle. All the gossiping pro- 
 pensities of his nature will grow to unhealthy luxuriance 
 tinder this unnatural stimulant, and the fine edge of his wit 
 will be somewhat dulled in the process. He will thus 
 become capable of being a bore — a thing which is impossible 
 to any unsophisticated Frenchman. In this way we might 
 obtain a literary product so anomalous in appearance as 
 ' Clarissa ' — a story in which a most affecting situation is 
 drawn with extreme power, and yet so overlaid with 
 twaddle, so unmercifully protracted and spun out, as to be 
 almost unreadable to the present generation. But to 
 
liv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 complete Richardson, we must inoculate him with the 
 propensities of another school : we must give him a liberal 
 share of the feminine sensitiveness and closeness of ohser- 
 vation of which Miss Austen is the great example. And 
 perhaps, to fill in the last details, he ought, in addition, to 
 have a dash of the more unctuous and offensive variety of 
 the dissenting preacher — for we know not where else to look 
 for the astonishing and often ungrammatical fluency by 
 which he is possessed, and which makes his best passages 
 remind us of the marvellous malleability of some precious 
 metals. 
 
 Any one who will get through the initial difiiculties and 
 
 read himself fairly into the story— a condition which must 
 
 jalso be fulfilled by the reader of Balzac's most powerful novels 
 
 — will end by acknowledging the author's power. Thackeray 
 
 'records an anecdote which he heard from Macaulay, for the 
 
 ' truth of which we have also Mr. Trevelyan's authority. ' Not 
 
 read " Clarissa '"' cried out the historian. ' If you have once 
 
 thoroughly entered on " Clarissa," and are infected by it, you 
 
 can't leave it. When I was in India I passed one hot season 
 
 at the Hills, and there were the Governor-General and the 
 
 Secretary of Government and the Commander-in-Chief, and 
 
 I their wives. I had " Clarissa " with me ; and as soon as 
 
 I they began to read, the whole station was in a passion of 
 
 ! excitement about Miss Harlowe and her misfortunes and her 
 
 I scoundrelly Lovelace. The Governor's wife seized the book, 
 
 ; and the Secretary waited for it, and the Chief-Justice could 
 
 ; not read it for tears ! ' The fact was no doubt that in the 
 
 remote Indian station the little society was for the time in 
 
 I the state of the original society which wept over ' Clarissa ' at 
 
 j her first appearance. They had leisure, and at that date 
 
 ^ probably had not circulating libraries. As soon as they gave 
 
 \ Richardson a fair chance, his power became manifest ; and 
 
 ' any one who will go, say, to the seaside for a month with 
 
 no other volumes than Richardson, will probably be able to 
 
 appreciate the old enthusiasm. And this may suggest one 
 
 concluding moral, for in writing about Richardson one ought 
 
 to end with a moral. It is that the ordinary condemnation 
 
 of novels 'with a purpose' involves a misstatement. A 
 
INTRODUCTION. Iv 
 
 ' purpose ' is a very dangerous thing when it implies that 
 the writer is interested about some proposition really ex- 
 traneous to his book, when therefore he is not really be- 
 lieving in his characters, but using them to illustrate some 
 abstract principle. But when, as in Eichardson's case, the 
 purpose is compatible with or even conducive to a vivid 
 interest in the ideal world, it may be occasionally vexatious, 
 but it may also be a condition of success. The intensity of 
 Richardson's belief in the creatures of his own imagination is 
 one main secret of the fascination which can still exist, and 
 the fascination is not the less powerful because Richardson's 
 interest was primarily due to considerations strictly alien to 
 the direct artistic purpose. 
 
PAMELA. 
 
 VOL. I, 
 
CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents — Recounting her lady's death. Her master's 
 kindness to her. She is all grateful confusion upon it, and thinks 
 him the best of gentlemen ...... i — 3 
 
 LETTER IL 
 
 To Pamela, frotn her Parents. — Are much concerned for her lady's death : 
 but that their chief trouble is, lest she should have too grateful a sense 
 of her master's favour ; so as to be brought to anything dishonest or 
 vpicked. Their cautions and instructions to her . . . 3 — 5 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Pamela, to her Father. — Is concerned lest he should doubt her virtue. 
 Assures him of her resolution to prefer it to life itself. Apprehends 
 no danger at present from her master's favour . . . 5, 6 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Pamela, to her Mother.— 'Ls.iy Davers praises her' beauty, and gives her 
 advice to keep the men at a distance. Intends to take her to wait 
 upon her own person ; to which her master consents. Pamela's joy 
 hereupon, and security in his honourable views . . • 61 7 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Mrs. Jervis's (the housekeeper) worthy conduct 
 in the family, and friendship to her. She is quite fearless of danger ; 
 and why ........ 7 — 9 
 
 LETTER VL 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Farther instances of her master's goodness to 
 her. Her joyful gratitude upon it. He praises her person to Mrs. 
 Jervis, to whom he expresses his hope, that she keeps the men at a 
 distance . . . ■ . • • . 9, 10 
 
Ix CONTENTS. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Pamela, to her Father. — Reciting other particulars of her master's bounty 
 to her. Her confusion at a free expression of his. Is uneasy at it ; 
 but hopes she has nothing to apprehend . . . .10,11 
 
 LETTER VIIL 
 
 To Pamela, from her Father. — Enforcing his former cautions and instruc- 
 tions on the above occasions. Is easier, since he knows she has Mrs. 
 Jervis to advise with . . . . . . 11, I2 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Her master refuses to let her go to Lady Davers. 
 His pretended reason for it. Lady Davers seemingly apprehensive 
 for her. But still she hopes the best, and will give them notice of 
 all that happens . . . . . . . 12, 13 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Pamela, to her Mother. — Acquaints her, that now her master's designs 
 against her are apparent. That she had written down the particulars 
 of all ; but that somebody had stolen her letter. Will write, at the 
 first opportunity, another, revealing all : but is watched and blamed 
 by her master, for spending so much time in writing . , 13, 14 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 Pamela, to her Mother. — Cannot find her letter ; so recites her master's 
 free behaviour to her in the summer-house. Her virtuous resentment. 
 Refuses his offers of money. He enjoins her to secrecy, pretending 
 he only designed to try her ..... 14 17 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 Pamela, to her Mother. — Continuation of her story. Her irresolution 
 what to do. Desires Mrs. Jervis to permit her to lie with her: and 
 tells her all that had passed. Mrs. Jervis's good advice. Her 
 master's angry behaviour to her. She wishes that she had never 
 been taken from her low condition .... 17 ig 
 
 LETTER Xin. 
 
 To Pamela, from her Parents.— Their concern and apprehensions for her. 
 They think it best for her to return to them ; but are the easier, as 
 she lies with Mrs. Jervis ... ,„ 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 Pamela, to her Father— '^ehXvag a conversation between her master and 
 Mrs. Jervis about her. He will have it, that she is an artful and 
 
CONTENTS. Ixi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 designing girl. Orders Mrs. Jervis to caution lier how she writes 
 out of the house the affairs of his family . . , . 21 23 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 Pamela, to her Mother. — Her master upbraids her with revealing to Mrs. 
 Jervis what he had ordered her to keep secret, and tries to intimidate 
 her. Her moving expostulation. He offers freedoms to her. Her 
 passionate exclamations. He tauntingly ridicules her resistance. 
 She escapes from him into another room, and falls into a fit. Mrs. 
 Jervis interposes in her behalf. He appoints the next day for her 
 and Mrs. Jervis to attend him in his late mother's closet . 23 — 27 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — His sternness at her approach with Mrs. Jervis. 
 His imperious manner intimidates his housekeeper. Pamela's 
 courage hereupon. He accuses her of pertness ; attributes her fit to 
 hypocrisy ; and tells her she shall return to her former poverty and 
 distress. Her moving behaviour on this occasion . . 27 — 32 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 To Pamela, from her Parents. — They tell her how welcome her return will 
 be to them, as she will come innocent and honest. They will meet 
 her part of the way, and receive her with more pleasure than they 
 had at her birth . . . . . . • 32. 33 
 
 LETTER XVIIL 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Mrs. Jervis gives her opinion, that he will never 
 attempt her again ; and that she may stay, if she will ask it as a 
 favour. Her reasons for desiring to go . . . . 33 — 35 
 
 LETTER XIX. V 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. —Mrs. Jervis again advises her to ask to stay. 
 Her reasons to the contrary. How the love of her fellow-servants 
 affects her. Mr. Longman the steward's kindness to her . 36—40 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents.— Trovides a neat home-spun suit of clothes, that 
 when she returns to her parents she may not appear above her 
 condition ...■••■• 40—43 
 
 LETTER XXL 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents.— Mx%. Jervis tells her of how much consequence 
 she is to her master, and his expressions in her favour. Is uneasy at 
 
Ixii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mrs. Jervis's wishing her to stay. Has nearly finished the work that 
 she has in hand ; and is solicitous how she shall get to her father's 43, 44. 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — A rough expression of her master to her, over- 
 heard by the butler. The servants sorry that she is to go away. 
 Farther instance of her master's roughness to her. Mr. Jonathan 
 the butler's kindness,, and concern at what he had heard his master 
 say to her. Instance of Mr. Longman's favour for her . . 45 — 48 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Description and characters of several neighbour- 
 ing ladies, who rally Mr. B on Pamela's account. Their behaviour 
 
 to her, and observations on her person. Has finished her task, and 
 hopes to set out in a few days ..... 48 — S^ 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Puts on her home-spun dress. What passes on 
 that occasion between Mrs. Jervis, her master, and herself. He 
 charges her with a design to attract him in disguise ; yet tells her she 
 may stay, if she will humble herself. She resolves to go. He storms. 
 She expostulates. Her smart retort upon him for his past attempts. 
 A note from Mr. Jonathan, warning her of her danger . , 52 — 58 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Her master hides himself in a closet, and over- 
 
 i hears a discourse against himself, between Mrs Jervis and her, as they 
 
 -^\ are going to rest. Being alarmed at the rustling of his gown, she, 
 
 almost undressed, goes toward the closet ; and he rushing out, she 
 
 flies to the bed to Mrs. Jervis, and falls into fits . . . 59 — 64 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 Pamela, to her Pareiits. — Mrs. Jervis, resenting her master's conduct in her 
 apartment, gives him warning. He agrees that they shall go away 
 both together ; and tells them, that he shall probably embrace a pro- 
 posal of marriage that has been made him, and think no more of 
 Pamela. Her joy on hearing this. Hopes now that all the danger 
 is over ; but will not be too secure .... 65 68 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — She is to stay a week longer for Mrs. Jervis's 
 going with her. Her master asks her opinion with respect to a new 
 birthday suit of clothes. Her serious behaviour, and answers to 
 his questions, ridiculed by him. He tells Mrs. Jervis that he had an 
 
CONTENTS. Ixiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 eye upon Pamela in his mother's lifetime. Her surprise at his wicked- 
 ness, and at that of several gentlemen in tlie neighbourhood . 68 72 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Mrs. Jervis is permitted to stay. Mr. Longman 
 intercedes for Pamela, and desires her to humble herself. Her 
 master's cruel insults upon her. She resolves, however, not to expose 
 him, though in her own defence, before his steward ; therefore heaps 
 blessings and prayers upon him and his family, on her knees ; but 
 declares, that she is unworthy to stay, and will not stay, if she might, 
 Mr. Longman, moved at her behaviour, melts into tears. Her master 
 a little touched ; yet, resuming his hardheartedness, bids her begone 
 from his presence. Her affecting behaviour hereupon . . 73 — 77 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — She has finished everything, and hopes to be 
 soon with them. Mrs. Jervis's kind offer of money to her ; which 
 she refuses, knowing her to be in low circumstances herself. Laments, \ 
 that, as things have fallen out, she has been brought up wrong by V'' 
 her lady ; but hopes to make her mind bend to her condition. She 
 divides her clothes into three bundles : one containing those given her 
 by her lady ; the second, those her master gave her ; and the third, 
 what she deems more properly her own ; and desires Mrs. Jervis to 
 inspect them before she goes away. Her master, out of curiosity, 
 conceals himself (with Mrs. Jervis's knowledge) in the closet of the 
 room into which the bundles are brought. Her moving conduct and 
 reasonings. She discovers, to her great surprise, that her master had 
 heard all : upbraids Mrs. Jervis upon it, and repeats her wishes to be 
 safe with her parents ...... 7S— 8S 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Her master, contrary to what she feared, when 
 she next sees him, treats her kindly. Bespeaks her confidence in him. 
 Avows his love to her. Intimates that he will make all her family 
 happy. Protests he has no view to her dishonour in it. Particu- 
 larises those parts of her conduct and behaviour which had moved 
 hira in her favour ; and tells her, that if she will stay but a fortnight 
 longer, she shall find her account in it. . Her distress and difficulties 
 upon these favourable appearances. He gives her a short time to 
 consider of his proposal, and retires. The different agitations of 
 her mind on this occasion, yet at last resolves to insist upon going 
 away ....••■• 85—90 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents.— Shs declares her determination to go. He offers 
 her a sum of money for her father. She refuses it till she knows 
 
Ixiv CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 what he is to do for it, and what is to become of herself. He then 
 intimates, that he will find her a husband, who shall make her a 
 gentlewoman. She dissembles her resentment of his base designs, 
 till she gets from him ; and then, by writing, signifies to him her 
 resolution to go to her parents. He threatens her by Mrs. Jenris ; 
 but says she may go when she will. Gives leave for his travelling 
 chariot and Lincolnshire coachman to carry her, and sends her iive 
 guineas. Her verses on her departure .... 90—96 
 
 The Editor's account of what happened after she set out. Of her being 
 carried to her master's seat in Lincolnshire, instead of to her father's. 
 Of John's treacherous baseness, in delivering all her letters to his 
 master, before he carried them to her parents. The copy of a letter 
 from the 'squire to her father, containing his pretended reasons for 
 not permitting her to go to them. Her parents' grief. Her father, 
 travelling all night, arrives in the morning at the 'squire's. What 
 passed between Mrs. Jervis, the 'squire, and the old man on that 
 occasion. Copy of Pamela's letter to Mrs. Jervis, which, as it after- 
 wards appears, she was induced to write by a prescribed form, lest 
 her parents' grief should be fatal to them . . . 96 — 104 
 
 LETTER XXXIL 
 
 Pamela, to her Parents. — Bewails her wretched condition, and the vile 
 trick put upon her. Writes the particulars of it, though she knows 
 not how to convey it to them. Her stratagems on the road to escape, 
 when she found herself betrayed, all frustrated by her ^master's 
 precautions. She is met by Mrs. Jewkes, and conducted to the 
 Lincolnshire seat. That woman's vile behaviour and wickedness. 
 Her reproaches of the coachman. Tampers, but to no purpose, 
 with Mrs. Jewkes ...... 104 — 119 
 
 HER JOURNAL, 
 
 Begun for her amusement, and in hopes to find some opportunity to send 
 it to them. Describes the servants there. All her hopes centre in 
 moving Mr. Williams to assist her escape , . . 119 — 122 
 
 Sunday. — Mrs. Jewkes's insolence to Mr. Williams ; and still greater to 
 her, ordering her shoes to be taken from her. Describes the person 
 of the bad woman. John arrives with a letter from her master to her, 
 requiring her to copy a prescribed form of a letter to her parents, to 
 make them easy. She complies, for their sakes ; and writes a moving 
 one to her master ...... 122 — 128 
 
 Monday. — ^John's excessive concern, on reflecting upon his own baseness, 
 causes Mrs. Jewkes to suspect that he loves Pamela: she closely 
 watches him ; notwithstanding which, he drops a letter, unperceived ' 
 
CONTENTS. ]xv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 by her, which Pamela takes up, in which he confesses his villany to 
 her. Her surprise at it. All the clothes which her lady and master 
 had given her brought down to her, but locked up from her by 
 Mrs. Jewkes ....... 128—131 
 
 Tuesday, Wednesday. — Her contrivance to correspond with Mr. Williams, 
 and to keep from Mrs. Jewkes the knowledge of her little stores of 
 pens, ink, and papers. The contents of her first letter to him, reciting 
 her dangers, and begging him to assist her to escape. Suggests several 
 methods, and hopes much from his key of the back-door . 131 — 136 
 
 Thursday. — Further instances of Mrs. Jewkes's insolence to her. Pamela 
 resents her profligate talk, and is struck by her. Forced to put up with 
 this insolent treatment, lest the correspondence with Mr. Williams 
 should be frustrated. A letter from that gentleman, 'declaring his 
 ' readiness to assist her. Gives her an account of the gentry in the 
 • neighbourhood ; and that he will try, if she pleases, to move Lady 
 'Darnford to protect her. Praises her beauty and virtue.' Her 
 answer; 'desiring a key may be made by his, to the back-door. 'a 
 ' Hopes by his means to be enabled to send a packet to her parents. 
 ' Has a stock of five or six guineas, and desires to put the half of 
 'them in his hands, to defray incidental expenses.' She exults to her 
 father and mother in the success of her plot. Is permitted to angle ; ^ 
 and hooks a carp, which, moved by a reflection upon her own case, 
 she throws into the water again .... 136—144 
 
 Friday, Saturday. — Mrs. Jewkes tricks her out of her little stock of money. 
 She receives a letter from her master, signifying, ' That if she will 
 'invite him to come, her generous confidence in him shall not be 
 'thrown away upon him; and he will put Mrs. Jewkes into her 
 ' power ; and permit Mrs. Jervis to attend her,' &c. A second letter 
 from Mr. Williams, acquainting her, ' That he has been repulsed by 
 ' every one to whom he has applied in her favour. That he shall soon 
 • procure the key she desires, and a man and horse to carry her to one 
 '.of the distant villages ; so begs her not to be discomforted.' Her 
 answer : ' Fears her master's coming may be sudden ; that there- 
 ' fore no time is to be lost. Acquaints him with Mrs. Jewkes's trick 
 ' to get her money. Her moving letter to her master, in answer to 
 'his; in which she absolutely denies her consent to his coming 
 •down' 144—153 
 
 Sunday.— Is concerned she has not the key. Turns the cxxxviith psalm 
 to her own case ...••• '54) '55 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.— is pleased that Mr. Williams has got a 
 large parcel of her papers to send away to her parents. He has pro- 
 cured the key for her : and now only waits for the horse. Mrs. Jewkes 
 suspects, by his looks, that he is in love with Pamela, and pretends 
 to wish it to be a match between them. His third letter, intimating, 
 ' That she has but one way honourably to avoid the danger she is m ; 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ' and that is, by marrying. Modestly tenders himself.' Her obser- 
 vations upon it to her parents. In her answer to Mr. Williams, 
 intimates ' her gratitude for his generous oifer ; but that nothing, but 
 ' to avoid her utter ruin, can make her think of a change of condition ; 
 ' and that therefore he must expect nothing from her but everlasting 
 'gratitude' .....•• IS^— '59 
 
 Thursday, Friday, Saturday. — Lays a trap to come at Mrs. Jewkes's 
 instructions ; but fails in it. Mr. Williams promises to assist her to 
 the utmost of his power, though she has not so readily come into his 
 proposal as he wished . . . • • • 159 
 
 Sunday. — Has a strange turn to acquaint her parents with, in the contents 
 of two letters from her master ; one to Mr. Williams, the other to 
 Mrs. Jewkes. In the former he acquaints Mr. Williams, ' That, by 
 ' the death of the late incumbent, he has an opportunity to make him 
 ' doubly happy — in a lovely wife, and a fine living : That he will 
 ' account for his odd conduct in this affair to him, when he sees him : 
 ' That he only desires he will let him know whether Pamela approves 
 ' of him, and he of her.' Mrs. Jewkes communicates her letter, which 
 confirms the contents of the other. She upbraids Pamela with her 
 past mistrusts of the designs of so good a master. But she, still sus- 
 pecting a stratagem, cautions Mr. Williams upon his honest joy, and 
 open-hearted declaration ; of which Mrs. Jewkes takes advantage : 
 but yet is so civil to them both, that she hopes now for a happy 
 deliverance, and to be soon witli her parents . , . i6o — 164 
 
 THE JOURNAL CONTINUED. 
 
 Further instances of Mrs. Jewkes's civility to her, who presses her to 
 encourage Mr. Williams's addresses ; and, upon her refusal, supposes 
 she has some pre-engagement. Mr. Williams goes home to write a 
 letter on his own account to her parents. She begs they will not 
 encourage his addresses ...... 164, 165 
 
 Monday morning. — Mr. Williams is attacked by supposed robbers, on his 
 return to the village. His woful letter to Mrs. Jewkes, giving an 
 account of the disaster. Mrs. Jewkes ridicules the misfortune. 
 Pamela's mistrusts increase. Refuses to accompany Mrs. Jewkes to 
 make him a visit. In her absence has great temptations to make her 
 escape ; but is frightened at her own apprehensive fancies, and unable 
 to resolve ....... 165—170 
 
 Monday afternoon. — Mrs. Jewkes returns from visiting Mr. Williams. 
 Rallies Pamela, and makes a. jest of his fright. Declares , that she 
 had got out of him all that was plotting between him and her. 
 Advises her to send a letter of thanks to her master, for his favour to 
 her in relation to Mr. Williams. On her refusal, declares her to be 
 quite unfathomable. Pamela apprehends mischief hatching . 170—172 
 
CONTENTS. Ixvil 
 
 Tuesday, Wednesday.— yix?,. Jewkes's change of temper to Mr. Williams. 
 He is surprised at it. Pamela writes to him, blaming his openness. 
 Desires to know what he had said to Mrs. Jewkes, and proposes to 
 resume the project of escaping . ■ . . . 17-; 
 
 Thursday. — His answer. 'Thinks Mr. B neither can nor dare 
 
 'deceive him in so black a manner j that John Arnold acquaints him, 
 ' that his master is preparing for his London journey ; after which he 
 ' will come into Lincolnshire ; that John refers to a letter he had sent 
 'before, but which is not come to hand; yet hopes there is no 
 'treachery. Owns that he was too free in talk with Mrs. Jewkes: 
 ' but said not a word of the back-door key,' &c. Her reply, express- 
 ing her great uneasiness and doubts ; and impatiently wishes for the 
 horse ........ 174—176 
 
 Friday. — Mr. Williams's answer. ' He thinks her too apprehensive. 
 'Doubts not that things must be better than she apprehends.' Sends 
 her a letter from her father ; signifying 'his and her mother's grateful 
 ' hopes that their prayers for her are at least heard ; and their pleasure 
 ' to find her virtue in view of its reward. Thinks she cannot do better 
 ' than to marry Mr. Williams : but refers this to her own prudence.' 
 Her dutiful joy upon the receipt of this letter . . . 176 — 178 
 
 Saturday, Sunday. — Mrs. Jewkes quarrels with Mr. Williams. Pamela 
 is more and more convinced that there is mischief in agitation . 179 
 
 Monday, Tuesday. — All is now out ! Two letters brought from Mr. 
 
 B ; one to Pamela, the other to Mrs. Jewkes ; but being folded 
 
 and sealed alike, that to Pamela was addressed to Mrs. Jewkes, and 
 Mrs. Jewkes's to her. Is quite confounded at the mistake ; but more 
 at the contents ; in which he declares to Mrs. Jewkes — ' the utmost 
 ' resentment against her, on Mr. Williams's account. Sends down a 
 ' Swiss, who is to assist in preventing her escape : That John Arnold 
 ' has proved a villain, and shall meet with his reward : That he has 
 'ordered his attorney to arrest Mr. Williams in an action of debt, 
 ' and will utterly ruin him : That he hates her perfectly now, and on 
 'his return from London will decide her fate.' Her affliction and 
 despair excite pity to her even in Mrs. Jewkes, who gives her the 
 letter which was intended for her, which is full of violent upbraidings 
 and threatenings. Pamela's reflections upon her hard fortune ; begs 
 Mrs. Jewkes to let Mr. Williams know her master's resentment, that 
 he may fly the country. Mrs. Jewkes glories in her wicked fidelity, 
 and threatens to be more circumspect over her than ever. Pamela's 
 apprehensions of Colbrand the Swiss, whose odd person and dress 
 she describes .,...•• 179— '85 
 
 Wednesday.— Mx. Williams actually arrested. Pamela forms a new strata- 
 gem for her escape, resolving to get out of the window into the garden, 
 when Mrs. Jewkes is asleep ; and to throw some of her clothes into 
 the great pond, to induce the belief that she had drowned herself, in 
 
Ixviii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 order to gain more time for escaping by the ' back-door ; and trust 
 the rest to Providence. Overhears Mrs. Jewkes owning to Monsieur 
 Colbrand, in her cups, that the robbery of Mr. Williams was owing 
 to a contrivance of her own, to come at his letters . . 187 — 189 
 
 Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.— Tha.t everything has been worse 
 and worse, and all her contrivances ruined. She recounts the par- 
 ticulars of her fruitless attempt. Her sufferings and bruises. Being 
 quite desperate, is tempted to drown herself. Her soliloquy by the 
 pond side. Has the grace to escape the temptation, and limps away 
 to the wood-house, and, half dead with her bruises and distresses, 
 creeps behind a pile of firewood. Mrs. Jewkes's fright on missing 
 her : she raises the house ; and at last, finding some of her clothes in 
 the pond, they conclude that she had drowned herself. Their 
 lamentations ; fearing their master's resentment. Nan at last finds 
 her in the wood-house, unable to stir. Mrs. Jewkes's cruelty to 
 her ........ 189—200 
 
 Sunday afternoon. — That health is hardly to be coveted in her circum- 
 stances. Dreads the coming of her master : yet having heard, that he 
 had been near drowning in the pursuit of his game, she could not help 
 rejoicing in his safety. Is surprised that she cannot hate him for his 
 ill usage of her. Hears that JoTin Arnold is turned away ; and that 
 Mr. Longman, Mr. Jonathan, and Mrs. Jervis, are in danger, for 
 offering to intercede for her, knowing now where she is . 200, 201 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. — Mrs. Jewkes is more ' and more insolent 
 to her. Talks filthily to her, and ridicules her notions of virtue 201, 202 
 
 Thursday. — Apprehends, from some particular dispositions, that her 
 master will soon come. Her moving reflection on his pretended love 
 to her, and his promise not to see her without her own consent. 
 Believes that he perfectly hates her ; else, that he would not leave 
 her thus to the mercy of this bad woman .... 202 
 
 Friday.— M.XS. Jewkes apprehends that she designs another escape. Her 
 violence to Pamela upon it. She locks her up without shoes in the 
 day, and makes her lie between herself and the maid at night. She 
 is weary of her life. Mrs. Jewkes restores her shoes to her, and lays 
 her commands upon her to dress herself in one of the suits which she 
 had locked up from her, against three or four o'clock, tellinor her 
 that she would have a visit from Lady Darnford's two daughters. 
 Pamela will not obey her, resolving not to be made a show of 202 204 
 
 Five o'clock is come, and no young ladies. She thinks that she hears 
 their coach. Resolves not to go down to them. Steps to the 
 window ; and, to her utmost surprise and terror, beholds her master 
 who has just arrived ....._ 204. 
 
 Seven o'clock is come, and she has not yet seen him. Doubts not that some- 
 
'CONTENTS. Ixix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 thing is resolving against her. Is full of trembling confusion and 
 grief 204 
 
 Saturday mormng-.— Relates, that at half an hour after seven, the preced- 
 ing night, her master came up to her. His stern behaviour, and 
 violent reproaches. Withdraws threatening, and leaves her ready to 
 die with grief and apprehension. Mrs. Jewkes's impertinent sooth- 
 ings, and detestable hint, that she may make up all by the morning. 
 Her master orders her down to attend him at supper. His harsli 
 treatment of her, as she waits upon him. Mrs. Jewkes's officious 
 stories against her. On her knees she begs that he'll hear her 
 tell of that woman's usage of her. He cruelly interrupts her, and 
 justifies Mrs. Jewkes : and after many reproaches and threatenings 
 on his side, and vile instigations on Mrs. Jewkes's, he bids the latter 
 take her up stairs, and he will send her a few lines to consider of; 
 her answer to which shall fix her doom . . . 204 — 210 
 
 Saiiirday noon. — Sends proposals to her in writing, to live with him as his 
 mistress, offering her very high terms for herself and friends ; and 
 assures her, that if she refuses them, he will put his designs in execu-/ 
 tion, and she shall have no benefit from them. Her noble and 
 resolute answer, absolutely refusing all his offers with disdain. He 
 storms against her to Mrs. Jewkes upon it, who most impudently 
 instigates him to execute all his purposes . . . 211 — 217 
 
 Saturday night. — He sends Mrs. Jewkes for her. She is going down; 
 but finding Mrs. Jewkes lead to his chamber, she turns back, notwith- 
 standing his menaces. Mrs. Jewkes ridicules her fears, and upbraids 
 her with the appeal she would have made to her master against 
 her ........ 217 — 219 
 
 Sunday. — Her master, being from home, sends a letter to Mrs. Jev?kes, 
 signifying, 'That he is going to Stamford on Mr. Williams's account, 
 ' and shall not be bade till the next evening, if then : That she must 
 ' not trust Pamela without another person lying with her, as well as 
 'herself.' She sees this letter, through Mrs. Jewkes's pretended 
 carelessness, and rejoices at this further reprieve . . 220 — 222 
 
 Tuesday night. — She gives the particulars of the worst attempt that he 
 had yet made, and of Mrs. Jewkes's wicked assistance, and her 
 narrow escape by falling into fits. On her recovery he gives her 
 hopes, that he will never offer to compel her again. Desires, for her 
 own sake, that she will not attempt to get away for a fortnight to 
 come, and that she will forgive Mrs. Jewkes. Is pleased with her 
 answer. Seems to be all kindness. TaUcs of love without reserve ; 
 which, with other liberties that he calls innocent, makes her very 
 uneasy ........ 223 — 234 
 
 Wednesday morning.— Sends for her to walk with him in the garden. 
 Likes not him, nor his ways. And why. He resents an expression 
 
kx CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 which his free usage provoked from her. She expostulates with him 
 on his proceedings; ..•■•• 234 238 
 
 Wednesday night.— His great kindness and favour to her before Mrs. 
 Jewkes. Mrs. Jewkes's respectful behaviour to her upon it, and 
 apprehensions of her resenting her past baseness. His goodness to 
 her, and admiration of her prudence, fill her with hopes of his 
 honourable designs. But, on a sudden, he damps all again, and 
 leaves her in a state of uncertainty . . • • 238 — 248 
 
 Thursday morning. — Mr. B being to go to Stamford, acquaints her, 
 
 that either Mrs. Jervis or Mr. Longman, whom, with Jonathan, he 
 has discharged, will attempt to convey a letter to her in his absence : 
 That he will take it kindly, if she will confine herself pretty much to 
 her chamber till he returns. She promises not to stir anywhere 
 without Mrs. Jewkes ...... 248 — 250 
 
 Friday night. — A gipsy, under pretence of telling Mrs. Jewkes and Pamela 
 their fortunes, finds means to drop a letter for the latter, the con- 
 tents of which alarm her with the intimation of a stratagem of a 
 sham marriage designed. Her passionate reflections upon him and 
 his designs on this occasion ..... 250 — 254 
 
 Saturday, noon. — Her master returns. Mrs. Jewkes, coming upon her by 
 surprise, seizes a parcel of her papers, and carries them to him. Her 
 apprehensions on this account ..... 254 — 256 
 
 Saturday, six o'clock. — Entreats him to return her papers unread. He 
 refuses. Her sharp expressions hereupon make him angry with her. 
 She endeavours to pacify him. Having read the papers, he sends 
 for her, and insnaringly discovers, that she has papers of a later date 
 than these, and insists upon seeing them. She refuses ; but he 
 frightens her into a compliance .... 257 — 268 
 
 Sunday morning. — On reading her last papers, which contain her tempta- 
 tions at the pond, he is greatly moved. His kind behavour to her ; 
 yet, apprehending that this kindness is but consistent with the sham 
 marriage she dreads, she still insists upon going to her parents. He 
 falls into a violent rage hereupon, will not suffer her to speak, and 
 bids her begone from his presence .... 268 — 273 
 
 Sunday, three o'clock. — Her reflections upon the haughtiness of people in 
 a high condition. Is surprised by a message from Mrs. Jewkes, that 
 she must instantly leave the house. Prepares to go, but cannot help 
 being grieved. The travelling chariot is drawn out. Colbrand is 
 getting on horseback. Wonders where all this will end . 273, 274 
 
 Monday. — Mrs. Jewkes insults her on her departure. Her wicked hints 
 to her master in her hearing. He rebukes her for them. Pamela 
 blesses him on her knees for it. Wonders she could be so loath 10 
 
CONTENTS. Ixxi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 leave the house. The chariot drives away with her. She can hardly - 
 think but she is in a^djieanjjiTthetijMe. A copy of her master's C: 
 letter to her, delivered at a certain~3istance, ' full of tenderness and 
 'respect, declaring his honourable intentions to her, had she not un- 
 ' seasonably, in the midst of his kindness to her, preferred going to her 
 'parents.' She laments that she gave credit to the gipsy-story. 
 Accuses her heart of treachery to her .... 275 281 
 
 ttfaji morning, eleven o'clock — More surprising things still, as she says. 
 Thomas, the groom, overtakes her with a second letter from her 
 ' master, declaring, ' That he finds he cannot live without her. That 
 ' if she will return, it will lay him under the highest obligation.' Her 
 reasonings with herself, whether to go back, or to proceed. At 
 last, resolves to oblige him ..... 282 28S 
 
 sday morning. — Her master's pleasure and gratitude on her return. 
 Orders that she be left entirely at her liberty to go and come as she 
 pleases, and the chariot to be at her service. Acquaints her, that he 
 had set Mr. Williams at liberty, and taken his bond. He gives her 
 a letter to peruse from Lady Davers, who severely and loftily expostu- 
 lates with him on her account, declaring, ' That if he should marry 
 ' her, she will renounce all relation to him ; but begs that he will 
 ■ give her a sum of money, and marry her to some fellow of her own 
 'degree.' Pamela's serious reflections upon the pride of people of 
 birth and condition ...... 288 — 293 
 
 inesday morning. — Her master takes an airing with her in the chariot. 
 His great kindness. Gives his reasons for dismissing Mr. Longman, 
 Mrs. Jervis, and Jonathan, and for his resentment against his sister. 
 Intimates the slights she will receive from p'ersons of figure, if he 
 marries her ; and asks how she will employ her time, when she has 
 not the genteel amusements to which she will be entitled as his wife ? 
 Is highly delighted with her remarkable and instructive answer. 
 Clears up, to her satisfaction, the gipsy's information. Acquaints her 
 with the neighbouring ladies intending to make him a visit, on pur- 
 pose to see and admire her. Mrs. Jewkes's humility, and appre- 
 hension of her resentment. He intercedes for her. She resolves, 
 throughout her future life, to rely on Providence, who has brought 
 such real good to her out of such evil appearances . . 294 — 3 1 3 
 
 ;-j(/aj'. —Declares his intention of privately marrying her. His servant, 
 who had been sent by her, at his request, for the papers which were 
 in her father's hands, returns without them, and reports her parents' 
 grief, who apprehended she had been subdued to his own terms. He 
 directs her to write, to make them easy. An accidental conversation 
 between her master and Mr. Williams, which gives her hopes of their 
 reconciliation . . . . . . ' • 3^4 — 322 
 
 jy. — She gives the particulars of what passed in the visit of the neigh- 
 
Ixxii CONTENTS. 
 
 PACE 
 
 bouring gentry. Their high encomiums upon her person and behaviour. 
 Miss Polly Darnford particularly fond of her . . - 323—329 
 
 Friday afternoon. — Her father's unexpected arrival, while all the guests 
 are together. Is kindly received by her master, and all his fears for 
 his daughter's virtue dissipated. The company greatly affected at the 
 first intervievc between her father and her. Writes to her mother all 
 the moving particulars of it. Her master's kindness, and declaration 
 of his honourable intentions, give inexpressible joy to her father 329 — 341 
 
 ''^turday. —Her master, seeing by the papers brought by her father, how 
 hardly she had been treated by Mrs. Jewkes, offers to remove her from 
 her presence. Is pleased with her forgiving temper. Takes an airing 
 with her father and her, and designedly falls in with Mr. Williams. 
 His kindness to that gentleman. Gives him up his bond, and requests 
 him to officiate next day in his newly fitted up chapel . . 342 — 357 
 
 Sunday. — Mr. Williams accordingly officiates. Her father performs the 
 
 clerk's part with applause. Mr. B 's pleasant remarks on her 
 
 paraphrase on the cxxxviith Psalm. Mr. Andrews joyfully takes 
 leave, to carry the good tidings of all these things to his wife . 357—371 
 
 Monday. — Mr. B brings her a license, and presses for the day. Her 
 
 desire that it may be on a Thursday, and reasons for it. He rallies 
 her agreeably on that head. The Thursday following fixed upon. He 
 proposes, in a generous manner, that Mr. Williams shall marry 
 them 371—376 
 
 Tuesday. — Her serious reflections on the near prospect of her important 
 change of condition. Is diffident of her own worthiness. Prays for 
 humility, that her new condition may not be a snare to her. How 
 she intends to behave herself to the servants . . . 376 — 379 
 
 Wednesday. — Her alternate fears and exultation, as the'day draws nigh. 
 His generous and polite tenderness to her. Her modest, humble, 
 and thankful returns. Readily, at his proposal, consents to let Mrs. 
 Jewkes attend her at her nuptials .... 379 387 
 
 Thursday morning.— His generous and discouraging tenderness to her. 
 Her grateful acknowledgments . .... 387 391 
 
 Thursday afternoon.— 'Hie happy celebration of her nuptials. Her joyful 
 
 exultations to her parents upon it. Mr. B 's generosity to Mr. 
 
 Peters and Mr. Williams. Are broken in upon by three rakish 
 
 gentlemen of his acquaintance, which obliges her to dine without 
 
 him. Mrs. Jewkes's dutiful and submissive behaviour to her. The 
 
 different aspect everything bears to her, now her prison has become 
 
 her palace ... „„. ,„, 
 
 ^ ■ ■ • . . 391—404 
 
CONTENTS. Ixxiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Friday evening. — His polite demeanour to her, and generosity to her 
 parents. Gives her a large sum to distribute among the servants on 
 occasion of her nuptials. He kindly complies with her intercession 
 for Mr. Longman, Mrs. Jervis, Jonathan, and John Arnold . 404 — ^413 
 
 Saturday morning. — Copy of Mr. B 's letter to Mr. Longman, and of 
 
 hers to Mrs. Jervis, in the kindest manner desiring them to take 
 possession, with Jonathan, of their former offices. Rejoices in her 
 happiness, and prays that her will to do good may be enlarged with 
 her opportunities ...... 413 — 417 
 
 Saturday evening. — Mr. B 's kind intentions towards her parents. 
 
 His generous annual allowance to her for her private charities 417 — 420 
 
 VOL. I. / 
 
NAMES OF THE PRINCIPAL PERSONS, 
 
 MEN, 
 
 Mr. B . 
 
 Mr. AndrewS) father to Pamela. 
 
 Lord Davers, brother-in-law to Mr. B 
 
 Mr. H-^— , nephew to Lord Davers. 
 
 Sir Jacob Swynford, uncle to Mr. B . 
 
 Sir Simon Darnford. 
 Rev.'^Mr. Peters. 
 Rev. Mr. Williams. 
 Rev. Mr. Adams. 
 
 Earl of D . 
 
 Mr. Martin. 
 
 Mr. Dormer. 
 
 Sir Thomas Atkyns. 
 
 Mr. Brooks. 
 
 Mr. Arthur. 
 
 Mr. Chapman. 
 
 The Dean of . 
 
 Mr. Turner. 
 
 Mr. Longman, steward to Mr. B . 
 
 Mr. Jonathan, butler to Mr. B . 
 
 Mr. Colbrand, a Swiss, valet to Mr. B — 
 
 WOMEN, 
 
 PAMELA. 
 
 Mrs. Andrews, mother to Pamela. 
 Lady Davers, sister to Mr. B— . 
 Miss Sally Godfrey, a young lady seduced 
 
 by Mr. B . 
 
 Miss Goodwin, the fictitious name of Mr. 
 
 B 's natural daughter. 
 
 Lady Darnford. 
 Miss Darnford. 
 Miss Nancy Darnford. 
 Mrs. Peters. 
 
 Countess of C . 
 
 Mrs. Arthur. 
 Mrs. Brooks. 
 Lady Towers. 
 
 Miss L , daughter to the Dean of L . 
 
 Countess of D . 
 
 Mrs. Chapman. 
 
 The Dowager Countess of . 
 
 The Viscountess —— . 
 
 Mrs. Jervis, housekeeper of Mr. B 's 
 
 Bedfordshire house. 
 Mrs. Jewkes, housekeeper of Mr. B— ^'s 
 
 Lincolnshire house. 
 Mrs. Worden, waiting-woman to Lady 
 
 Davers. 
 
PAMELA 
 
 OR, 
 
 VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 LETTER I. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother^ — I have great trouble^ and 
 some comfort, to acquaint you with. The trouble is, that 
 my good lady died of the illness I mentioned to you, and 
 left us all much grieved for the loss of her ; for she was a 
 dear good lady, and kind to all us her servants. Much I 
 feared, that as I was taken by her ladyship to wait upon 
 her person, I should be quite destitute again, and forced to 
 return to you and my poor mother, who have enough to do- 
 to maintain yourselves ; and, as my lady's goodness had put 
 me to write and cast accounts, and made me a little expert 
 at my needle, and otherwise qualified above my degree, it 
 was not every family that could have found a place that 
 your poor Pamela was fit for: but God, whose gracious- 
 ness to us we have so often experienced at a pinch, put it 
 into my good lady's heart, on her death-bed, just an hour 
 before she expired, to recommend to my young masterialh 
 her servants, one by one ; and when it came to my turn to 
 be recommended (for I was sobbing and crying at her 
 pillow), she could only say. My dear son ! — and so broke off 
 a little ; and then recovering — Remember my poor Pamela 
 — And these were some of her last words 1 Oh how my eyes 
 run — don't wonder to see the paper so blotted. 
 
 VOL. I. a 
 
a PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Well, but God's will must be done ! — And so comes the 
 comfort, that I shall not be obliged to return back to be a 
 clog upon my dear parents ! For my master said, I will take 
 care of you all, my good maidens ; and for you, Pamela 
 (and took me by the hand ; yes, he took my hand before 
 them all), for my dear mother's sake, I will be a friend to 
 you, and you shall take care of my linen. God bless him ! 
 and pray with me, my dear father and mother, for a blessing 
 upon him, for he has given mourning and a year's wages to 
 all my lady's servants ; and I having no wages as yet, my 
 lady having said she should do for me as I deserved, ordered 
 the housekeeper to give me mourning with the rest; and 
 gave me with his own hand four golden guineas, and some 
 silver, which were in my old lady's pocket when she died ; 
 and said, if I was a good girl, and faithful and diligent, he 
 would be a friend to me, for his mother's sake. And so I 
 send you .these four guineas for your comfort ; for Provi- 
 dence will not let me want : And so you may pay some old 
 debt with part, and keep the other part to comfort you both. 
 If I get more, I am sure it is my duty, and it shall be my 
 care, to love and cherish you both; for you have loved and 
 cherished me, when I could do nothing for myself. I send 
 them by John, our footman, who goes your way: but he 
 does not know what he carries ; because I seal them up in 
 one of the little pill-boxes, which my lady had, wrapt close 
 in paper, that they mayn't clink ; and be sure don't open it 
 before him. 
 
 I know, dear father and mother, I must give you both 
 grief and pleasure; and so I will only say. Pray for your 
 Pamela ; who will ever be 
 
 Your most dutiful Daughter. 
 
 I have been scared out of my senses; for just now, as I 
 was folding up this letter in my late lady's dressing- 
 room, in comes my young master! Good sirj ! how 
 was I frightened! I went to hide the letter in my 
 bosom ; and he, seeing me tremble, said, smiling, To 
 whom have you been writing, Pamela ?— I said, in my 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 3 
 
 confusion, Pray your honour forgive me ! — Only to my 
 father and mother. He said, "Well then^ let me see how 
 you are come on in your writing ! Oh how ashamed I 
 was ! — He took it, without saying more, and read it 
 quite through, and then gave it me again ; — and I said. 
 Pray your honour forgive me 1 — Yet I know not for 
 what: for he was always dutiful to his parents; and 
 why should he be angry that I • was so to mine ? And 
 indeed he was not angry ; for he took me by the hand, 
 and said. You are a good girl, Pamela, to be kind to 
 your aged father and mother. I am not angry with 
 you for writing such innocent matters as these : though 
 you ought to be wary what tales you send out of a 
 family. — Be faithful and diligent ; and do as you should 
 do, and I like you the better for this. And then he 
 said. Why, Pamela, you write a very pretty hand, and 
 spell tolerably too. I see my good mother's care in 
 your learning has not been thrown away upon you. 
 She used to say you loved reading; you may look into 
 any of her books to improve yourself, so you take care 
 of them. To be sure I did nothing but courtesy and 
 cry, and was all in confusion, at his goodness. Indeed 
 he is the best of gentlemen, I think ! But I am making 
 another long letter,: So will only add to it, that I shall 
 ever be 
 
 Your dutiful daughter, 
 
 Pamela Andrews. 
 
 LETTER n. 
 
 [In answer to the preceding.] 
 
 Dear Pamela, — Your letter was indeed a great trouble, 
 and some comfort, to me and your poor mother. We are 
 troubled, to be sure, for your good lady's death, who took 
 such care of you, and gave you learning, and, for three or 
 four years past, has always been giving you clothes and linen. 
 
4 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 and everything that a gentlewoman need not be ashamed 
 to appear in. But our. chief trouble is, and indeed a very 
 great one^ for fear you should be brought to anything dis- 
 honest or wicked^ by being set so above yourself. Every- 
 body talks how you have come on, and what a genteel girl 
 you are ; and some say you are very pretty ; and, indeed^ 
 six months since, when I saw you last, I should have thought 
 so myself, if you was hot our child. But what avails all 
 this, if you are to be ruined and undone ! — Indeed, my 
 dear Pamela, we begin to be in great fear for you; for 
 what signify all the riches in the world, with a bad con- 
 science, and to be dishonest ! We are, 'tis true, very poor, 
 and find it hard enough to live; though once, as you 
 know, it was better with us. But we would sooner live 
 upon the water, and, if possible, the clay of the ditches 
 I contentedly dig, than live better at the price of our child's 
 ruin. 
 
 I hope the good 'squire has no design : but when he has 
 given you so much money, and speaks so kindly to you, 
 and praises your coming on; and, oh, that fatal word! 
 that he would be kind to you, if you would do as you should 
 do, almost kills us with fears. 
 
 I have spoken to good old widow Mumford about it, 
 who, you know, has formerly lived . in good families ; and 
 she puts us in some comfort ; for she says, it is not unusual, 
 when a lady dies, to give what she has about her person to 
 her waiting-maid, and to such as sit up with her in her 
 illness. But, then, why should he smile so kindly upon 
 you ? Why should he take such a poor girl as you by the 
 hand, as your letter says he has done twice ? Why should 
 he stoop to read your letter to us, and commend your 
 writing and spelling ? And why should he give you leave 
 to read his mother's books? — Indeed, indeed, my dearest 
 child, our hearts ache for you ; and then you seem so full 
 of yoy at his goodness, so taken with his kind expressions 
 (which, truly, are very great favours, if he means well), that 
 we /ear— yes, my dear child, we fear—you should be too 
 grateful,— and reward him with that jewel, your virtue. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 5 
 
 which no richeSj nor favour^ nor anything in this life^ can 
 make up to you. 
 
 1, toOj have written a long letter, but will say one thing 
 more; and that is, that, in the midst of our poverty and 
 misfortunes, we have trusted in God's goodness, and been 
 honest, and doubt not to be happy hereafter, if we continue 
 to be good, though our lot is hard here ; but the loss of our 
 dear child's virtue would "be a grief that we could not bear, 
 and would bring our grey hairs to the grave at once. 
 
 If, then, you love us, if you wish for God's blessing, and 
 your own future happiness, we both charge you to stand 
 upon your guard: and, if you find the least attempt made 
 upon your virtue, be sure you leave everything behind you, 
 and come away to us; for we had rather see you all covered 
 with rags, and even follow you to the churchyard, than 
 have it said, a child of ours preferred any worldly conveni- 
 ences to her virtue. 
 
 We accept kindly of your dutiful present; but, till we 
 are out of pain, cannot make use of it, for fear we should 
 partake of the price of our poor daughter's shame : so have 
 laid it up in a rag among the thatch, over the window, for 
 a while, lest we should be robbed. With our blessings, and 
 our hearty prayers for you, we remain. 
 
 Your careful, but loving Father and Mother, 
 
 John and Elizabeth Andrews. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 Dear Father, — I must needs say, your letter has filled 
 me with trouble, for it has made my heart, which was over- 
 flowing with gratitude for my master's goodness, suspicious 
 and fearful ; and yet I hope I shall never find him to act 
 unworthy of his character; for what could he get by ruin- 
 ing such a poor young creature as me? But that which 
 gives me most trouble is, that you seem to mistrust the 
 honesty of your child. No, my dear father and mother. 
 
6 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 be assured that, by God's grace, I never will do anything 
 that shall bring your grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. 
 I will die a thousand deaths, rather than be dishonest any 
 way. Of that be assured, and set your hearts at rest ; for 
 although I have lived above myself for some time past, yet 
 I can be content with rags and poverty, and bread and 
 water, and will embrace them, rather than forfeit my good 
 name, let who will be the tempter. And of this pray rest 
 satisfied, and think better of 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter till death. 
 
 My master continues to be very affable to me. As yet 
 I see no cause to fear anything. Mrs. Jervis, the 
 housekeeper, too, is very civil to me, and I have the 
 love of everybody. Sure they can't all have designs 
 against me, because they are civil 1 I hope I shall 
 always behave so as to be respected by every one ; and 
 that nobody would do me more hurt than I am sure 
 I would do them. Our John so often goes your way, 
 that I will always get him to call, that you may hear 
 from me, either by writing (for it brings ray hand in), 
 or by word of mouth. 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Dear Mother, — For the last was to my father, in answer 
 to his letter ; and so I will now write to you ; though I 
 have nothing to say, but what will make me look more 
 like a vain hussy, than anything else : However, I hope I 
 shan't be so proud as to forget myself. Yet there is a secret 
 pleasure one has to hear one's self praised. You must know, 
 then, that my Lady Davers, who, I need not tell you, is my 
 master's sister, has been a month at our house, and has 
 taken great notice of me, and given me good advice to keep 
 myself to myself. She told me I was a pretty wench, and 
 that everybody gave me a very good character, and loved 
 me; and bid me take care to keep the fellows at a distance; 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 7 
 
 and said^ that I might do, and be more valued for it, even 
 by themselves. 
 
 But what pleased me much, was what I am going to 
 tell you ; for at table, as Mrs. Jervis says, my master and 
 her ladyship talking of me, she told him, she thought me 
 the prettiest wench she ever saw in her life ; and that I was 
 too pretty to live in a bachelor's house ; since no lady he 
 might marry would care to continue me with her. He said, 
 I was vastly improved, and had a good share of prudence, 
 and sense above my years; and that it would be pity, 
 that what was my merit should be my misfortune. — No, 
 says my good lady, Pamela shall come and live with me, 
 I think. He said, with all his heart ; he should be glad to 
 have me so well provided for. Well, said she, I'll consult 
 my lord about it. She asked how old I was ; and Mrs. 
 Jervis said, I was fifteen last February. Oh ! says she, if the 
 wench (for so she calls all us maiden servants) takes care of 
 herself, she'll improve yet more and more, as well in her 
 person as mind. 
 
 Now, my dear father and mother, though this may look 
 too vain to be repeated by me; yet are you not rejoiced, 
 as well as I, to see my master so willing to part with me ? 
 — This shews that he has nothing bad in his heart. But 
 John is just going away ; and so I have only to say, that 
 I am, and will always be. 
 
 Your honest as well as dutiful Daughter. 
 
 Pray make use of the money. You may now do it 
 safely. 
 
 LETTER V. 
 
 My dear Father and Mother, — John being to go 
 your way, I am willing to write, because he is so willing to 
 carry anything for me. He says it does him good at his 
 heart to see you both, and to hear you talk. He says you 
 are both so sensible, and so honest, that he always learns 
 something from you to the purpose. It is a thousand pities. 
 
8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 he says, that such worthy hearts should not have better 
 luck in the world ! and wonders that you, my father, who 
 are so well able to teach, and write so good a hand, suc- 
 ceeded no better in the school you attempted to set upj 
 but was forced to go to such hard labour. 'But this is more 
 pride to me, that I am come of such honest parents, than if 
 I had been born a lady. 
 
 I hear nothing yet of going to Lady Davers ; and I am 
 very easy at present here : for Mrs. Jervis uses me as if I 
 were her own daughter, and is a very good woman, and 
 makes my master's interest her own. She is always giving 
 me good counsel, and I love her next to you two, I think, 
 best of anybody. She keeps so good rule and order, she is 
 mightily respected by us all ; and takes delight to hear me 
 read to her ; and all she loves to hear read is good books, 
 which we read whenever we are alone ; so that I think I am 
 at home with you. She heard one of our men, Harry, who 
 is no better than he should be, speak freely to me ; I think 
 he called me his pretty Pamela, and took hold of me, as if 
 he would have kissed me ; for which, you may be sure, I 
 was very angry : and she took him to task, and was as angry 
 at him as could be ; and told me she was very well pleased 
 to see my prudence and modesty, and that I kept all the 
 fellows at a distance. And indeed I am sure I am not 
 proud, and carry it civilly to everybody ; but yet, methinks, 
 I cannot bear to be looked upon by these men-servants ; 
 for they seem as if they would look one through ; and, as I 
 generally breakfast, dine, and sup with Mrs. Jervis (so 
 good she is to me), I am very easy that I have so little to 
 say to them. Not but they are very civil to me in the main, 
 for Mrs. Jervis's sake, who they see loves me; and they 
 stand in awe of her, knowing her to be a gentlewoman born, 
 though she has had misfortunes. 
 
 I am going on again with a long letter ; for I love writing, 
 and shall tire you. But, when I began, I only intended to 
 say, that I am quite fearless of any danger now: and, 
 indeed, cannot but wonder at myself (though your caution 
 to me was your watchful love), that I should be so foolish 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 9 
 
 as to be so uneasy as I have been : for I am sure my master 
 would n'ot demean himself, so as to think upon such a poor 
 girl as 1, for my harm. For such a thing would ruin his 
 creditj as well as raine^ you know : who, to be sure, may 
 expect one of the best ladies in the land. So no more at 
 present, but that I am 
 
 Your ever dutiful Daughter. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — My master has been very 
 kind since my last ; for he has given me a suit of my late 
 lady's clothes, and half a dozen of her shifts, and six fine 
 handkerchiefs, and three of her cambric aprons, and four 
 holland ones. The clothes are fine silk, and too rich and 
 too good for me, to be sure. I wish it was no affront to him 
 to make money of them, and send it to you : it would do 
 me more good. 
 
 You will be full of fears, I warrant now, of some design 
 upon me, till I tell you, that he was with Mrs. Jervis when 
 he gave them me ; and he gave her a mort of good things, 
 at the same time, and bid her wear them in remembrance 
 of her good friend, my lady, his mother. And when he 
 gave me these fine things, he said. These, Pamela, are for 
 you ; have them made fit for you, when your mourning is 
 laid by, and wear them for your good mistress's sake. Mrs. 
 Jervis gives you a very good word; and I would have you 
 continue to behave as prudently as you have done hitherto, 
 and everybody will be your friend. 
 
 I was so surprised at his goodness, that I could not tell 
 what to say. I courtesied to him, and to Mrs. Jervis for 
 her good word ; and said, I wished I might be deserving of 
 his favour and her kindness : and nothing should be want- 
 ing in me, to the best of my knowledge. 
 
 Oh how amiable a thing is doing good !— It is all I envy 
 great folks for. 
 
TO TAMELA; OR, 
 
 I always thought my young master a fine gentleman, as 
 everybody says he is : but he gave these good things to us 
 both with such a graciousness^ as I thought he looked like 
 an angel. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis says, he asked her, if I kept the men at a dis- 
 tance ? for, he said, I was very pretty ; and to be drawn in 
 to have any of them, might be my ruin, and make me poor 
 and miserable betimes. She never is wanting to give me a 
 good word, and took occasion to lanch out in my praise, she 
 says. But I hope she has said no more than I shall try to 
 deserve, though I mayn't at present. I am sure I will always 
 love her, next to you and my dear mother. So I rest 
 
 Your ever dutiful Daughter. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 Dear Father, — Since my last, my master gave me more 
 fine things. He called me up to my late lady's closet, and, 
 pulling out her drawers, he gave me two suits of fine Flanders 
 laced head-clothes, three pair of fine silk shoes, two hardly 
 the worse, and just fit for me (for my lady had a very little 
 foot), and the other with wrought silver buckles in them ; 
 and several ribands and top-knots of all colours ; four pair 
 of white fine cotton stockings, and three pair of fine silk 
 ones ; and two pair of rich stays. I was quite astonished, 
 and unable to speak for a while ; but yet I was inwardly 
 ashamed to take the stockings; for Mrs. Jervis was not 
 there : If she had, it would have been nothing. I believe 
 I received them very awkwardly ; for he smiled at my awk- 
 wardness, and said. Don't blush, Pamela : dost think I don't 
 know pretty maids should wear shoes and stockings ? 
 
 I was so confounded at these words, you might have beat 
 me down with a feather. For you must think, there was 
 no answer to be made to this : So, like a fool, I was ready 
 to cry ; and went away courtesying and blushing, I am sure, 
 up to the ears ; for, though there was no harm in what he 
 
FIRTUE REPFARDED. it 
 
 said, yet I did not know how to take it. But I went and 
 told all to Mrs. Jervis, who said, God put it into his heart 
 to be good to me; and I must double my diligence. It 
 looked to her, she said, as if he would fit me in dress for a 
 waiting-maid's place on Lady Daver's own person. 
 
 But still your kind fatherly cautions came into my head, 
 and made all these gifts nothing near to me what they 
 •would have been. But yet, I hope, there is no reason ; for 
 what good could it do to him to harm such a simple maiden 
 as me? Besides, to be sure no lady would look upon him, 
 if he should so disgrace himself. So I will make myself 
 easy; and, indeed, I should never have been otherwise, if 
 you had not put it into my head ; for my good, I know 
 very well. But, may be, without these uneasinesses to 
 mingle with these benefits, I might be too much puffed up : 
 So I will conclude, all that happens is for our good ; and 
 God bless you, my dear father and mother; and I know 
 you constantly pray for a blessing upon me; who am, and 
 shall always be, 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
 LETTER Vin. 
 
 Dear Pamela, — I cannot but renew my cautions on your 
 master's kindness, and his free expression to you about the 
 stockings. Yet there may not be, and I hope there is not, 
 anything in it. But when I reflect, that there possibly may, 
 and that if there should, no less depends upon it than my 
 child's everlasting happiness in this world and the next ; it 
 is enough to make one fearful for you. Arm yourself, my 
 dear child, for the worst ; and resolve to lose your life sooner 
 than your virtue. What though the doubts I filled you 
 with, lessen the pleasure you would have had in your 
 master's kindness ; yet what signify the delights that arise 
 from a few paltry fine clothes, in comparison with a good 
 conscience? 
 
I a PAMELA; OR, 
 
 These 'are, indeed, very great favours that he heaps upon 
 you, but so much the more to be suspected ; and when you 
 say he looked so amiably, and like an angel, how afraid I 
 am, that they should make too great an impression upon 
 you ! For, though you are blessed with sense and prudence 
 above your years, yet I tremble to t'hink, what a sad hazard 
 a poor maiden of little more than fifteen years of age stands 
 against the temptations of this world, and a designing young 
 gentleman, if he should prove so, who has so much power 
 to oblige, and has a kind of authority to command, as your 
 master. 
 
 I charge you, my dear child, on both our blessings, poor 
 as we are, to be on your guard ; there can be no harm in 
 that. And since Mrs. Jervis is so good a gentlewoman, 
 and so kind to you, I am the easier a great deal, and so is 
 your mother ; and we hope you will hide nothing from her, 
 and take her counsel in everything. So, with our blessings, 
 and assured prayers for you, more than for ourselves, we 
 remain 
 
 Your loving Father and Mother. 
 
 Be sure don't let people's telling you, you are pretty, puff 
 you up; for you did not make yourself, and so can 
 have no praise due to you for it. It is virtue and 
 goodness only that make the true beauty. Remember 
 that, Pamela. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — I am sorry to write you 
 word, that the hopes I had of going to wait on Lady Davers 
 are quite over. My lady would have had me; but my 
 master, as I heard by the by, would not consent to it. He 
 s^^ her nephew might be taken with me, and I might draw 
 him in, or be drawn in by him ; and he thought, as his 
 mother loved me, and committed me to his care, he ought 
 to continue me with him; and Mrs. Jervis would be a 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 13 
 
 mother to me. Mrs. Jervis tells me the lady shook her 
 head, and said, Ah ! brother ! and that was all. And as you 
 have made me fearful by your cautions, my heart at times 
 misgives me. But I say nothing yet of your caution, or my 
 own uneasiness, to Mrs. Jervis ; not that I mistrust her, but 
 for fear she should think me presumptuous, and vain and 
 conceited, to have any fears about the matter, from the 
 great distance between such a gentleman and so poor a girl. 
 But yet Mrs. Jervis seemed to build something upon Lady 
 Davers's shaking her head, and saying. Ah ! brother ! and 
 no more. God^ I hope, w^ill give me His grace ; and so I 
 will not, if I can help it, make myself too uneasy ; for I hope 
 there is no occasion. But every little matter that happens, 
 I will acquaint you with, that you may continue to me 
 your good advice, and pray for 
 
 Your sad-hearted 
 
 Pamela. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Dear Mother, — You and my good father may wonder 
 you have not had a letter from me in so many weeks; but 
 a sad, sad scene, has been the occasion of it. For to be 
 sure, now it is too plain, that all your cautions were well 
 grounded. Oh my dear mother ! I am miserable, truly 
 miserable 1 — But yet, don't be frightened, I am honest ! — 
 God, of His goodness, keep me so ! 
 
 Oh this angel of a master! this fine gentleman! this gracious 
 benefactor to your poor Pamela! who was to take care of 
 me at the prayer of his good dying mother ; who was so 
 apprehensive for me, lest I should be drawn in by Lord 
 Davers's nephew, that he would not let me go to Lady 
 Davers's : This very gentleman (yes, I must call him gentle- 
 man, though he has fallen from the merit of that title) has 
 degraded himself to offer freedoms to his poor servant 1 He 
 has now showed himself in his true colours; and, to me, 
 nothing appear so black, and so frightful. 
 
14 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I have not been idle ; but had writ from time to time, 
 how he, by sly mean degrees, exposed his wicked views ; 
 but somebody stole my letter, and I know not what has 
 become of it. It was a very long one. I fear, he that was 
 mean enough to do bad things, in one respect, did not stick 
 at this. But be it as it will, all the use he can make of it 
 will be, that he may be ashamed of his part; I not oi mine : 
 for he will see I was resolved to be virtuous, and gloried in 
 the honesty of my poor parents. 
 
 I will tell you all, the next opportunity, for I am watched 
 very narrowly; and he says to Mrs. Jervis, This girl is 
 always scribbling; I think she may be better employed. 
 And yet I work all hours with my needle, upon his linen, 
 and the fine linen of the family; and am, besides, about 
 flowering him a waistcoat. — But, oh ! my heart's broke 
 almost; for what am I likely to have for my reward, but 
 shame and disgrace, or else ill words, and hard treatment ! 
 I'll tell you all soon, and hope I shall find my long letter. 
 
 Your most afflicted Daughter. 
 
 May-be, I he and him too much : but it is his own fault 
 if I do. For why did he lose all his dignity with me ? 
 
 LETTER XI. 
 
 Dear Mother, — Well, I can't find my letter, and so I'll 
 try to recollect it all, and be as brief as I can. All went 
 well enough in the main for some time after mv letter but 
 one. At last, I saw some reason to suspect ; for he would 
 look upon me, whenever he saw me, in such a manner as 
 showed not well ; and one day he came to me, as I was in 
 the summer-house in the little garden, at work with my 
 needle, and Mrs. Jervis was just gone from me; and I 
 would have gone out, but he said. No, don't go, Pamela; 
 I have something to say to you ; and you always fly me 
 when I come near you, as if you were afraid of me. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 15 
 
 I was much out of countenance^ you may well think ; but 
 said, at last. It does not become your poor servant to stay 
 in your presence, sir, without your business required it ; and 
 I hope I shall always know my place. 
 
 Well, says he, my business does require it sometimes ; and 
 I have a mind you should stay to hear what I have to say 
 to you. 
 
 I stood still confounded, and began to tremble, and the 
 more when he took me by the hand ; for now no soul was 
 near us. 
 
 My sister Davers, said he (and seemed, I thought, to be 
 as much at a loss for words as I), would have had you live 
 with her ; but she would not do for you what I am resolved 
 to do, if you continue faithful and obliging. What say'st 
 thou, my girl? said he with some eagerness; had'st thou 
 not rather stay with me, than go to my sister Davers ? He 
 looked so, as filled me with afFrightment ; I don't know 
 how ; wildly, I thought. 
 
 I said, when I could speak, Your honour will forgive me ; 
 but as you have no lady for me to wait upon, and my good 
 lady has been now dead this twelvemonth, I had rather, 
 if it would not displease you, wait upon Lady Davers, 
 lecause 
 
 I was proceeding, and he said, a little hastily — Because 
 you are a little fool, and know not what's good for yourself. 
 I tell you I will make a gentlewoman of you, if you be 
 obliging, and don't stand in your own light ; and so saying, 
 he put his arm about me, and kissed me ! 
 
 Now, you will say, all his wickedness appeared plainly. 
 I struggled and trembled, and was so benumbed with terror, 
 that I sunk down, not in a fit, and yet not myself; and I 
 found myself in his arms, quite void of strength ; and he 
 kissed me two or three times, with frightful eagerness. — At 
 last I burst from him, and was getting out of the summer- 
 house ; but he held me back, and shut the door. 
 
 I would have given my life for a farthing. And he said, 
 I'll do you no harm, Pamela; don't be afraid of me. I 
 said, I won't stay. You won't, hussy! said he: do you 
 
^6 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 know whom you speak to ? I lost all fear, and all respect, 
 and said, Yes, I do, sir, too well '.—Well may I forget that 
 I am your servant, when you forget what belongs to a 
 master. 
 
 I sobbed and cried most sadly. What a foolish hussy 
 you are! said he: have I 'done you any harm? — ^Yes, sir, 
 said I, the greatest harm in the world : You have taught 
 me to forget myself and what belongs to me, and have 
 lessened the distance that fortune has made between. us, by 
 demeaning yourself to be so free to a poor servant. Yet, 
 sir, I will be bold to say, I am honest, though poor:, and if 
 you was a prince, I would not be otherwise. 
 
 He was angry, and said. Who would have you otherwise, 
 you foolish slut! Cease your blubbering. I own I have 
 demeaned myself j but it was only to try you : If you can 
 keep this matter secret, you'll give me the better opinion of 
 your prudence; and here's something, said he, putting some 
 gold in my hand, tp make you amends for the fright I put 
 you in. Go, take a walk in the garden, and don't go in till 
 your blubbering is over : and I charge you. say nothing of 
 what is past, and all shall be well, and I'll forgive you. 
 
 I won't take the money, indeed, sir, said I, poor as I am : 
 I won't take it. For, to say truth, I thought it looked like 
 taking earnest, and so I put it upon the bench ; and as he 
 seemed vexed and confused at what he had done, I took the 
 opportunity to open the door, and went out of the summer- 
 house. 
 
 He called to me, and said. Be secret, I charge you, 
 Pamela ; and don't go in yet, as I told you. 
 
 Oh how poor and mean must those actions be, and how 
 little must they make the best of gentlemen look, when they 
 offer such things as are unworthy of themselves, and put it 
 into the power of their inferiors to be greater than they ! 
 
 I took a turn or two in the garden, but in sight of the 
 house, for fear of the worst ; and breathed upon my hand 
 to dry my eyes, because I would not be too disobedient. 
 My next shall tell you more. 
 
 Pray for me, my dear father and mother j and don't be 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 17 
 
 angry I have not yet run away from this house, so late my 
 comfort and delight, but now my terror and anguish. I 
 am forced to break ofF hastily. 
 
 Your dutiful and honest Daughter. 
 
 LETTER XII. 
 
 Dear Mother, — Well, I will now proceed with my sad 
 story. And so, after I had dried my eyes, I went in, and 
 began to ruminate with myself what I had best to do. 
 Sometimes I thought I would leave the house and go to the 
 next town, and wait an opportunity to get to you ; but then 
 I was at a loss to resolve whether to take away the things 
 he had given me or no, and how to take them away: 
 Sometimes I thought to leave them behind me, and only go 
 with the clothes on my back, but then I had two miles and 
 a half, and a by-way, to the town ; and being pretty well 
 dressed, I might come to some harm, almost as bad as what 
 I would run away from ; and then may-be, thought I, it 
 will be reported, I have stolen something, and so was forced 
 to run away ; and to carry a bad name back with me to my 
 dear parents, would be a sad thing indeed ! — Oh how I wished 
 for my grey russet again, and my poor honest dress, with 
 which you fitted me out (and hard enough too it was for 
 you to do it !) for going to this place, when I was not twelve 
 years old, in my good lady's days ! Sometimes I thought 
 of telling Mrs. Jervis, and taking her advice, and only 
 feared his command to be secret; for, thought I, he may 
 be ashamed of his actions, and never attempt the like 
 again : And as poor Mrs. Jervis depended upon him, 
 through misfortunes, that had attended her, I thought it 
 would be a sad thing to bring his displeasure upon her for 
 my sake. 
 
 In this quandary, now considering, now crying, and not 
 knowing what to do, I passed the time in my chamber till 
 evening ; when desiring to be excused going to supper, Mrs. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
i8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Jervis came up to me, and said, Why must I sup without 
 you, Pamela ? Come, I see you are troubled at something ; 
 tell me what is the matter. 
 
 I begged I might be permitted to lie with her on nights ; 
 for I was afraid of spirits, and they would not hurt such a 
 good person as she. That was a silly excuse, she said ; for 
 why was not you afraid of spirits before? — (Indeed I did 
 not think of that.) But you shall be my bed-fellow with 
 all my heart, added she, let your reason be what it will ; 
 only come down to supper. I begged to be excused ; for, 
 said I, I have been crying so, that it will be taken notice of 
 by my fellow-servants ; and I will hide nothing from you, 
 Mrs. Jervis, when we are alone. 
 
 She was so good to indulge me ; but made haste to come 
 up to bed ; and told the servants, that I should lie with her, 
 because she could not rest well, and would get me to read 
 her to sleep ; for she knew I loved reading, she said. 
 
 When we were alone, I told her all that had passed ; for 
 I thought, though he had bid me not, yet if he should come 
 to know I had told, it would be no worse ; for to keep a 
 secret of such a nature, would be, as I apprehended, to de- 
 prive myself of the good advice which I never wanted more; 
 and might encourage him to think I did not resent it as I 
 ought, and would keep worse secrets, and so make him do 
 worse by me. Was I right, my dear mother ? 
 
 Mrs. Jervis could not help mingling tears with my tears ; 
 for I cried all the time I was telling her the story, and 
 begged her to advise me what to do ; and I showed her my 
 dear father's two letters, and she praised the honesty and 
 inditing of them, and said pleasing things to me of you 
 both. But she begged I would not think of leaving my 
 service; for, said she, in all likelihood, you behaved so 
 virtuously, that he will be ashamed of what he has done, 
 and never offer the like to you again : though, my dear 
 Pamela, said she, I feel more for your prettiness than for 
 anything else; because the best man in the land might 
 love you : so she was pleased to say. She wished it was in 
 her power to live independent; then she would take a 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 19 
 
 little private house, and I should live with her like her 
 daughter. 
 
 And sOj as you ordered me to take her advice, I resolved 
 to tarry to see how things went, except he was to turn me 
 away; although, in your first letter, you ordered me to come 
 away the moment I had any reason to be apprehensive. So, 
 dear father and mother, it is not disobedience, I hope, that 
 I stay ; for I could not expect a blessing, or the good fruits 
 of your prayers for me, if I was disobedient. 
 
 All the next day I was very sad, and began my long letter. 
 He saw me writing, and said (as I mentioned) to Mrs. Jervis, 
 That girl is always scribbling; methinks she might find 
 something else to do, or to that purpose. And when I had 
 finished my letter, I put it under the toilet in my late lady's 
 dressing-room, whither nobody comes but myself and Mrs. 
 Jervis, besides my master ; ' but when I came up again to 
 seal it, to my great concern, it was gone ; and Mrs. Jervis 
 knew nothing of it ; and nobody knew of my master's 
 having been near the place in the time; so I have been 
 sadly troubled about it: But Mrs. Jervis, as well as I, 
 thinks he has it, somehow or other; and he appears cross 
 and angry, and seems to shun me, as much as he said I did 
 him. It had better be so than worse ! 
 
 But he has ordered Mrs. Jervis to bid me not pass so 
 much time in writing ; which is a poor matter for such a 
 gentleman as he to take notice of, as I am not idle other 
 ways, if he did not resent what he thought I wrote upon. 
 And this has no very good look. 
 
 But I am a good deal easier since I lie with Mrs. Jervis ; 
 though, after all, the fears I live in on one side, and his 
 frowning and displeasure at what I do on the other, make 
 me more miserable than enough. 
 
 Oh that I had never left my little bed in the loft, to be 
 thus exposed to temptations on one hand, or disgusts on 
 the other ! How happy was I awhile ago ! How contrary 
 now!— Pity and pray for 
 
 Your afflicted 
 
 Pamela. 
 
20 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 LETTER XIII. 
 
 My dearest Child, — Our hearts bleed for your distress, 
 and the temptations you are exposed to. You have our 
 hourly prayers ; and we would have you flee this evil great 
 house and man, if you find he renews his attempts. You 
 ought to have done it at first, had you not had Mrs. Jervis 
 to advise with. We can find no fault in your conduct 
 hitherto: But it makes our hearts ache for fear of the 
 worst. Oh my child ! temptations are sore things ; but yet, 
 without them, we know not ourselves, nor what we are 
 able to do. 
 
 Your danger is very great ; for you have riches, youth, 
 and a fine gentleman, as the world reckons him, to with- 
 stand ; but how great will be your honour to withstand 
 them 1 And when we consider your past conduct, and your 
 virtuous education, and that you have been bred to be more 
 ashamed of dishonesty than poverty, we trust in God, that 
 He will enable you to overcome. Yet, as we can't see but 
 your life must be a burthen to you, through the great appre- 
 hensions always upon you; and that it may be presumptuous 
 to trust too much to your own strength ; and that you are 
 but very young ; and the devil may put it into his heart to 
 use some stratagem, of which great men are full, to decoy 
 you ; I think you had better come home to share our 
 poverty with safety, than live with so much discontent in 
 a plenty, that itself may be dangerous. God direct you for 
 the best ! While you have Mrs. Jervis for an adviser, and 
 bed-fellow (and oh, my dear child ! that was prudently done 
 of you), we are easier than we should be; and so committing 
 you to the Divine protection, remain 
 
 Your truly loving, but careful. 
 
 Father and Mother. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. %i 
 
 LETTER XIV. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — Mrs. Jervis and I have 
 lived very comfortably together for this fortnight past; for 
 my master was all that time at his Lincolnshire estate, and 
 at his sister's, the Lady Davers. But he came home yester- 
 day. He had some talk with Mrs. Jervis soon after, and 
 mostly about me. He said to her, it seems, Well, Mrs. 
 Jervis, I know Pamela has your good word ; but do you 
 think her of any use in the family ? She told me she was 
 surprised at the question, but said. That I was one of the 
 most virtuous and industrious young creatures that ever she 
 knew. Why that word virtuous, said he, I pray you ? 
 Was there any reason to suppose her otherwise ? Or has 
 anybody taken it into his head to try her ? — I wonder, sir, 
 says she, you ask such a question 1 Who dare offer any- 
 thing to her in such an orderly and well-governed house as 
 yours, and under a master of so good a character for virtue 
 and honour ? Your servant, Mrs. Jervis, says he, for your 
 good opinion; but pray, if anybody did, do you think 
 Pamela would let you know it ? Why, sir, said she, she is 
 a poor innocent young creature, and 1 believe has so much 
 confidence in me, that she would take my advice as soon as 
 she would her mother's. Linocent ! again, and virtuous, I 
 warrant ! Well, Mrs. Jervis, you abound with your epithets; 
 but I take her to be an artful young baggage ; and had I a 
 young handsome butler or steward, she'd soon make her 
 market of one of them, if she thought it worth while to 
 snap at him for a husband, Alack-a-day, sir, said she^ it is 
 early days with Pamela; and she does not yet think of a 
 husband, I daresay : and your steward and butler are both 
 men in years, and think nothing of the matter. No, said 
 he, if they were younger, they'd have more wit than to 
 think of such a girl ; I'll tell you my mind of her, Mrs. 
 Jervis : I don't think this same favourite of yours so very 
 artless a girl as you imagine. I am not to dispute with 
 
%% PANEL J; OR, 
 
 your honour, said Mrs. Jervis ; but I daresay, if the men 
 will let her alone, she'll never trouble herself about them. 
 Why, Mrs. Jervis, said he, are there any men that will not 
 let her alone, that you know of? No, indeed, sir, said she; 
 she keeps herself so much to herself, and yet behaves so 
 prudently, that they all esteem her, and show her as great 
 a respect as if she was a gentlewoman born. 
 
 Ay, says he, that's her art, that I was speaking of : but, 
 let me tell you, the girl has vanity and conceit, and pride 
 too, or I am mistaken ; and, perhaps, I could give you an 
 instance of it. Sir, said she, you can see farther than such 
 a poor silly woman as I am ; but I never saw anything but 
 innocence in her. — And virtue too, I'll warrant ye ! said he. 
 But suppose I could give you an instance, where she has 
 talked a little too freely of the kindnesses that have been 
 shown her from a certain quarter ; and has had the vanity 
 to impute a few kind words, uttered in mere compassion to 
 her youth and circumstances, into a design upon her, and 
 even dared to make free with names that she ought never to 
 mention but with reverence and gratitude ; what would you 
 say to that ? — Say, sir 1 said she, I cannot tell what to say. 
 But I hope Pamela incapable of such ingratitude. 
 
 Well, no more of this silly girl, says he ; you may only 
 advise her, as you are her friend, not to give herself too 
 much licence upon the favours she meets with ; and if she 
 stays here, that she will not write the affairs of my family 
 purely for an exercise to her pen, and her invention. I 
 tell you she is a subtle, artful gipsy, and time will show 
 it you. 
 
 Was ever the like heard, my dear father and mother ? It 
 is plain he did not expect to meet with such a repulse, and 
 mistrusts that I have told Mrs. Jervis, and has my long 
 letter too, that I intended for you ; and so is vexed to the 
 heart. But I can't help it. I had better be thought artful 
 and subtle, than be so, in his sense; and, as light as he 
 makes of the words virtue and innocence in me, he would 
 have made a less angry construction, had I less deserved 
 that he should do so ; for then, may be, my c7-ime should 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 23 
 
 have been my virtue with him; naughty gentleman as 
 he is ! 
 
 I will soon write again ; but must now end with saying, 
 that I am, and shall always be. 
 
 Your honest Daughter. 
 
 LETTER XV. 
 
 Dear Mother, — I broke off abruptly my last letter ; for 
 I feared he was coming; and so it happened. I put the 
 letter in my bosom, and took up my work, which lay by me ; 
 but I had so little of the artful, as he called it, that I looked 
 as confused as if I had been doing some great harm. 
 
 Sit still, Pamela, said he, mind your work, for all me. 
 You don't tell me I am welcome home, after my journey to 
 Lincolnshire. — It would be hard, sir, said I, if you was not 
 always welcome to your honour's own house. 
 
 I would have gone ; but he said. Don't run away, I tell 
 you. I have a word or two to say to you. Good sirs, how 
 my heart went pit-a-pat 1 When I was a little kind to you, 
 said he, in the summer-house, and you carried yourself so 
 foolishly upon it, as if I had intended to do you great harm, 
 did I not tell you you should take no notice of what passed 
 to any creature ? and yet you have made a common talk of 
 the matter, not considering either my reputation, or your 
 own. — I made a common talk of it, sir 1 said I : I have 
 nobody to talk to, hardly. 
 
 He interrupted me, and said. Hardly ! you little equivo- 
 cator ! what do you mean by hardly ? Let me ask you, 
 have not you told Mrs. Jervis for one ? Pray your honour, 
 said I, all in agitation, let me go down ; for it is not for 
 me to hold an argument with your honour. Equivocator, 
 again ! said he, and took my hand, what do you talk of an 
 argument ? Is it holding an argument with me to answer 
 a plain question ? Answer me what I asked. Oh, good sir. 
 
34 PAMELA; OB, 
 
 said \, let me beg you will not urge me fartherj for fear I 
 forget myself agaiiij and be saucy. 
 
 Answer me then, I bid you, says he, have you not told 
 Mrs. Jervis ? It will be saucy in you if you don't answer 
 me directly to what I ask. Sir, said I, and fain would have 
 pulled my hand away, perhaps I should be for answering 
 you by another question, and that would not become me. 
 What is it you would say ? replies he ; speak out. 
 
 Then, sir, said I, why should your honour be so angry I 
 should tell Mrs. Jervis, or anybody else, what passed, if you 
 intended no harm ? 
 
 Well said, pretty innocent and artless! as Mrs. Jervis 
 calls you, said he ; and is it thus you taunt and retort upon 
 me, insolent as you are 1 But still I will be answered 
 directly to my question. Why then, sir, said I, I will not 
 tell a lie for the world : I did tell Mrs. Jervis; for my heart 
 was almost broken ; but I opened not my mouth to any 
 other. Very well, bold-face, said he, and equivocator again ! 
 You did not open your mouth to any other ; but did not you 
 write to some other ? Why now, and please your honour, 
 said I (for I was quite courageous just then), you could not 
 have asked me this question, if you had not taken from me 
 my letter to my father and mother, in which I own I had 
 broken my mind freely to them, and asked their advice, and 
 poured forth my griefs ! 
 
 And so I am to be exposed, am I, said he, in my own 
 house, and out of my house, to the whole world, by such 
 a saucebox as you ? No, good sir, said I, and I hope your 
 honour won't be angry with me ; it is not I that expose 
 vou, if I say nothing but the truth. So, taunting again 1 
 Assurance as you are ! said he : I will not be thus talked to ! 
 
 Pray, sir, said I, of whom can a poor girl take advice, if 
 it must not be of her father and mother, and such a good 
 woman as Mrs. Jervis, who, for her sex-sake, should give it 
 me when asked ? Insolence ! said he, and stamped with his 
 foot, am I to be questioned thus by such a one as you ? I 
 fell down on my knees, and said. For Heaven's sake, your 
 honour, pity a poor creature, that knows nothing of her 
 
VIRTUE REIVATIDED. 35 
 
 duty, but how to cherish her virtue and good name : I have 
 nothing else to trust to; and, though poor and friendless 
 here, yet I have always been taught to value honesty above 
 my life. Here's ado with your honesty, said he, foolish girl ! 
 Is it not one part of honesty to be dutiful and grateful to 
 your master, do you think ? Indeed, sir, said I, it is impos- 
 sible I should be ungrateful to your honour, or disobedient, 
 or deserve the names of bold-face and insolent, which you 
 call me, but when your commands are contrary to that first 
 duty which shall ever be the principle of vcvf life ! 
 
 He seemed to be moved, and rose up, and walked into 
 the great chamber two or three turns, leaving me on my 
 knees ; and I threw my apron over my face, and laid my 
 head on a chair, and cried as if my heart would break, 
 having no power to stir. 
 
 At last he came in again, but, alas ! with mischief in his 
 heart! and raising me up, he said. Rise, Pamela, rise; you 
 are your own enemy. Your perverse folly will be your ruin : 
 I tell you this, that I am very much displeased with the 
 freedoms you have taken with my name to my housekeeper, 
 as also to your father and mother; and you may as well 
 have real cause to take these freedoms with me, as to make 
 my name suffer for imaginary ones. And saying so, he 
 offered to take me on his knee, with some force. Oh how I 
 was terrified ! I said, like as I had read in a book a night or 
 two before, Angels and saints, and all the host of heaven, 
 defend me! And may I never survive, one moment, that 
 fatal one in which I shall forfeit my innocence ! Pretty fool ! 
 said he, how will you forfeit your innocence, if you are 
 obliged to yield to a force you cannot withstand ? Be easy, 
 said he ; for let the worst happen that can^ you will have the 
 merit, and I the blame ; and it will be a good subject for 
 letters to your father and mother, and a tale into the bargain 
 for Mrs. Jervis. 
 
 He by force kissed my neck and lips ; and said, Whoever 
 blamed Lucretia ? All the shame lay on the ravisher only : 
 and I am content to take all the blame upon me, as I 
 have already borne too great a share for what I have not 
 
25 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 deserved. May I, said I, Lucretia like, justify myself with 
 my death, if I am used barbarously ! Oh, my good girl, said 
 he tauntingly, you are well read, I see ; and we shall make 
 out between us, before we have done, a pretty story in 
 romance, I warrant ye. 
 
 He then put his hand in my bosom, and indignation 
 gave me double strength, and I got loose from him by a 
 sudden spring, and ran out of the room ! and the next 
 chamber being open, I made shift to get into it, and threw 
 to the door, and it locked after me ; but he followed me so 
 close, he got hold of my gown, and tore a piece off, which 
 hung without the door ; for the key was on the inside. 
 
 I just remember I got into the room; for I knew nothing 
 further of the matter till afterwards ; for I fell into a fit 
 with my terror, and there I lay, till he, as I suppose, looking 
 through the key-hole, 'spyed me upon the floor, stretched 
 out at length, on my face ; and then he called Mrs. Jervis 
 to me, who, by his assistance, bursting open the door, he 
 went away, seeing me coming to myself; and bid her say 
 nothing of the matter, if she was wise. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Jervis thought it was worse, and cried over me 
 like as if she was my mother; and I was two hours before 
 I came to- myself; and just as I got a little up on my feet, 
 he coming in, I fainted away again with the terror ; and so 
 he withdrew : but he stayed in the next room to let nobody 
 come near us, that his foul proceedings might not be 
 known. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis gave me her smelling-bottle, and had cut my 
 laces, and set me in a great chair, and he called her to him : 
 How is the girl ? said he : I never saw such a fool in my 
 life. I did nothing at all to her. Mrs. Jervis could not 
 speak for crying. So he said. She has told you, it seems, 
 that I was kind to her in the summer-house, though, I'll 
 assure you, I was quite innocent then as well as now ; and 
 I desire you to keep this matter to yourself, and let me not 
 be named in it. 
 
 Oh,' sir, said she, for your honour's sake, and for Christ's 
 sake ! — But he would not hear her, and said — For your own 
 
K VIRTUE REWARDED. 27 
 
 sake, I tell you, Mrs. Jervis, say not a word more. I have 
 done her no harm. And I won't have her stay in my 
 house ; prating, perverse fool, as she is ! But since she is 
 so apt to fall into fits, or at least pretend to do so, prepare 
 her to see me to-morrow after dinner, in my mother's closet, 
 and do you be with her, and you shall hear what passes 
 between us. 
 
 And so he went out in a pet, and ordered his chariot and 
 four to be got ready, and went a visiting somewhere. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis then came to me, and I told her all that had 
 happened, and said, I was resolved not to stay in the house: 
 And she replying, He seemed to threaten as much ; I said, 
 I am glad of that; then I shall be easy. So she told me ail 
 he had said to her, as above. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis is very loath I should go; and yet, poor 
 woman! she begins to be afraid for herself; but would 
 not have me ruined for the world. She says to be sure he 
 means no good ; but may be, now he sees me so resolute, 
 he will give over all attempts : and that I shall better know 
 what to do after to-morrow, when I am to appear before 
 a very bad judge, I doubt. 
 
 Oh how I dread this to-morrow's appearance ! But be as 
 assured, my dear parents, of the honesty of your poor child, 
 as I am of your prayers for 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
 Oh this frightful to-morrow ; how I dread it 1 
 
 LETTER XVI. 
 
 My dear Parents, — I know you longed to hear from 
 me soon ; and I send you as soon as I could. 
 
 Well, you may believe how uneasily I passed the time, 
 till his appointed hour came. Every minute, as it grew 
 nearer, my terrors increased ; and sometimes I had great 
 courage, and sometimes none at all ; and I thought I should 
 faint when it came to the time my master had dined. I 
 
38 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 could neither eat nor drink, for my part ; and do what I 
 could, my eyes were swelled with crying. 
 
 At last he went up to the closet, which was my good 
 lady's dressing-room ; a room I once loved, but then as 
 much hated. 
 
 Don't your heart ache for me ? — I am sure mine fluttered 
 about like a new-caught bird in a cage. O Pamela ! said I 
 to myself, why art thou so foolish and fearful ? Thou hast 
 done no harm ! What, if thou fearest an unjust judge, 
 when thou art innocent, would'st thou do before a just one, 
 if thou wert guilty ? Have courage, Pamela, thou knowest 
 the worst ! And how easy a choice poverty and honesty is, 
 rather than plenty and wickedness. 
 
 So I cheered myself; but yet liiy poor heart sunk, and 
 my spirits were quite broken. Everything that stirred, I 
 thought was to call me to my account. I dreaded it, and 
 yet I wished it to come. 
 
 Well, at last he rung the bell : Oh, thought I, that it was 
 my passing-bell ! Mrs. Jervis went up, with a full heart 
 enough, poor good woman ! He said, Where's Pamela ? 
 Let her come up, and do you come with her. She came 
 to me : I was ready to go with my feet ; but my heart was 
 with my dear father and mother, wishing to share your 
 poverty and happiness. I went up, however. 
 
 Oh how can wicked men seem so steady and untouched 
 with such black hearts, while poor innocents stand like 
 malefactors before them ! 
 
 He looked so stern, that my heart failed me, and I wished 
 myself anywhere but there, though I had before been sum- 
 moning up all my courage. Good Heaven, said I to myself, 
 give me courage to stand before this naughty master 1 Oh 
 soften him, or harden me ! 
 
 Come in, fool, said he angrily, as soon as he saw me 
 (and snatched my hand with a pull) ; you may well be 
 ashamed to see me, after your noise and nonsense, and 
 exposing me as you have done. I ashamed to see you! 
 thought I : Very pretty indeed ! — But I said nothing. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis, said he, here you are both together. Do 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 29 
 
 you sit down ; but let her stand^ if she will. Ay, thought 
 I, if I can ; for my knees beat one against the other. Did 
 you not think, when you saw the girl in the way you found 
 her in, that I had given her the greatest occasion for com- 
 plaint, that could possibly be given to a woman ? And that 
 I had actually ruined her^ as she calls it? Tell me, could 
 you think anything less ? Indeed, said she, I feared so at 
 first. Has she told you what I did to her, and all I did to 
 her, to occasion all this folly, by which my reputation 
 might have suffered in your opinion, and in that of all the 
 family. — Inform me, what she has told you ? 
 
 She was a little too much frightened, as she owned after- 
 wards, at his sternness, and said. Indeed she told me you 
 ovly pulled her on your knee, and kissed her. 
 
 Then I plucked up my spirits a little. Only ! Mrs. 
 Jervis ? said I ; and was not that enough to show me what 
 I had to fear ? When a master of his honour's degree de- 
 means himself to be so free as that to such a poor servant 
 as me, what is the next to be expected ? — But your honour 
 went further, so you did ; and threatened me what you 
 would do, and talked of Lzicretia, and her hard fate. — 
 Your honour knows you went too far for a master' to a 
 servant, or even to his equal ; and I cannot bear it. So I 
 fell a crying most sadly. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis began to excuse me, and to beg he would pity a 
 poor maiden, that had such a value for her reputation. He 
 said, I speak it to her face, I think her very pretty, and 
 I thought her humble, and one that would not grow upon 
 my favours, or the notice I took of her ; but I abhor the 
 thoughts of forcing her to anything. I know myself better, 
 said he, and what belongs to me : And to be sure I have 
 enough demeaned myself to take notice of such a one as she ; 
 but I was bewitched by her, I think, to be freer than became 
 me; though I had no intention to carry the jest farther. 
 
 What poor stuff was all this, my dear mother, from a 
 man of his sense ! But see how a bad cause and bad actions 
 confound the greatest wits ! — It gave me a little more cour- 
 age then; for innocence, I find, in a low fortune, and 
 
30 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 weak mindj has many advantages over guilt, with all its 
 riches and wisdom. 
 
 So I said, Your honour may call this jest or sport, or 
 what you please; but indeed, sir, it is not a jest thaf; be- 
 comes the distance between a master and a servant. Do 
 you hear, Mrs. Jervis? said he: do you hear the pertness 
 of the creature ? I had a good deal of this sort before in 
 the summer-house, and yesterday too, which made me 
 rougher with her than perhaps I had otherwise been. 
 
 Says Mrs. Jervis, Pamela, don't be so pert to his honour : 
 you should know your distance; you see his honour was 
 only in jest. — Oh dear Mrs. Jervis, said I, don't you blame 
 me too. It is very difficult to keep one's distance to the 
 greatest of men, when they won't keep it themselves to 
 their meanest servants. 
 
 See again ! said he ; could you believe this of the young 
 baggage, if you had not heard it? Good your honour, 
 said the well-meaning gentlewoman, pity and forgive the 
 poor girl ; she is but a girl, and her virtue is very dear to 
 her ; and I will pawn my life for her, she will never be 
 pert to your honour, if you'll be so good as to molest her 
 no more, nor frighten her again. You saw, sir, by her fit, 
 she was in terror ; she could not help it ; and though your 
 honour intended her no harm, yet the apprehension was 
 almost death to her : and I had much ado to bring her to 
 herself again. Oh the little hypocrite! said he; she has 
 all the arts of her sex ; they were horn with her ; and I 
 told you awhile ago you did not know her. But this was 
 not the reason principally of my calling you before me 
 together. I find I am likely to suffer in my reputation by 
 the perverseness and folly of this girl. She has told you 
 all, and perhaps more than all ; nay, I make no doubt of 
 it; and she has written letters (for I find she is a mighty 
 letter-writer 1) to her father and mother, and others, as far 
 as I know, in which representing herself as an angel of 
 light, she makes her kind master and benefactor, a devil 
 incarnate — (Oh how people will sometimes, thought I, call 
 themselves by their right names !) — And all this, added he, 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 31 
 
 I won't bear ; and so I am resolved she shall return to the 
 distresses and poverty she was taken from ;' and let her be 
 careful how she uses my name with freedom^ when she is 
 gone from me. 
 
 I was brightened up at once with these welcome words^ 
 and I threw myself upon my knees at his feet, with a most 
 sincere glad heart ; and I said, May your honour be for 
 ever blessed for your resolution ! Now I shall be happy. 
 And permit me, on my bended knees, to thank you for all 
 the benefits and favours you have heaped upon me ; for the 
 opportunities I have had of improvement and learning, 
 through my good lady's means, and yours. I will now for- 
 get all your honour has offered me : and I promise you, that 
 I will never let your name pass my lips, but with reverence 
 and gratitude : and so God Almighty bless your honour, for 
 ever and ever ! Amen. 
 
 Then rising from my knees, I went away with another- 
 guise sort of heart than I came into his presence with : and 
 so I fell to writing this letter. And thus all is happily over. 
 
 And now, my dearest father and mother, expect to see 
 soon your poor daughter, with an humble and dutiful mind, 
 returned to you : and don't fear but I know how to be as 
 happy with you as ever : for I will lie in the loft, as I used 
 to do ; and pray let my little bed be got ready ; and I have 
 a small matter of money, which will buy me a suit of clothes, 
 fitter for my condition than what I have ; and I will get 
 Mrs. Mumford to help me to some needlework; and fear 
 not that I shall be a burden to you, if my health continues. 
 I know I shall be blessed, if not for my own sake, for both 
 your sakes, who have, in all your trials and misfortunes, pre- 
 served so much integrity as makes everybody speak well of 
 you both. But I hope he will let good Mrs. Jervis give me 
 a character, for fear it should be thought that I was turned 
 away for dishonesty. 
 
 And so, my dear parents, may you be blest for me, and 
 I for you ! And I will always pray for my master and Mrs. 
 Jervis. So good-night ; for it is late, and I shall be soon 
 called to bed. 
 
3a PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I hope Mrs. Jervis is not angry with me. She has not 
 called me to supper : though I could eat nothing if she had. 
 But I make no doubt I shall sleep purely to-night, and 
 dream that I am with you, in my dear, dear, happy loft 
 once more. 
 
 So good-night again, my dear father and mother, says 
 
 Your poor honest Daughter. 
 
 Perhaps I mayn't come this week, because I must get up 
 the linen, and leave in order everything belonging to 
 my place. So send me a line, if you can, to let me 
 know if I shall be welcome, by John, who will call for 
 it as he returns. But say nothing of my coming away 
 to him, as yet : for it will be said I blab everything. 
 
 LETTER XVII. 
 
 My dearest Daughter, — ^Welcome, welcome, ten times 
 welcome shall you be to us ; for you come to us innocent, 
 and happy, and honest ; and you are the staff of our old 
 age, and our comfort. And though we cannot do for you, 
 as we would, yet, fear not, we shall live happily together ; 
 and what with my diligent labour, and your poor mother's 
 spinning, and your needlework, I make no doubt we shall 
 do better and better. Only your poor mother's eyes begin 
 to fail her ; though, I bless God, I am as strong and able, 
 and willing to labour as ever ; and oh, my dear child ! your 
 virtue has made me, I think, stronger and better than I 
 was before. What blessed things are trials and temptations, 
 when we have the strength to resist and subdue them ! 
 
 But I am uneasy about those same four guineas : I think 
 you should give them back again to your master ; and yet 
 I have broken them. Alas ! I have only three left; but I 
 will borrow the fourth, if I can, part upon my wages, and 
 part of Mrs. Mumford, and send the whole sum back to 
 you, that you may return it, against John comes next, if he 
 comes again before you. 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 33 
 
 I want to know how you come. I fancy honest John will 
 be glad to bear you company part of the way, if your 
 master is not so cross as to forbid him. And if I know 
 time enough, your mother will go one five miles, and I will 
 go ten on the way, or till I meet you, as far as one holiday 
 will go ; for that I can get leave to make on such an 
 occasion. 
 
 And we shall receive you with more pleasure than we 
 had at your birth, when all the worst was over ; or than 
 we ever had in our lives. 
 
 And so God bless you till the happy time comes 1 say 
 both your mother and I, which is all at present, from 
 
 Your truly loving Parents. 
 
 LETTER XVIII. 
 
 I? 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — I thank you a thousand 
 times for your goodness to me, expressed in your last letter. 
 I now long to get my business done, and come to my new 
 old lot again, as I may call it. I have been quite another 
 thing since my master has turned me off: and as I shall come 
 to you an honest daughter, what pleasure it is to what I 
 should have had, if I could not have seen you but as a guilty 
 one. Well, my writing-time will soon be over, and so I 
 will make use of it now, and tell you all that has happened 
 since my last letter. 
 
 I wondered Mrs. Jervis did not call me to sup with her, 
 and feared she was angry; and when I had finished my 
 letter, I longed for her coming to bed. At last she came 
 up, but seemed shy and reserved; and I said. My dear 
 Mrs. Jervis, I am glad to see you : you are not angry with 
 me, I hope ? She said she was sorry things had gone so 
 far; and that she had a great deal of talk with my master, 
 after I was gone ; that he seemed moved at what I said, 
 and at my falling on my knees to hipi, and my prayer for 
 him, at my going away. He said I was a strange girl ; he 
 
 YOU I. '^ 
 
34 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 knew not what to make of me. And is she gone ? said he : 
 I intended to say something else to her ; but she behaved 
 so oddly^ that I had not power to stop her. She asked^ if 
 she should call me again ? He saidj Yes ; and then. No, let 
 her go ; it is best for her and me too ; and she shall go, 
 now I have given her warning. Where she had it, I can't 
 tell ; but I never met with the fellow of her in my life, at 
 any age. She said, he had ordered her not to tell me all : 
 but she believed he would never offer anything to me 
 again ; and I might stay, she fancied, if I would beg it as a 
 favour ; though she was not sure neither. 
 
 I stay ! dear Mrs. Jervis, said I ; why it is the best news 
 that could have come to me, that he will let me go. ' I do 
 nothing but long to go back again to my poverty and dis- 
 tress, as he threatened I should ; for though I am sure of 
 the poverty, I shall not have the distress I have had for 
 some months past, I'll assure you. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis, dear good soul !. wept over me, and said, 
 Well, well, Pamela, I did not think I had shown so little 
 love to you, as that you should express so much joy upon 
 leaving me. I am sure I never had a child half so dear to 
 me as you are. 
 
 I wept to hear her so good to me, as indeed she has 
 always been, and said, What would you have me to do, 
 dear Mrs. Jervis ? I love you next to my own father and 
 mother, and to leave you is the chief concern I have at 
 quitting this place ; but I am sure it is certain ruin if I 
 stay. After such offers, and such threatenings, and his 
 comparing himself to a wicked ravisher in the very time 
 of his last offer ; and turning it into a jest, that we should 
 make a pretty story in romance; can I stay and be safe? 
 Has he not demeaned himself twice ? And it behoves me 
 to beware of the third time, for fear he should lay his 
 snares surer ; for perhaps he did not expect a poor servant 
 would resist her master so much. And must it not be 
 looked upon as a sort of warrant for such actions, if I stay 
 after this ? For, I think, when one of our sex finds she is 
 attempted, it is an encouragement to the attempter to pro- 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 35 
 
 ceedj if one puts one's self in the way of it^ when one can 
 help it : 'Tis neither more nor less than inviting him to think 
 that one forgives^ what, in short, ought not to be forgiven : 
 Which is no small countenance to foul actions, I'll assure 
 you. 
 
 She hugged me to her, and said, I'll assure you ! Pretty- 
 face, where gottest thou all thy knowledge, and thy good 
 notions, at these years ? Thou art a miracle for thy age, 
 and I shall always love thee. — But, do you resolve to leave 
 us, Pamela? 
 
 Yes, my dear Mrs. Jervis, said I ; for, as matters stand, 
 how can I do otherwise ? — But I'll finish the duties of my 
 place first, if I may ; and hope you'll give me a character, 
 as to my honesty, that it may not be thought I was turned 
 away for any harm. Ay, that I will, said she ; I will give 
 thee such a character as never girl at thy years deserved. 
 And I am sure, said I, I will always love and honour you, 
 as my third-best friend, wherever I go, or whatever be- 
 comes of me. 
 
 And so we went to bed ; and I never waked till 'twas 
 time to rise; which I did as blithe as a bird, and went 
 about my business with great pleasure. 
 
 But I believe my master is fearfully angry with me ; for 
 he passed by me two or three times, and would not speak 
 to me; and towards evening, he met me in the passage, 
 going into the garden, and said such a word to me as I 
 never heard in my life from him to man, woman, or child ; 
 for he first said. This creature's always in the way, I think. 
 I said, standing up as close as^I could (and the entry was 
 wide enough for a coach too), I hope I shan't be long in 
 your honour's way. D — mn you ! said he (that was the 
 hard word), for a little witch ; I have no patience with you. 
 
 I profess I trembled to hear him say so ; but I saw he 
 was vexed ; and, as I am going away, I minded it the less. 
 Well ! I see, my dear parents, that when a person will do 
 wicked things, it is no wonder he will speak wicked words. 
 May God keep me out of the way of them both 1 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
35 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 LETTER XIX. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — Our John having an 
 opportunity to go your way, I write again, and send both 
 letters at once. I can't say, yet, when I shall get away, 
 nor how I shall come, because Mrs. Jervis showed my 
 master the waistcoat I am flowering for him, and he said. 
 It looks well enough : I think the creature had best stay 
 till she has finished it. 
 
 There is some private talk carried on betwixt him and 
 Mrs. Jervis, that she don't tell me of; but yet she is very 
 kind to me, and I don't mistrust her at all. I should be 
 very base if I did. But to be sure she must oblige him, 
 and keep all his lawful commands; and other, I daresay, 
 she won't keep : She is too good ; and loves me too well ; 
 but she must stay when I am gone, and so must get no ill 
 will. 
 
 She has been at me again to ask to stay, and humble 
 myself. But what have I done, Mrs. Jervis? said I : if I 
 have been a sauce-box, and a bold-face, and a pert, and a 
 creature, as he calls me, have I not had reason ? Do you 
 think I should ever have forgot myself, if he had not forgot 
 to act as my master ? Tell me from your own heart, dear 
 Mrs. Jervis, said I, if you think I could stay and be safe: 
 What would you think, or how would you act, in my case ? 
 
 My dear Pamela, said she, and kissed me, I don't know 
 how I should act, or what I should think. I hope I should 
 act as you do. But I know nobody else that would. My 
 master is a fine gentleman ; he has a great deal of wit and 
 sense, and is admired, as I know, by half a dozen ladies, 
 who would think themselves happy in his addresses. He 
 has a noble estate; and yet I believe he loves my good 
 maiden, though his servant, better than all the ladies in the 
 land ; and he has tried to overcome it, because you are so 
 much his inferior ; and 'tis my opinion he finds he can't ; 
 and that vexes his proud heart, and makes him resolve you 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 37 
 
 shan't stay ; and so he speaks so cross to you, when he sees 
 you by accident. 
 
 Well, butj Mrs. Jervis, said I, let me ask you, if he can 
 stoop to like such a poor girl as me, as perhaps he may (for 
 I have read of things almost as strange, from great men to 
 poor damsels), what can it be for ? — He may condescend, 
 perhaps, to think I may be good enough for his harlot; and 
 those things don't disgrace men that ruin poor women, as 
 the world goes. And so if I was wicked enough, he woald 
 keep me till I was undone, and till his mind changed ; for 
 even wicked men, I have read, soon grow weary of wicked- 
 ness with the same person, and love variety. Well, then, 
 poor Pamela must be turned off, and looked upon as a vile 
 abandoned creature, and everybody would despise her; ay, 
 and justly too, Mrs. Jervis ; for she that can't keep her 
 virtue, ought to live in disgrace. 
 
 But, Mrs. Jervis, continued I, let me tell you, that I 
 hope, if I was sure he would always be kind to me, and 
 never turn me off at all, that I shall have so much grace, 
 as to hate and withstand his temptations, were he not 
 only my master, but my king ; and that for the sin's sake. 
 This my poor dear parents have always taught me ; and I 
 should be a sad wicked creature indeed, if, for the sake of 
 riches or favour, I should forfeit my good name ; yea, and 
 worse than any other young body of my sex ; because I 
 can so contentedly return to my poverty again, and think 
 it a less disgrace to be obliged to wear rags, and live upon 
 rye-bread and water, as I used to do, than to be a harlot 
 to the greatest man in the world. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis lifted up her hands, and had her eyes full of 
 tears. God bless you, my dear love ! said she ; you are 
 my admiration and delight. — How shall I do to part with 
 you! 
 
 Well, good Mrs. Jervis, said I, let me ask you now : — 
 You and he have had some talk, and you mayn't be suffered 
 to tell me all. But, do you think, if I was to ask to stay, 
 that he is sorry for what he has done ? Ay, and ashamed 
 of it too ? For I am sure he ought, considering his high 
 
38 . PAMELA; OR, 
 
 degree, and my low degree, and how I have nothing in the 
 world to trust to but my honesty : Do you think in your 
 own conscience now (pray answer me truly), that he would 
 never offer anything to me again, and that I could be safe? 
 
 Alas ! my dear child, said she, don't put thy home 
 questions to me, with that pretty becoming earnestness in 
 thy look. I know this, that he is vexed at what he has 
 done; he was vexed the Jirst time, more vexed the second 
 time. 
 
 Yes, said I, and so he will be vexed, I suppose^ the third, 
 and the fourth time too, till he has quite ruined your poor 
 maiden ; and who will have cause to be vexed then ? 
 
 Nay, Pamela, said she, don't imagine that I would be 
 accessory to your ruin for the world. I only can say, that 
 he has, yet, done you no hurt ; and it is no wonder he 
 should love you, you are so pretty; though so much beneath 
 him : but, I dare swear for him, he never will offer you 
 any force. 
 
 You say, said I, that he was sorry for his Jirst offer in 
 the summer-house. Well, and how long did his sorrow 
 last ? — Only till he found me by myself; and then he was 
 worse than before : and so became sorry again. And if he 
 has deigned to love me, and you say can't help it, why, he 
 can't help it neither, if he should have an opportunity, a 
 third time to distress me. And I have read that many a 
 man has been ashamed of his wicked attempts, when he 
 has been repulsed, that would never have been ashamed of 
 them, had he succeeded. Besides, Mrs. Jervis, if he really 
 intends to offer no force, what does that mean ? — While 
 you say he can't help liking me, for love it cannot be — 
 does it not imply that he hopes to ruin me by my own 
 consent ? I think, said I (and I hope I should have grace 
 to do so), that I should not give way to his temptations on 
 any account; but it would be very presumptuous in me to 
 rely upon my own strength against a gentleman of his 
 qualifications and estate, and who is my master; and thinks 
 himself entitled to call me bold-face, and what not ! only 
 for standing on my necessary defence : and that, too, where 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 39 
 
 the good of my soul and body, and my duty to God and 
 my parents, are all concerned. How then, Mrs. Jervis, 
 said I, can I ask or wish to stay ? 
 
 Well, well, says she, as he seems very desirous you should 
 not stay, I hope it is from a good motive ; for fear he should 
 be tempted to disgrace himself as well as you. No, no, Mrs. 
 Jervis, said I ; I have thought of that too ; for I would be 
 glad to consider him with that duty that becomes me : but 
 then he would have let me go to Lady Davers, and not 
 have hindered my preferment : and he would not have said, 
 I should return to my poverty and distress, when, by his 
 mother's goodness, I had been lifted out of it ; but that he 
 intended to fright me, and punish me, as he thought, for 
 not complying with his wickedness : And this shows me 
 well enough what I have to expect from his future goodness, 
 except I will deserve it at his own dear price. 
 
 She was silent ; and I added. Well, there's no more to be 
 said ; I must go, that's certain : All my concern will be 
 how to part with you : and, indeed, after you, with every- 
 body; for all my fellow-servants have loved me, and you 
 and they will cost me a sigh, and a tear too, now and then, 
 ' I am sure. And so I fell a crying : I could not help it. 
 For it is a pleasant thing to one to be in a house among a 
 great many fellow-servants, and be beloved by them all. 
 
 Nay, I should have told you before now, how kind and 
 civil Mr. Longman our steward is ; vastly courteous, indeed, 
 on all occasions 1 And he said once to Mrs. Jervis, he 
 wished he was a young man for my sake ; I should be his 
 wife, and he would settle all he had upon me on marriage ; 
 and, you must know, he is reckoned worth a power of 
 money. 
 
 I take no pride in this ; but bless God, and your good 
 examples, my dear parents, that I have been enabled so to 
 carry myself, as to have everybody's good word : Not but 
 our cook one day, who is a little snappish and cross some- 
 times, said once to me, Why this Pamela of ours goes as 
 fine as a lady. See what it is to have a fine face 1 — I 
 wonder what the girl will come to at last 1 
 
40 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 She was hot with her work ; and I sneaked away ; for I 
 seldom go down into the kitchen ; and I heard the butler 
 say, Why, Jane, nobody has your good word : What has 
 Mrs. Pamela done to you ? I am sure she ofFends nobody. 
 And what, said the peevish wench, have I said to her, /oo/- 
 atum; but that she was pretty? They quarrelled after- 
 wards, I heard : I was sorry for it, but troubled myself no 
 more about it. Forgive this silly prattle, from 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
 Oh ! I forgot to say, that I would stay to finish the 
 waistcoat, if I might with safety. Mrs. Jervis tells me 
 I certainly may. I never did a prettier piece of work ; 
 and I am up early and late to get it over ; for I long to 
 be with you. 
 
 LETTER XX. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — I did not send my last 
 letters so soon as I hoped, because John (whether my master 
 mistrusts or no, I can't say) had been sent to Lady Davers', 
 instead of Isaac, who used to go ; and I could not be so free 
 with, nor so well trust Isaac ; though he is very civil to me 
 too. So I was forced to stay till John returned. 
 
 As I may not have opportunity to send again soon, and 
 yet, as I know you keep my letters, and read them over 
 and over (so John told me), when you have done work 
 (so much does your kindness make you love all that comes 
 from your poor daughter), and as it may be some little 
 pleasure to me, perhaps, to read them myself, when I am 
 come to you, to remind me of what I have gone through, 
 and how great God's goodness has been to me (which I 
 hope, will further strengthen my good resolutions, that I 
 may not hereafter, from my bad conduct, have reason to 
 condemn myself from my own hand as it were) : For all 
 these reasons, I say, I will write as I have time, and as 
 matters happen, and send the scribble to you as I have 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 41 
 
 opportunity ; and if I don't every time, in iovm, subscribe 
 as I ought, I am sure you will always believe, that it is not 
 for want of duty. So I will begin where I left off, about 
 the talk between Mrs. Jervis and me, for me to ask to 
 stay. 
 
 Unknown to Mrs. Jervis, I put a project, as I may call 
 it, in practice. I thought with myself some days ago, Here 
 I shall go home to my poor father and mother, and have 
 nothing on my back, that will be fit for my condition ; for 
 how should your poor daughter look with a silk nightgown, 
 silken petticoats, cambric head-clothes, fine holland linen, 
 laced shoes, that were my lady's ; and fine stockings ! And 
 how in a little while must these have looked, like old cast- 
 ofFs, indeed, and I looked so for wearing them! And people 
 would have said (for poor folks are envious as well as rich). 
 See there Goody Andrews' daughter, turned home from 
 her fine place! What a tawdry figure she makes! And 
 how well that garb becomes her poor parents' circum- 
 stances! — ^And how would they look upon me, thought I 
 to myself, when they should come to be threadbare and 
 worn out? And how should I look, even if I could pur- 
 chase homespun clothes, to dwindle into them one by one, 
 as I got them? — Maybe, an old silk gown, and a linsey- 
 woolsey petticoat, and the like. So, thought I, I had 
 better get myself at once equipped in the dress that will 
 become my condition ; and though it may look but poor 
 to what I have been used to wear of late days, yet it will 
 serve me, when I am with you, for a good holiday and 
 Sunday suit; and what, by a blessing on my industry, I 
 may, perhaps, make shift to keep up to. 
 
 So, as I was saying, unknown to anybody, I bought of 
 farmer Nichols's wife and daughters a good sad-coloured 
 stuff, of their own spinning, enough to make me a gown 
 and two petticoats; and I made robings and facings of a 
 pretty bit of printed calico I had by me. 
 
 I had a pretty good camblet quilted coat, that I thought 
 might do tolerably well; and I bought two flannel under- 
 coats; not so good as my swanskin and fine linen ones, 
 
42 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 but what will keep me warm^ if any neighbour should get 
 me to go out to help 'em to milk^ now and then^ as some- 
 times I used to do formerly; for I am resolved to do all 
 your good neighbours what kindness I can ; and hope to 
 make myself as much beloved about you^ as I am here. 
 
 I got some pretty good Scotch cloth, and made me, of 
 mornings and nights, when nobody saw me, two shifts ; and 
 I have enough left for two shirts, and two shifts, for you 
 my dear father and mother. When I come home, I'll make 
 them for you, and desire your acceptance. 
 
 Then I bought of a pedlar two pretty enough round- 
 eared capSj a little straw-hat, and a pair of knit mittens, 
 turned up with white calico ; and two pair of ordinary blue 
 worsted hose, that make a smartish appearance, with white 
 clocks, I'll assure you ; and two yards of black riband for 
 my shift sleeves, and to serve as a necklace ; and when I 
 had 'em all come home, I went and looked upon them once 
 in two hours, for two days together : For, you must know, 
 though I lie with Mrs. Jervis, I keep my own little apart- 
 ment still for my clothes, and nobody goes thither but my- 
 self. You'll say I was no bad housewife to have saved so 
 much money ; but my dear good lady was always giving 
 me something. 
 
 I believed myself the more obliged to do this, because, as 
 I was turned away for what my good master thought want 
 of duty ; and as he expected other returns for his presents 
 than I intended to make him, so I thought it was but just 
 to leave his presents behind me when I went away ; for, 
 you know, if I would not earn his wages, why should I 
 have them ? 
 
 Don't trouble yourself about the four guineas, nor borrow 
 to make them up ; for they were given me, with some silver, 
 as I told you, as a perquisite, being what my lady had about 
 her when she died ; and, as I hope for no wages, I am so 
 vain as to think I have deserved all that money in the 
 fourteen months, since my lady's death : for she, good soul, 
 overpaid me before, in learning and other kindnesses. Had 
 she lived, none of these things might have happened ! But 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 43 
 
 I ought to be thankful 'tis no worse. Everything will turn 
 about for. the best ; that's my confidence. 
 
 So, as I was saying, I have provided a new and more 
 suitable dress, and I long to appear in it, more than ever I 
 did in any new clothes in my life ; for then I shall be soon 
 after with you, and at ease in my mind — But, mum ! Here 
 he comes, I believe. — I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXI. 
 
 My DEAR Father and Mother, — I was forced to break 
 off; for I feared my master was coming ; but it proved to 
 be only Mrs. Jervis. She said, I can't endure you should be 
 so much by yourself, Pamela. And I, said I, dread nothing 
 so much as company ; for my heart was up at my mouth 
 now, for fear my master was coming. But I always rejoice 
 to see dear Mrs. Jervis. 
 
 Said she, I have had a world of talk with my master 
 about you. I am sorry for it, said I, that I am made of 
 so much consequence as to be talked of by him. Oh, said 
 she, I must not tell you all ; but you are of more conse- 
 quence to him than you think for 
 
 Or wish for, said I ; for the fruits of being of consequence 
 to him, would make me of none to myself, or anybody else. 
 
 Said she. Thou art as witty as any lady in the land : I 
 wonder where thou gottest it. But they must be poor 
 ladies, with such great opportunities, I am sure, if they 
 have no more wit than I. — But let that pass. 
 
 I suppose, said I, that I am of so much consequence, how- 
 ever, as to vex him, if it be but to think he can't make 
 a fool of such a one as I ; and that is nothing at all, but a 
 rebuke to the pride of his high condition, which he did not 
 expect, and knows not how to put up with. 
 
 There is something in that, may be, said she; but, 
 indeed, Pamela, he is very angry with you too; and calls 
 you twenty perverse things; wonders at his own folly, to 
 
44 PAMELA; OR, ' 
 
 have shewn you so much favour, as he calls it ; which he 
 was first inclined to, he says, for his mother's sake, and 
 would have persisted to show you for your own, if you was 
 not your own enemy. 
 
 Nay, now I shan't love you, Mrs. Jervis, said I ; you are 
 going to persuade me to ask to stay, though you know the 
 hazards I run. — No, said she, he says you shall go ; for he 
 thinks it won't be for his reputation to keep you : but he 
 wished (don't speak of it for the world, Pamela), that he 
 knew a lady of birth, just such another as yourself, in 
 person and mind, and he would marry her to-morrow. 
 
 I coloured up to the ears at this word ; but said, Yet, if 
 I was the lady of birth, and he would offer to be rude first, 
 as he has twice done to poor me, I don't know whether [ 
 would have him : For she that can bear an insult of that 
 kind, I should think not worthy to be a gentleman's wife; 
 any more than he would be a gentleman that would offer it. 
 
 Nay, now, Pamela, said she, thou carriest thy notions a 
 great way. Well, dear Mrs. Jervis, said I very seriously, 
 for I could not help it, I am more full of fears than ever. 
 I have only to beg of you, as one of the best friends I have 
 in the world, to say nothing of my asking to stay. To say 
 my master likes me, when I know what end he aims at, is 
 abomination to my ears ; and I shan't think myself safe till 
 I am at my poor father's and mother's. 
 
 She was a little angry with me, till I assured her that I 
 had not the least uneasiness on her account, but thought 
 myself safe under her protection and friendship. And so 
 we dropt the discourse for that time. 
 
 I hope to have finished this ugly waistcoat in two days ; 
 after which I have only some linen to get up, and shall 
 then let you know how I contrive as to my passage; for 
 the heavy rains will make it sad travelling on foot: but 
 
 may be I may get a place to , which is ten miles of 
 
 the way, in farmer Nichols's close cart; for I can't sit a 
 horse well at all, and may be nobody will be suffered to see 
 me on upon the way. ' But I hope to let you know more 
 
 From, &c. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 45 
 
 LETTER XXII. 
 
 My dear Father and Mother, — All toy fellow- 
 servants have now some notion that I am to go away ; but 
 can't imagine for what. Mrs. Jervis tells them^ that my 
 father and mother, growing in years, cannot live without 
 me ; and so I go home to them, to help to comfort their 
 old age ; but they seem not to believe it. 
 
 What they found it out by was, the butler heard him 
 say to me, as I passed by him, in the entry leading to the 
 hall. Who's that ? Pamela, sir, said I. Pamela ! said he, 
 How long are you to stay here ? — Only, please your honour, 
 said I, till I have done the waistcoat; and it is almost 
 finished. — You might, says he (very roughly indeed), have 
 finished that long enough ago, I should have thought. In- 
 deed, and please your honour, said I, I have worked early 
 and late upon it j there is a great deal of work in it. — Work 
 in it ! said he; you mind your pen more than your needle; 
 I don't want such idle sluts to stay in my house. 
 
 He seemed startled, when he saw the butler, as he entered 
 the hall, where Mr. Jonathan stood. What do you here ? 
 said he. — The butler was as much confounded as I ; for, 
 never having been taxed so roughly, I could not help crying 
 sadly; and got out of both their ways to Mrs. Jervis, and 
 
 told my complaint. This love, said she, is the d ■. ! In 
 
 how many strange shapes does it make people show them- 
 selves 1 And in some the farthest from their hearts. 
 
 So one, and then another, has been since whispering. 
 Pray, Mrs. Jervis, are we to lose Mrs. Pamela? as they 
 always call me — ^What has she done ? And she tells them, 
 as above, about going home to you. 
 
 She said afterwards to me, Well, Pamela, you have made 
 our master, from the sweetest-tempered gentleman in the 
 world, one of the most peevish. But you have it in your 
 power to make him as sweet-tempered as ever; though I 
 hope you'll never do it on his terms. 
 
46 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 This was very good in Mrs. Jervis ; but it intimated, that 
 she thought as ill of his designs as I ; and as she knew his 
 mind more than I, it convinced me that I ought to get 
 away as fast as I could. 
 
 My master came in, just now, to speak to Mrs. Jervis 
 about household matters, having some company to dine 
 with him to-morrow; and I stood up, and having been 
 crying at his roughness in the entry, I turned away my 
 face. 
 
 You may well, said he, turn away your cursed face; I 
 wish I had never seen it ! — Mrs. Jervis, how long is she to 
 be about this waistcoat ? 
 
 Sir, said I, if your honour had pleased, I would have 
 taken it with me ; and though it would be now finished in 
 a few hours, I will do so still ; and remove this hated poor 
 Pamela out of your house and sight for ever. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis, said he, not speaking to me, I believe this 
 little slut has the power of witchcraft, if ever there was a 
 witch; for she enchants all that come near her. She makes 
 even you, who should know better what the world is, think 
 her an angel of light. 
 
 I offered to go away ; for I believe he wanted me to ask 
 to stay in my place, for all this his great wrath : and he 
 said. Stay here 1 Stay here, when I bid you 1 and snatched 
 my hand. I trembled, and said, I will ! I will ! for he hurt 
 my fingers, he grasped me so hard. 
 
 He seemed to have a mind to say something to me; but 
 broke off abruptly, and said. Begone ! And away I tripped 
 as fast as I could : and he and Mrs. Jervis had a deal of 
 talk, as she told me ; and among the rest, he expressed him- 
 self vexed to have spoken in Mr. Jonathan's hearing. 
 
 Now you must know, that Mr. Jonathan, our butler, is a 
 very grave good sort of old man, with his hair as white as 
 silver ! and an honest worthy man he is. I was hurrying out 
 with a flea in my ear, as the saying is, and going down stairs 
 into the parlour, met him. He took hold of my hand (in a 
 gentler manner, though, than my master) with both his ; 
 and he said. Ah ! sweet, sweet Mrs. Pamela ! what is it I 
 
VIRTUE REWJRDED. 47 
 
 heard but just now ! — I am sorry at my heart ; but I am 
 sure I will sooner believe anybody in fault than yozi. Thank 
 yoUj Mr. Jonathan^ said I ; but as you value your place, 
 don't be seen speaking to such a one as me. I cried too ; 
 and slipt away as fast as I could from him^ for his own sake, 
 lest he should be seen to pity me. 
 
 And now I will give you an instance how much I atn in 
 Mr. Longman's esteem also. 
 
 I had lost my pen somehow ; and my paper being written 
 out, I stepped to Mr. Longman's, our steward's, office, to 
 beg him to give me a pen or two, and a sheet or two of 
 paper. He said. Ay, that I will, my sweet maiden ! and 
 gave me three pens, some wafers, a stick of wax, and twelve 
 sheets of paper ; and coming from his desk, where he was 
 writing, he said, Let me have a word or two with you, my 
 sweet little mistress: (for so these two good old gentlemen 
 often call me; for I believe they love me dearly:) I hear 
 bad news ; that we are going to lose you : I hope it is not 
 true. "^Jes it is, sir, said I ; but I was in hopes it would not 
 be known till I went away. 
 
 What a d — 1, said he, ails our master of late 1 I never 
 saw such an alteration in any man in my life ! He is pleased 
 with nobody as I see ; and by what Mr. Jonathan tells me 
 just now, he was quite out of the way with you. What 
 could you have done to him, tro' ? Only Mrs. Jervis is a 
 very good woman, or I should have feared she had been your 
 enemy. 
 
 No, said I, nothing like it. Mrs. Jervis is a just good 
 woman ; and, next to my father and mother, the best friend 
 I have in the world.— Well, then, said he, it must be worse. 
 Shall I guess ? You are too pretty, my sweet mistress, and, 
 may be, too virtuous. Ah 1 have I not hit it ? No, good 
 Mr. Longman, said I, don't thi,nk anything amiss of my 
 master ; he is cross and angry with me indeed, that's true ; 
 but I may have given occasion for it, possibly ; and because 
 I am desirous to go to my father and mother, rather than 
 stay here, perhaps he may think me ungrateful. But, you 
 know, sir, said I, that a father and mother's comfort is the 
 
PAMELA; OR, 
 
 dearest thing to a good child that can be. Sweet excel- 
 lence ! said he^ this becomes you ; but I know the world and 
 mankind too well ; though I must hear, and see, and say 
 nothing. And so a blessing attend my little sweeting, 
 said he, wherever you go ! And away went I with a courtesy 
 and thanks. 
 
 Now this pleases one, my dear father and mother, to be 
 so beloved. — How much better, by good fame and integrity, 
 is it to get every one's good word but one, than, by pleasing 
 that one, to make every one else one's enemy, and be an 
 execrable creature besides ! I am, &c. 
 
 LETTER XXIII. 
 
 My dear Father and Mother, — ^We had a great many 
 neighbouring gentlemen, and their ladies, this day at dinner ; 
 and my master made a fine entertainment for thpm : and 
 Isaac, and Mr Jonathan, and Benjamin waited at table: 
 And Isaac tells Mrs. Jervis that the ladies will b} * and by 
 come to see the house, and have the curiosity to see me ; for, 
 it seems, they said to my master, when the jokes flew about, 
 
 Well, Mr. B , we understand you have a servant-maid, 
 
 who is the greatest beauty in the county ; and we promise 
 ourselves to see her before we go. 
 
 The wench is well enough, said he ; but no such beauty 
 as you talk of, I'll assure ye. She was my mother's 
 waiting-maid, who, on her death-bed, engaged me to be 
 kind to her. She is young, and every thing is pretty that 
 is young. 
 
 Ay, ay, said one of the ladies, that's true ; but if your 
 mother had not recommended her so strongly, there is so 
 much merit in beauty, that I make no doubt such a fine 
 gentleman would have wanted no inducement to be kind 
 to it. 
 
 They all laughed at my master: And he, it seems, 
 laughed for company; but said, I don't know how it is, 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 49 
 
 but I see with different eyes from other people ; for I have 
 heard much more talk of her prettiness than I think it 
 deserves : She is well enough^ as I said ; but her greatest 
 excellence is^ that she is humble, and courteous, and faith- 
 ful, and makes all her fellow-servants love her : My house- 
 keeper, in particular, doats upon her ; and you know, 
 ladies, she is a woman of discernment : And, as for Mr. 
 Longman, and Jonathan, here, if they thought themselves 
 young enough, I am told, they would fight for her. Is it 
 not true, Jonathan ? Troth, sir, said he, an't please your 
 honour, I never knew her peer, and all your honour^s 
 family are of the same mind. Do you hear now ? said 
 my master. — Well, said the ladies, we will make a visit to 
 Mrs. Jervis by and by, and hope to see this paragon. 
 
 I believe they are coming ; and will tell you the rest by 
 and by. I wish they had come, and were gone. Why 
 can't they make their game without me ? 
 
 Well, these fine ladies have been here, and are gone back 
 again. I would have been absent, if I could, and did step 
 into the closet : so they saw me when they came in. 
 
 There were four of them. Lady Arthur at the great 
 white house on the hill. Lady Brooks, Lady Towers, and 
 the other, it seems, a countess, of some hard. name, I forget 
 what. 
 
 So, Mrs. Jervis, says one of the ladies, how do you do ? 
 We are all come to inquire after your health. I am much 
 obliged to your ladyships, said Mrs. Jervis : Will your 
 ladyships please to sit down ? But, said the countess, we 
 are not only come to ask after Mrs. Jervis's health neither ; 
 but we are come to see a rarity besides. Ah, says Lady 
 Arthur, I have not seen your Pamela these two years, and 
 they tell me she is grown wondrous pretty in that time. 
 
 Then I wished I had not been in the closet ; for when I 
 came out, they must needs know I heard them ; but I have 
 often found, that bashful bodies owe themselves a spite, 
 and frequently confound themselves more, by endeavouring 
 to avoid confusion. 
 
 Why, yes, says Mrs. Jervis, Pamela is very pretty indeed ; 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 she's but in the closet there : — Pamela, pray step hither. 
 I came out, all covered with blushes, and they smiled at 
 one another. 
 
 The countess took me by the hand : Why, indeed, she 
 was pleased to say, report has not been too lavish, I'll 
 assure you. Don't be ashamed child (and stared full in 
 my face) ; I wish I had just such a face to be ashamed of. 
 Oh how like a fool I looked 1 
 
 Lady Arthur said. Ay, my good Pamela, I say as her 
 ladyship says : Don't be so confused ; though, indeed, it 
 becomes you too. I think your good lady departed made 
 a sweet choice of such a pretty attendant. She would have 
 been mighty proud of you, as she always was praising you, 
 had she lived till now. 
 
 Ah ! madam, said Lady Brooks, do you think that so 
 dutiful a son as our neighbour, who always admired what 
 his mother loved, does not pride himself, for all what he 
 said at table, in such a pretty maiden ? 
 
 She looked with such a malicious sneering countenance, 
 I can't abide her. 
 
 Lady Towers said with a free air (for it seems she is 
 called a wit), Well, Mrs. Pamela, I can't say I like you so 
 well as these ladies do ; for I should never care, if you were 
 my servant, to have yoti and your master in the same house 
 together. Then they all set up a great laugh. 
 
 I know what I could have said, if I durst. But they are 
 ladies^and ladies may say anything. 
 
 Says Lady Towers, - Can the pretty image speak, Mrs. 
 Jervis ? I vow she has speaking eyes 1 Oh you little rogue, 
 said she, and tapped me on the cheek, you seem born to 
 undo, or to be undone ! 
 
 God forbid, and please your ladyship, said I, it should 
 be either ! — I beg, said I, to withdraw ; for the sense 
 I have of my unworthiness renders me unfit for such a 
 presence. 
 
 I then went away, with one of my best courtesies ; and 
 
 Lady Towers said, as I went out, Prettily said, I vow ! 
 
 And Lady Brooks said. See that shape ! I never saw such 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 51 
 
 a face and shape in my life; why^ she must be better 
 descended than you have told me ! 
 
 And so they run on for half an hour more in my praises, 
 as I was told ; and glad was I^ when I got out of the hear- 
 ing of them. 
 
 But, it seems, they went down with such a story to my 
 master, and so full of me, that he had much ado to stand 
 it ; but as it was very little to my reputation, I am sure I 
 could take no pride in it ; and I feared it would make no 
 better for me. This gives me another cause for wishing 
 myself out of this house. 
 
 This is Thursday morning, and next Thursday I hope to 
 set out; for I have finished my task, and my master is horrid 
 cross ! And I am vexed his crossness affects me so. If ever 
 he had any kindness towards me, I believe he now hates me 
 heartily. 
 
 Is it not strange, that love borders so much upon hate ? 
 But this wicked love is not like the true virtuous love, to be 
 sure: that and hatred must be as far off as light and darkness. 
 And how must this hate have been increased, if he had met 
 with a base compliance, after his wicked will had been 
 gratified ? 
 
 Well, one may see by a little, what a great deal means. 
 For if innocence cannot attract common civility, what must 
 guilt expect, when novelty has ceased to have its charms 
 and changeableness had taken place of it ? Thus we read 
 in Holy Writ, that wicked Amnon, when he had ruined 
 poor Tamar, hated her more than ever he loved her, and 
 would have turned her out of door. 
 
 How happy am I, to be turned out of door, with that 
 sweet companion my innocence ! — Oh may that be always 
 my companion ! And while I presume not upon my own 
 strength, and am wiUing to avoid the tempter, I hope the 
 divine grace will assist me. 
 
 Forgive me, that I repeat in my letter part of my 
 hourly prayer. I owe everything, next to God's good- 
 ness, to your piety and good examples, my dear parents, 
 my dear poor parents ! I say that word with pleasure ; for 
 
53 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 your poverty is my pride, as your integrity shall be my 
 imitation. 
 
 As soon as I have dined, I will put on my new clothes. 
 I long to have them on. I know I shall surprise Mrs. 
 Jervis with them ; for she shan't see me till I am full 
 dressed. — John is come back, and I'll soon send you some 
 of what I have written. — I find he is going early in the 
 morning ; and so I'll close here, that I am 
 
 Your most dutiful Daughter. 
 
 Don't lose your time in meeting me ; because I am so 
 uncertain. It is hard if, somehow or other, I can't 
 get a passage to you. But may be my master won't 
 refuse to let John bring me. I can ride behind him, 
 I believe, well enough; for he is very careful, and 
 very honest ; and you know John as well as I ; for 
 he loves you both. Besides, may be, Mrs. Jervis can 
 put me in some way. 
 
 LETTER XXIV. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — I shall write on, as long 
 as I stay, though I should have nothing but silliness to 
 write; for I know you divert yourselves on nights with 
 what I write, because it is mine. John tells me how much 
 you long for my coming; but he says, he told you he hoped 
 something would happen to hinder it. 
 
 I am glad you did. not tell him the occasion of my 
 coming away; for if my fellow-servants should guess, it 
 were better so, than to have it from you or me : Besides, 
 I really am concerned, that my master should cast away a 
 thought upon such a poor creature as me ; for, besides the 
 disgrace, it has quite turned his temper ; and I begin to 
 believe what Mrs. Jervis told me, that he likes me, and 
 can't help it ; and yet strives to conquer it ; and so finds no 
 way but to be cross to me. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. ^^ 
 
 Don^t think me presumptuous and conceited ; for it is 
 more my concern than my pride, to see such a gentleman 
 so demean himself, and lessen the regard he used to have 
 in the eyes of all his servants, on my account. — But I am 
 to tell you of my new dress to-day. 
 
 And so, when I had dined, upstairs I went, and locked 
 myself into my little room. There I tricked myself up as 
 well as I could in my new garb, and put on my round-eared 
 ordinary cap ; but with a green knot, however, and my 
 home-spun gown and petticoat, and plain leather shoes; 
 but yet they are what they call Spanish leather ; and my 
 ordinary hose, ordinary I mean to what I have been lately 
 used to ; though I shall think good yarn may do very well 
 for every day, when I come home. A plain muslin tucker 
 I put on, and my black silk necklace, instead of the French 
 necklace my lady gave me; and put the ear-rings out of 
 my ears ; and when I was quite equipped, I took my straw 
 hat in my hand, with its two blue strings, and looked 
 about me in the glass, as proud as anything — To say 
 truth, I never liked myself so well in my life. 
 
 Oh the pleasure of descending with ease, innocence, and 
 resignation 1 — Indeed there is nothing like it ! An humble 
 mind, I plainly see, cannot meet with any very shocking 
 disappointment, let fortune's wheel turn round as it will. 
 
 So I went down to look for Mrs. Jervis, to see how she 
 liked me. 
 
 I met, as I was upon the stairs, our Rachel, who is the 
 housemaid ; and she made me a low courtesy, and I found' 
 did not know me. So I smiled, and went to the house- 
 keeper's parlour; and there sat good Mrs. Jervis at work, 
 making a shift: and, would you believe it? she did not 
 know me at first; but rose up, and pulled off her spec- 
 tacles; and said. Do you want me, forsooth? I could not 
 help laughing, and said. Hey-day ! Mrs. Jervis, what 1 
 don't you know me ? — She stood all in amaze, and looked 
 at me from top to toe : Why, you surprise me, said she ; 
 What ! Pamela thus metamorphosed ! How came this 
 about ? 
 
54 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 As it happened^ in stept rri)' master ; and my back being 
 to him, he thought it was a stranger speaking to Mrs. 
 Jervis, and withdrew again : and did not hear her ask. If 
 his honour had any commands for her ? — She turned me 
 about and about, and I showed her all my dress, to my 
 under-petticoat ; and she said, sitting down. Why, I am all 
 in amaze, I must sit down. What can all this mean ? I 
 told her, I had no clothes suitable to my condition when I 
 returned to my father's ; and so it was better to begin here, 
 as I was soon to go away, that all my fellow-servants might 
 see I knew how to suit myself to the state I was return- 
 ing to. 
 
 Well, said she, I never knew the like of thee. But this 
 sad preparation for going away (for now I see you are quite 
 in earnest) is what I know not how to get over. Oh my dear 
 Pamela, how can I part with you ! 
 
 My master rung in the back-parlour, and so I withdrew, 
 and Mrs. Jervis went to attend him. It seems, he said to 
 her, I was coming in to let you know, that I shall go to 
 Lincolnshire, and possibly to my sister Davers's, and be 
 absent some weeks. But, pray, what pretty neat damsel 
 was with you? She says, she smiled, and asked. If his 
 honour did not know who it was? No, said he, I never 
 saw her before. Farmer Nichols, or Farmer Brady, have 
 neither of them such a tight prim lass for a daughter 1 have 
 they ? — Though I did not see her face neither, said he. If 
 your honour won't be angry, said she, I will introduce her 
 into your presence; for I think, says she, she outdoes our 
 Pamela. 
 
 Now I did not thank her for this, as I told her after- 
 wards (for it brought a great deal of trouble upon me, as- 
 well as crossness, as you shall hear.) That can't be, he was 
 pleased to say. But if you can find an excuse for it, let 
 her come in. 
 
 At that she stept to me, and told me, I must go in with 
 her to her master ; but, said she, for goodness sake, let him 
 find you out ; for he don't know you. Oh fie, Mrs. Jervis, 
 said I, how could you serve me so ? Besides, it looks too 
 
FIRTUE REWARDED. 55 
 
 free both in me, and to him. I tell you, said she, you shall 
 come in; and pray don't reveal yourself till he finds you 
 out. 
 
 So I went in, foolish as I was; though I must have been 
 seen by him another time, if I had not then. And she 
 would make me take my straw hat in my hand. 
 
 I dropt a low courtesy, but said never a word. I dare- 
 say he knew me as soon as he saw my face : but was as 
 cunning as Lucifer. He canje up to me, and took me by 
 the hand, and said. Whose pretty maiden are you? — T 
 daresay you are Pamela's sister, you are so like her. So 
 neat, so clean, so pretty ! Why, child, you far surpass your 
 sister Pamela! 
 
 I was all confusion, and would have spoken : but he took 
 me about the neck : Why, said he, you are very pretty, 
 child : I would not be so free with your sister, you may 
 believe ; but I must kiss you. 
 
 Oh sir, said I, I am Pamela, indeed I am : indeed I am 
 Pamela, her own self ! 
 
 He kissed me for all I could do ; and said. Impossible ! 
 you are a lovelier girl by half than Pamela; and sure I may v/ 
 be innocently free with you, though I would not do her so 
 much favour. 
 
 This was a sad trick upon me, indeed, and what I could 
 not expect ; and Mrs. Jervis looked like a fool as much as 
 I, for her officiousness. — At last I got away, and ran out of 
 , the parlour, most sadly vexed, as you may well think. 
 
 He talked a good deal to Mrs. Jervis, and at last ordered 
 me to come in to him. Come in, said he, you little villain ! 
 — for so he called me. (Good sirs 1 what a name was there !) 
 — Who is it you put your tricks upon ? I was resolved never 
 to honour your unworthiness, said he, with so much notice 
 again ; and so you must disguise yourself to attract me, and 
 yet pretend, like an hypocrite as you are 
 
 I was out of patience then : Hold, good sir, said I ; don't 
 impute disguise and hypocrisy to me, above all things ; for 
 I hate them both, mean as I am. I have put on no dis- 
 guise. — What a plague, said he, for that was his word, do 
 
56 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 you mean then by this dress ? — Why^ and please your 
 honour, said I, I mean one of the honestest things in the 
 world. I have been in disguise, indeed, ever since my good 
 lady your mother took me from my poor parents. I came 
 to her ladyship so poor and mean, that these clothes I have 
 on, are a princely suit to those I had then : and her goodness 
 heaped upon me rich clothes, and other bounties : and as I 
 am novsr returning to my poor parents again so soon, I can- 
 not wear those good things without being hooted at ; and 
 so have bought what will be more suitable to my degree, 
 and be a good holiday-suit too, when I get home. 
 
 He then took me in his arms, and presently pushed me 
 from him. Mrs. Jervis, said he, take the little witch from 
 me; I can neither bear, nor forbear her — (strange words 
 these!) — But stay; you shan't go! — Yet begone! — No, 
 come back again. 
 
 I thought he was mad, for my share ; for he knew not 
 what he would have. I was going, however; but he stept 
 after me, and took hold of my arm, and brought me in 
 again : I am sure he made my arm black and blue ; for the 
 marks are upon it still. Sir, sir, said I, pray have mercy ; I 
 will, I will come in 1 
 
 He sat down, and looked at me, and, as I thought after- 
 wards, as sillily as such a poor girl as I. At last, he said, 
 Well, Mrs. Jervis, as I was telling you, you may permit her 
 to stay a little longer, till I see if my sister Davers will 
 have her; if, meantime, she humble herself, and ask this 
 as a favour, and is sorry for her pertness, and the liberty 
 she has taken with my character out of the house, and in 
 the house. Your honour indeed told me so, said Mrs. 
 Jervis; but I never found her inclinable to think herself 
 in a fault. Pride and perverseness, said he, with a ven- 
 geance ! Yet this is your doating-piece ! — Well, for once, 
 I'll submit myself to tell you, hussy, said he to me, you 
 may stay a fortnight longer, till I see my sister Davers : 
 Do you hear what I say to you, statue ? Can you neither 
 speak nor be thankful? — Your honour frights me so, said 
 I, that I can hardly speak : But I will venture to say, that 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 57 
 
 I have only to beg^ as a favour^ that I may go to my father 
 and mother. — Why^ fool, said he, won't you like to go to 
 wait on my sister Davers ? Sir, said I, I was once fond of 
 that honour; but you were pleased to say, I might be in 
 danger from her ladyship's nephew, or he from me. — D — d 
 impertinence! said he; do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, do you 
 hear, how she retorts upon me ? Was ever such matchless 
 assurance ! 
 
 I then fell a weeping ; for Mrs. Jervis said. Fie, Pamela, 
 fie ! — And I said. My lot is very hard indeed ; I am sure I 
 would hurt nobody; and I have been, it seems, guilty of 
 indiscretions, which have cost me my place, and my mas- 
 ter's favour, and so have been turned away : and when the 
 time is come, that I should return to my poor parents, I 
 am not suffered to go quietly. Good your honour, what 
 have I done, that I must be used worse than if I had robbed 
 you ? — Robbed me ! said he, why so you have, hussy ; you 
 have robbed me. Who? I, sir? said I; have I robbed you? 
 Why then you are a justice of peace, and may send me to 
 gaol, if you please, and bring me to a trial for my life ! If 
 you can prove that I have robbed you, I am sure I ought 
 to die. 
 
 Now I was quite ignorant of his meaning ; though I did 
 not like it, when it was afterwards explained, neither : And 
 well, thought I, what will this come to at last, if poor 
 Pamela is esteemed a thief ! Then I thought in an instant, 
 how I should show my face to my honest poor parents, if I 
 was but suspected. 
 
 But, sir, said I, let me ask you but one question, and 
 pray don't let me be called names for it; for I don't mean 
 disrespectfully : Why, if I have done amiss, am I not left to 
 be discharged by your housekeeper, as the other maids have 
 been? And if Jane, or Rachel, or Hannah were to offend, 
 would your honour stoop to take notice of them ? And 
 why should you so demean yourself to take notice of me ? 
 Pray, sir, if I have not been worse than others, why should 
 I suffer more than others ? and why should I not be turned 
 away, and there's an end of it ? For indeed I am not of 
 
58 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 consequence enough for my master to concern himself^ and 
 be angry about such a creature as me. 
 
 Do you hear, Mrs. Jervis, cried he again, how pertly I am 
 interrogated by this saucy slut ? Why, sauce-box, says he, 
 did not my good mother desire me to take care of you ? 
 And have you not been always distinguished by me, above 
 a common servant ? And does your ingratitude upbraid 
 me for this ? 
 
 I said something mutteringly, and he vowed he would 
 hear it. I begged excuse ; but he insisted upon it. Why 
 then, said I, if your honour must know, I said. That my 
 good lady did not desire your care to extend to the summer- 
 house, and her dressing-room. 
 
 Well, this was a little saucy, you'll say — And he flew 
 into such a passion, that I was forced to run for it ; and 
 Mrs. Jervis said. It was happy I got out of the way. 
 
 Why what makes him provoke one so, then? — I'm almost 
 sorry for it ; but I would be glad to get away at any rate. 
 For I begin to be more fearful now. 
 
 Just now Mr. Jonathan sent me these lines — (Bless me ! 
 what shall I do ?) 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Pamela, Take care of yourself; for Rachel 
 ' heard my master say to Mrs. Jervis, who, she believes, 
 ' was pleading for you, Say no more, Mrs. Jervis ; for by 
 ^G — d I will have her ! Burn this instantly.' 
 
 Oh pray for your poor daughter. I am called to go to 
 bed by Mrs. Jervis, for it is past eleven ; and I am sure 
 she shall hear of it ; for all this is owing to her, though she 
 did not mean any harm. But I have been, and am, in a 
 strange fluster ; and I suppose too, she'll say, I have been 
 full pert. 
 
 Oh my dear father and mother, power and riches never 
 want advocates! But, poor gentlewoman, she cannot live 
 without him : and he has been very good to her. 
 
 So good-night. May be I shall send this in the morn- 
 ing; but maybe not; so won't conclude; though I can't 
 say too often, that I am (though with great apprehension) 
 
 Your most dutiful Daughter. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 59 
 
 LETTER XXV. 
 
 My dear Parents^ — Oh let me take up my complaint^ 
 and say, Never was poor creature so unhappy, and so bar- 
 barously used, as poor Pamela ! Indeed, my dear father and 
 mother, my heart's just broke ! I can neither write as I 
 should do, nor let it alone, for to whom but you can I vent 
 my griefs, and keep my poor heart from bursting ! Wicked"; 
 wicked man ! — I have no patience when I think of him ! — ■ 
 But yet, don't be frightened — for — I hope — I hope, I am 
 honest ! — But if my head and my hand will let me, you 
 shall hear all. — Is there no constable nor headborough, 
 though, to take me out of his house ? for I am sure I can 
 safely swear the peace against him : But, alas ! he is greater 
 than any constable: he is a justice himself: Such a justice 
 deliver me from ! — But God Almighty, I hope, in time, will 
 right me — For He knows the innocence of my heart ! 
 
 John went your way in the morning; but I have been 
 too much distracted to send by him ; and have seen nobody 
 but Mrs. Jervis or Rachel, and one I hate to see or be seen 
 by : and indeed I hate now to see anybody. Strange 
 things I have to tell you, that happened since last night, 
 that good Mr. Jonathan's letter, and my master's harshness, 
 put me into such a fluster; but I will not keep you in 
 suspense. 
 
 I went to Mrs. Jervis's chamber ; and, oh dreadful ! my 
 wicked master had hid himself, base gentleman as he is ! in 
 her closet, where she has a few books, and chest of drawers, 
 and such like. I little suspected it ; though I used, till this 
 sad night, always to look into that closet and another in 
 the room, and under the bed, ever since the summer-house 
 trick; but never found anything; and so I did not do it 
 then, being fully resolved to be angry with Mrs. Jervis 
 for what had happened in the day, and so thought of 
 nothing else. 
 
 I sat myself down on one side of the bed, and she on the 
 
6o PAMELA; OR, 
 
 other^ and we began to undress ourselves; but she on 
 that side next the wicked closet^ that held the worst heart 
 in the world. So, said Mrs Jervis, you won't speak to 
 me, Pamela! I find you are angry with me. Why, Mrs. 
 Jervis, said I, so I am, a little; 'tis a folly to deny it. 
 You see what I have suffered by your forcing me in to my 
 master : and a gentlewoman of your years and experience 
 must needs know, that it was not fit for me to pretend 
 to be anybody else for my own sake, nor with regard to 
 my master. 
 
 But, said she, who would have thought it would have 
 turned out so ? Ay, said I, little thinking who heard me, 
 Lucifer always is ready to promote his own work and work- 
 men. You see presently what use he made of it, pretending 
 not to know me, on purpose to be free with me. And 
 when he took upon himself to know me, to quarrel with 
 me, and use me hardly: And you too, said I, to cry, Fie, 
 fie, Pamela! cut me to the heart: for that encouraged 
 him. 
 
 Do you think, my dear, said she, that I would encourage 
 him ? — I never said so to you before ; but, since you have 
 forced it from me, I must tell you, that, ever since you 
 consulted me, I have used -my utmost endeavours to divert 
 him from his wicked purposes: and he has promised fair; 
 but, to say all in a word, he doats upon you ; and I begin 
 to see it is not in his power to help it. 
 
 I luckily said nothing of the note from Mr. Jonathan ; 
 for I began to suspect all the world almost : but I said, to 
 try Mrs. Jervis, Well then, what would you have me do ? 
 You see he is for having me wait on Lady Davers now. 
 
 Why, I'll tell you freely, my dear Pamela, said she, and 
 I trust to your discretion to conceal what I say : my master 
 has been often desiring me to put you upon asking him 
 to let you stay 
 
 Yes, said I, Mrs. Jervis, let me interrupt you : I will tell 
 you why I could not think of that : It was not the pride 
 of my heari, but the pride of my honesty : For what must 
 have been the case ? Here my master has been very rude 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 6i 
 
 to me, once and twice; and you say he cannot help It, 
 though he pretends to be sorry for it : We]], he has given 
 me warning to ieave my place, and uses me very harshly; 
 perhaps to frighten me to his purposes, as he supposes I 
 would be fond of staying (as indeed I should, if I could be 
 safe ; for I love you and all the house, and value him, if 
 he would act as my master). Well then, as I know his 
 designs, and that he owns he cannot help it; must I have 
 asked to stay, knowing he would attempt me again? for 
 all you could assure me of, was, he would do nothing by 
 force; so I, a poor weak girl, was to be left to my own 
 strength 1 And was not this to allow him to tempt me, as 
 one may say ? and to encourage him to go on in his wicked 
 devices? — How then, Mrs. Jervis, could I ask or wish to 
 stay? 
 
 You say well, my dear child, says she ; and you have a 
 justness of thought above your years ; and for all these 
 considerations, and for what I have heard this day, after 
 you ran away (and I am glad you went as you did), I can- 
 not persuade you to stay; and I shall be glad (which is 
 what I never thought I could have said), that you were 
 well at your father's; for if Lady Davers will entertain 
 you, she may as well have you from thence as here. There's 
 my good Mrs. Jervis 1 said I j God will bless you for your 
 good counsel to a poor maiden, that is hard beset. But 
 pray what did he say when I was gone ? Why, says she, 
 he was very angry with you. But he would hear it ! said 
 I : I think it was a little bold ; but then he provoked me 
 to it. And had not my honesty been in the case, I would 
 not by any means have been so saucy. Besides, Mrs. 
 Jervis, consider it was the truth ; if he does not love to 
 hear of the summer-home, and the dressing-room, why 
 should he not be ashamed to continue in the same mind ? 
 But, said she, when you had muttered this to yourself, you 
 might have told him anything else. Well, said I, I can- 
 not tell a wilful lie, and so there's an end of it. But I 
 .find you now give him up, and think there's danger in 
 staying. — Lord bless me ! I wish I was well out of the 
 
63 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 house; so it was at the bottom of a wet ditch^ on the 
 wildest common in England. 
 
 Why, said she, it signifies nothing to tell you all he said ; 
 but it was enough to make me fear you would not be so 
 safe as I could wish ; and, upon my word, Pamela, I don't 
 wonder he loves you; for, without flattery, you are a 
 charming girl ! and I never saw you look more lovely in 
 my life than in that same new dress of yours. And then 
 it was such a surprise upon us all ! — I believe truly, you 
 owe some of your danger to the lovely appearance you made. 
 Then, said I, I wish the clothes in the fire : I expected no 
 effect from them ; but, if any, a quite contrary one. 
 
 Hush! said I, Mrs. Jervis, did you not hear something 
 stir in the closet? No, silly girl, said she, your fears are 
 always awake. — But indeed, said I, I think I heard some- 
 thing rustle. — May be, says she, the cat may be got there : 
 but I hear nothing. 
 
 I was hush ; but she said, Pr'ythee, my good girl, make 
 haste to bed. See if the door be fast. So I did, and was 
 thinking to look into the closet ; but, hearing no more 
 noise, thought it needless, and so went again and sat my- 
 self down on the bed-side, and went on undressing myself. 
 And Mrs. Jervis, being by this time undressed, stepped into 
 bed, and bid me hasten, for she was sleepy. 
 
 I don't know what was the matter, but my heart sadly 
 misgave me : Indeed, Mr. Jonathan's note was enough to 
 make it do so, with what Mrs. Jervis had said. I pulled 
 oflF my stays, and my stockings, and all my clothes to an 
 under-petticoat ; and then hearing a rustling again in the 
 closet, I said, Heaven protect us ! but before I say my 
 prayers, I must look into this closet. And so was going to 
 it slip-shod, when, oh dreadful ! out rushed my master in a 
 rich silk and silver morning gown. 
 
 I screamed, and ran to the bed, and Mrs. Jervis screamed 
 too ; and he said, I'll do you no harm, if you forbear this 
 noise ; but otherwise take what follows. 
 
 Instantly he came to the bed (for I had crept into it, to 
 Mrs. Jervis, with my coat on, and my shoes) ; and taking 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 63 
 
 me in his arms, said, Mrs. Jervis, rise, and just step up 
 stairs, to keep the maids from coming down at this noise : 
 I'll do iio harm to this rebel. 
 
 Oh, for Heaven's sake ! for pity's sake ! Mrs. Jervis, said 
 I, if I am not betrayed, don't leave me ; and, I beseech 
 ^you, raise all the house. No, said Mrs. Jervis, I will not 
 stir, my dear Iamb ; I will not leave you. I wonder at 
 you, sir, said she ; and kindly threw herself upon my coat, 
 clasping me round the waist: You shall not hurt this inno- 
 cent, said she : for I will lose my life in her defence. Are 
 there not, said she, enough wicked ones in the world, for 
 your base purpose, but you must attempt such a lamb as 
 this? 
 
 He was desperate angry, and threatened to throw her 
 out of the window ; and to turn her out of the house the 
 next morning. You need not, sir, said she ; for I will not 
 stay in it. God defend my poor Pamela till to-morrow, 
 and we will both go together. — Says he, let me but expos- 
 tulate a word or two with you, Pamela. Pray, Pamela, 
 said Mrs. Jervis, don't hear a word, except he leaves the 
 bed, and goes to the other end of the room. Ay, out of 
 the room, said I ; expostulate to-morrow, if you must ex- 
 postulate 1 
 
 I found his hand in my bosom ; and when my fright let 
 me know it, I was ready to die ; and I sighed and screamed, 
 and fainted away. And still he had his arms about my 
 neck; and Mrs. Jervis was about my feet, and upon my 
 coat. And all in a cold dewy sweat was I. Pamela! 
 Pamela! said Mrs. Jervis, as she tells me since,' O — h, and 
 gave another shriek, my poor Pamela is dead for certain ! 
 And so, to be sure, I was for a time ; for I knew nothing 
 more of the matter, one fit following another, till about 
 three hours after, as it proved to be, I found myself in 
 bed, and Mrs. Jervis sitting upon one side, with her wrap- 
 per about her, and Rachel on the other; and no master, 
 for the wicked wretch was gone. But I was so overjoyed, 
 that I hardly could believe myself; and I said, which were 
 my first words, Mrs. Jervis, Mrs. Rachel, can I be stire it 
 
64 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 is you? Tell me! can I? — Where have I been? Hush, my 
 dear, said Mrs. Jervis ; you have been in fit after fit. I 
 never saw anybody so frightful in my life 1 
 
 By this I judged Rachel knew nothing of the matter; 
 and it seems my wicked master had, upon Mrs. Jervis's 
 second noise on my fainting away, slipt out, and, as if he 
 had come from his own chamber, disturbed by the scream- 
 ing, went up to the maids' room (who, hearing the noise, 
 lay trembling, and afraid to stir), and bid them go down, 
 and see what was the matter with Mrs. Jervis and me. 
 And he charged Mrs. Jervis, and promised to forgive her 
 for what she had said and done, if she would conceal the 
 matter. So the maids came down, and all went up again, 
 when I came to myself a little, except Rachel, who stayed 
 to sit up with me, and bear Mrs. Jervis company. I be- 
 lieve they all guess the matter to be bad enough ; though 
 they dare not say anything. 
 
 When I think of my danger, and the freedoms he actu- 
 ally took, though I believe Mrs. Jervis saved me from 
 worse, and she said she did (though what can I think, who 
 was in a fit, and knew nothing of the matter ?) I am almost 
 distracted. 
 
 At first I was afraid of Mrs. Jervis ; but I am fully satis- 
 fied she is very good, and I should have been lost but for 
 her ; and she takes on grievously about it. What would 
 have become of me, had she gone out of the room, to still 
 the maids, as he bid her! He'd certainly have shut her 
 out, and then, mercy on me ! what would have become of 
 your poor Pamela ? 
 
 I must leave off a little; for my eyes and my head are 
 sadly bad.— This was a dreadful trial ! This was the worst 
 of all ! Oh, that I was out of the power of this dreadfully 
 wicked man ! Pray for 
 
 Your distressed Daughter. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 65 
 
 LETTER XXVI. 
 
 My dear Father and Mother^ — I did not rise till ten 
 o'clock, and I had all the concerns and wishes of the family, 
 and multitudes of inquiries about me. My wicked master 
 went out early to hunt ; but left word he would be in to 
 breakfast. And so he was. 
 
 He came up to our chamber about eleven, and had no- 
 thing to do to be sorry ; for he was our master, and so put 
 on sharp auger at first. 
 
 I had great emotions at his entering the room, and threw , 
 my apron over my head, and fell a crying, as if my heart 
 would break. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis, said he, since I know yozi, and you me so 
 well, I don't know how we shall live together for the 
 future. Sir, said she, I will take the liberty to say, what 
 I think is best for both. I have so much grief, that you 
 should attempt to do any injury to this poor girl, and espe- 
 cially in my chamber, that I should think myself accessory 
 to the mischief, if I was not to take notice of it. Though 
 my ruin, therefore, may depend upon it, I desire not to 
 stay ; but pray let poor Pamela and me go together. 
 With all my heart, said he; and the sooner the better. 
 She fell a crying. I find, says he, this girl has made a 
 party of the whole house in her favour against me. Her 
 innocence deserves it of us all, said she very kindly : and 
 I never could have thought that the son of my dear good 
 lady departed, could have so forfeited his honour, as to 
 endeavour to destroy a virtue he ought to protect. No 
 more of this, Mrs. Jervis ! said he ; I will not bear it. As 
 for Pamela, she has a lucky knack of falling into fits, when 
 she pleases. But the cursed yellings of you both made me 
 not myself. I intended no harm to her, as I told you both, 
 if you'd have left your squallings : And I did no harm 
 neither, but to myself; for I raised a hornet's nest about 
 my ears, that, as far as I know, may have stung to death 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
66 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 my reputation. Sir, said Mrs. Jervis, ^^then I beg Mr. 
 Longman may take my accounts^ and I will go away as 
 soon as I can. As for Pamela, she is at her liberty, I hope, 
 to go away next Thursday, as she intends ? 
 
 I sat still ; for I could not speak nor look up, and his 
 presence discomposed me extremely ; but I was sorry to 
 hear myself the unhappy occasion of Mrs. Jervis's losing 
 her place, and hope that may be still made up, 
 
 Well, said he, let Mr. Longman make up your accounts, 
 as soon as you will; and Mrs. Jewkes (who is his house- 
 keeper in Lincolnshire) shall come hither in your place, 
 and won't be less obliging, I daresay, than t/ou have been. 
 Said she, I have never disobliged you till now ; and let me 
 tell you, sir, if you knew what belonged to your own reputa- 
 tion or honour — No more, no more, said he, of these anti- 
 quated topics. I have been no bad friend to you; and I 
 shall always esteem you, though you have not been so faith- 
 ful to my secrets as I could have wished, and have laid me 
 open to this girl, which has made her more afraid of me 
 than she had occasion. Well, sir, said she, after what 
 passed yesterday, and last night, I think I went rather too 
 far in favour of your injunctions than otherwise; and I 
 should have deserved everybody's censure, as the basest of 
 creatures, had I been capable of contributing to your lawless 
 attempts. Still, Mrs. Jervis, still reflecting upon me, and 
 all for imaginary faults ! for what harm have I done the 
 girl ? — I won't bear it, I'll assure you. But yet, in respect 
 to my mother, I am willing to part friendly with you: 
 though you ought both of you to reflect on the freedom of 
 your conversation, in relation to me ; which I should have 
 resented more than I do, but that I am conscious I had no 
 business to demean myself so as to be in your closet, where 
 I might have expected to hear a multitude of impertinence 
 between you. 
 
 Well, sir, said she, you have no objection, I hope, to 
 Pamela's going away on Thursday next ? Yon are mighty 
 solicitous, said he, about Pamela: But no, not I- let her 
 go as soon as she will: She is a naughty girl, and has 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 6j 
 
 brought all this upon herself; and upon me more trouble 
 than she can have had from me : But I have overcome it 
 all, and vv^ill never concern myself about her. 
 
 I have a proposal made me^ added he, since I have been 
 out this morning, that I shall go near to embrace ; and so 
 wish only, that a discreet use may be made of what is past ; 
 and there's an end of everything with me, as to Pamela, 
 Fll assure you. 
 
 I clasped my hands together through my apron, overjoyed 
 at this, though I was soon to go away : For, naughty as 
 he has been to me, I wish his prosperity with all my heart, 
 for my good old lady's sake. 
 
 Well, Pamela, said he, you need not now be afraid to 
 speak to me ; tell me what you lifted up your hands at ? I 
 said not a word. Says he. If you like what I have said, 
 give me your hand upon it. I held my hand up through 
 my apron ; for I could not speak to him ; and he took hold 
 of it, and pressed it, though less hard than he did my arm 
 the day before. What does the little fool cover her face 
 for ? said he : Pull your apron away ; and let me see how 
 you look, after your freedom of speech of mc last night. 
 No wonder you are ashamed to see me. You know you 
 were very free with my character. 
 
 I could not stand this barbarous insult, as I took it to 
 be, considering his behaviour to me ; and I then spoke and 
 said, Oh the difference between the minds of Thy creatures, 
 good God! How shall some be cast down in their inno- 
 cence, while others can triumph in their guilt ! 
 
 And so saying, I went up stairs to my chamber, and 
 wrote all this ; for though he vexed me at his taunting, yet 
 I was pleased to hear he was likely to be married, and that 
 his wicked intentions were so happily overcome as to me ; 
 and this made me a little easier. And I hope I have passed 
 the worst ; or else it is very hard. And yet I shan't think 
 myself at ease quite, till I am with you : For, methinks, 
 after all, his repentance and amendment are mighty suddenly 
 resolved upon. But the divine grace is not confined to 
 space; and remorse may, and I hope has, smitten him to 
 
68 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 the heart at once, for his injuries to poor me ! Yet I won't 
 be too secure neither. 
 
 Having opportunity, I send now what I know will grieve 
 you to the heart. But I hope I shall bring my next scribble 
 myself; and so conclude, though half broken-hearted. 
 
 Your ever dutiful Daughter. 
 
 LETTER XXVII. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — I am glad I desired you 
 not to meet me, and John says you won't ; for he told you 
 he is sure I shall get a passage well enough, either behind 
 some one of my fellow-servants on horseback, or by Farmer 
 Nichols's means : but as to the chariot he talked to you of, 
 I can't expect that favour, to be sure ; and I should not care 
 for it, because it would look so much above me. But Farmer 
 Brady, they say, has a chaise with one horse, and we hope 
 to borrow that, or hire it, rather than fail ; though money 
 runs a little lowish, after what I have laid outj but I don't 
 care to say so here ; though I warrant I might have what I 
 would of Mrs. Jervis, or Mr. Jonathan, or Mr. Longman ; 
 but then how shall I pay it ? you'll say : And, besides, I 
 don't love to be beholden. 
 
 But the chief reason I'm glad you don't set out to meet 
 me, is the uncertainty; for it seems I must stay another 
 week still, and hope certainly to go Thursday after. For 
 poor Mrs. Jervis will go at the same time, she says, and can't 
 be ready before. 
 
 Oh ! that I was once well with you ! — Though he is very 
 civil too at present, and not so cross as he was ; and yet he is 
 as vexatious another way, as you shall hear. For yesterday 
 he had a rich suit of clothes brought home, which they call 
 a birthday suit; for he intends to go to London against 
 next birthday, to see the court ; and our folks will have it 
 he is to be made a lord. — I wish they may make him an 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 69 
 
 honest man, as he was always thought ; but I have not found 
 it so, alas for me ! 
 
 And so, as I was saying, he had these clothes come home, 
 and he tried them on. And before he pulled them off, hi 
 sent for me, when nobody else was in the parlour with him : 
 Pamela, said he, you are so neat and so nice in your own 
 dress (Alack-a-day, I didn't know I was !) that you must 
 be a judge of ours. How are these clothes made ? Do they 
 fit me? — I am no judge, said I, and please you honour; but 
 I think they look very fine. 
 
 His waistcoat stood on end with silver lace, and he looked 
 very grand. But what he did last has made me very serious, 
 and I could make him no compliments. Said he. Why 
 don't you wear your usual clothes ? Though I think every- 
 thing looks well upon you (for I still continue in my new 
 dress). I said, I have no clothes, sir, I ought to call my 
 own, but these : and it is no matter what such an one as I 
 wears. Said he. Why you look very serious, Pamela. I 
 see you can bear malice. — Yes, so I can, sir, said I, accord- 
 ing to the occasion ! Why, said he, your eyes always look 
 red, I think. Are you not a fool to take my last freedom so 
 much to heart ? I am sure you, and that fool Mrs. Jervis, 
 frightened me, by your hideous squalling, as much as I 
 could frighten you. That is all we had for it, said I ; and 
 if you could be so afraid of your own servants knowing of 
 your attempts upon a poor unworthy creature, that is under 
 your protection while I stay, surely your honour ought to 
 be more afraid of God Almighty, in whose presence we all 
 stand, in every action of our lives, and to whom the greatest, 
 as well as the least, must be accountable, let them think 
 what they list. 
 
 He took my hand, in a kind of good-humoured mockery, 
 and said. Well urged, my pretty preacher ! When my 
 Lincolnshire chaplain dies, I'll put thee on a gown and 
 cassock, and thou'lt make a good figure in his place. — I 
 wish, said I, a little vexed at his jeer, your honour's con- 
 science would be your preacher, and then you would need 
 no other chaplain. Well, well, Pamela, said he, no more of 
 
70 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 this unfashionable jargon. I did not send for you so much 
 for your opinion of my new suit, as to tell you, you are 
 welcome to stay, since Mrs. Jervis desires it, till she goes. I 
 welcome ! said I ; I am sure I shall rejoice when I am out 
 of the house ! 
 
 Well, said he, you are an ungrateful baggage ; but I am 
 thinking it would be pity, with these fair soft hands, and 
 that lovely skin (as he called it, and took hold of my hand), 
 that you should return again to hard work, as you must if 
 you go to your father's ; and so I would advise her to take 
 a house in London, and let lodgings to us members of par- 
 liament, when we come to town ; and such a pretty daughter 
 as you may pass for, will always fill her house, and she'll get 
 a great deal of money. 
 
 I was sadly vexed at this barbarous joke ; but being ready 
 to cry before, the tears gushed out, and (endeavouring to 
 get my hand from him, but in vain) I said, I can expect no 
 better : Your behaviour^ sir, to me, has been just of a piece 
 with these words : Nay, I will say it, though you were to be 
 ever so angry. — I angry, Pamela ? No, no, said he, I have 
 overcome all that ; and as you are to go away, I look upon 
 you now as Mrs. Jervis's guest while you both stay, and not 
 as my servant ; and so you may say what you will. But 
 I'll tell you, Pamela, why you need not take this matter in 
 such high disdain ! — You have a very pretty romantic turn 
 for virtue, and all that. — And I don't suppose but you'll 
 hold it still : and nobody will be able to prevail upon you. 
 But, my child (sneeringly he spoke it), do but consider 
 what a fine opportunity you will then have for a tale every 
 day to good mother Jervis, and what subjects for letter- 
 writing to your father and mother, and what pretty preach- 
 ments you may hold forth to the young gentlemen. Ad's 
 my heart ! I think it would be the best thing you and she 
 could do. 
 
 You do well, sir, said I, to even your wit to such a poor 
 maiden as me : but, permit me to say, that if you was not 
 rich and great, and I poor and little, you would not insult 
 me thus. — Let me ask you, sir, if you think this becomes 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. ,. 
 
 your fine clothes and a master's station ? Why so serious, 
 my pretty Pamela ? said he : Why so grave ? And would 
 kiss me ; but my heart was full, and I said, Let me alone ; 
 I will tell you, if you was a king, and insulted me as you 
 have donCj that you have forgotten to act like a gentle- 
 man : and I won't stay to be used thus : I will go to the 
 next farmer's, and there wait for Mrs. Jervis, if she must 
 go : and I'd have you know^ sir, that I can stoop to the 
 ordinariest work of your scullions, for all these nasty soft 
 hands, sooner than bear such ungentlemanly imputations. 
 
 I sent for you, said he, in high good humour ; but it is 
 impossible to hold it with such an impertinent : however, 
 I'll keep my temper. But while I see you here, pray don't 
 put on those dismal grave looks : Why, girl, you should 
 forbear them, if it were but for your pride-sake ; for the 
 family will think you are grieving to leave the house. 
 Then, sir, said I, I will try to convince them of the con- 
 trary, as well as your honour ; for I will endeavour to be 
 more cheerful while I stay, for that very reason. 
 
 Well, replied he, I will set this down by itself, as the 
 first time that ever what I had advised had any weight 
 with you. And I will add, said I, as the first advice you 
 have given me of late, that was fit to be followed. — I wish, 
 said he (I am almost ashamed to write it, impudent gentle- 
 man as he is 1) I wish I had thee as quick another way, as 
 thou art in thy repartees — And he laughed, and I snatched 
 my hand from him, and I tripped away as fast as I could. 
 Ah! thought I, married? I am sure it is time you were 
 married, or, at this rate, no honest maiden ought to live 
 with you. 
 
 Why, dear father and mother, to be sure he grows quite 
 a rake ! How easy it is to go from bad to worse, when 
 once people give way to vice ! 
 
 How would my poor lady, had she lived, have grieved 
 to see it 1 but may be he would have been better then, ! — 
 Though it seems he told Mrs. Jervis, he had an eye upon 
 me in his mother's lifetime j and he intended to let me 
 know as much, by the bye, he told her 1 Here is shame- 
 
PAMELA; OR, 
 
 lessness for you ! Sure the world must be near at an end ! 
 for all the gentlemen about are as bad as he almost, as far 
 as I can hear ! — And see the fruits of such bad examples ! 
 There is 'Squire Martin in the grove has had three lyings- 
 in, it seemSj in his house, in three months past; one by 
 himself; and one by his coachman; and one by his wood- 
 man ; and yet he has turned none of them away. Indeed, 
 how can he, when they but follow his own vile example ? 
 There is he, and two or three more such as he, within ten 
 miles of us, who keep company, and hunt with our fine 
 master, truly j and I suppose he is never the better for 
 their examples. But, Heaven bless me, say I, and send me 
 out of this wicked house ! 
 
 But, dear father and mother, what sort of creatures 
 must the womenkind be, do you think, to give way to such 
 wickedness ? Why, this it is that makes every one be 
 thought of alike: And, alack-a-day ! what a world we live 
 in ! for it is grown more a wonder that the men are 
 resisted, than that the women comply. This, I suppose, 
 makes me such a sauce-box, and bold-face, and a creature, 
 and all because I won't be a sauce-box and bold-face 
 indeed. 
 
 But I am sorry for these things ; one don't know what 
 arts and stratagems men may devise to gain their vile 
 ends; and so I will think as well as I can of these poor 
 undone creatures, and pity them. For you see, by my 
 sad story, and narrow escapes, what hardships poor 
 maidens go through, whose lot it is to go out to service, 
 especially to houses where there is not the fear of God, 
 and good rule kept by the heads of the family. 
 
 You see I am quite grown grave and serious ; indeed it 
 becomes the present condition of 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
VIRTUE REfVARDED. 73 
 
 LETTER XXVIII. 
 
 Dej\r Father and Mother, — John says you wept when 
 you read my last letter, that he carried. I am sorry you 
 let him see that; for they all mistrust already how matters 
 are ; and as it is no credit that I have been attempted, 
 though it is that I have resisted; yet I am sorry they have 
 cause to think so evil of my master from any of us. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis has made up her accounts with Mr. Long- 
 man, and will stay in her place. I am glad of it, for her 
 own sake, and for my master's ; for she has a good master 
 of him; so indeed all have, but poor me — and he has a 
 good housekeeper in her. 
 
 Mr. Longman, it seems, took upon him to talk to my 
 master, how faithful and careful of his interests she was, 
 and how exact in her accounts ; and he told him, there 
 was no comparison between her accounts and Mrs. 
 Jewkes'Sj at the Lincolnshire estate. 
 
 He said so many fine things, it seems, of Mrs. Jervis, 
 that my master sent for her in Mr. Longman's presence, 
 and said Pamela might come along with her ; I suppose to 
 mortify me, that I must go while she was to stay : But as, 
 when I go away, I am not to go with her, nor was she to 
 go with me ; so I did not matter it much ; only it would 
 have been creditable to such a poor girl, that the house- 
 keeper would bear me company, if I went. 
 
 Said he to her. Well, Mrs. Jervis, Longman says you 
 have made up your accounts with him with your usual 
 fidelity and exactness. I had a good mind to make you 
 an offer of continuing with me, if you can be a little sorry 
 for your hasty words, which, indeed, were not so respectful 
 as I have deserved at your hands. She seemed at a sad 
 loss what to say, because Mr, Longman was there, and 
 she could not speak of the occasion of those words, which 
 was me. 
 
 Indeed, said Mr. Longman, I must needs say before 
 
74 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 your face, that since I have known my master's family, I 
 have never found such good management in it, nor so 
 much love and harmony neither. I wish the Lincolnshire 
 estate was as well served ! — No more of that, said my 
 master; but Mrs. Jervis may stay, if she will: and here, 
 Mrs. Jervis, pray accept of this, which at the close of 
 every year's accounts I will present you with, besides your 
 salary, as long as I find your care so useful and agreeable. 
 And he gave her five guineas. — She made him a low 
 courtesy, and thanking him, looked to me, as if she would 
 have spoken to me. 
 
 He took her meaning, I believe ; for he said^ — Indeed I 
 love to encourage merit and obligingness, Longman ; but 
 I can never be equally kind to those who don't deserve it 
 at my hands, as to those who do ; and then he looked full 
 on me. Longman, continued he, I said that girl might 
 come in with Mrs. Jervis, because they love to be always 
 together. For Mrs. Jervis is very good to her, and loves 
 her as well as if she was her daughter. But else — Mr. 
 Longman, interrupting him, said. Good to Mrs. Pamela ! 
 Ay, sir, and so she is, to be sure ! But everybody must be 
 good to her; for 
 
 He was going on: but my master said. No more, no 
 more, Mr. Longman. I see old men are taken with pretty 
 young girls, as well as other folks; and fair looks hide many 
 a fault, where a person has the art to behave obligingly. 
 Why, and please your honour, said Mr. Longman, every- 
 body — and was going on, I believe, to say something more 
 in my praise; but he interrupted him, and said. Not a 
 word more of this Pamela. I can't let her stay, I'll assure 
 you ; not only for her own freedom of speech, but her 
 letter-writing of all the secrets of my family. Ay, said the 
 good old man, I am sorry for that too! But, sir, — No 
 more, I say, said my master ; for my reputation is so well 
 known (mighty fine, thought I !) that I care not what any- 
 body writes or says of me : But to tell you the truth (not 
 that it need go further), I think of changing my condition 
 soon; and, you know, young ladies of birth and fortune 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 75 
 
 will choose their own servants, and that's my chief reason 
 why Pamela can't stay. As for the rest, said he, the girl is 
 a good sort of body, take her altogether; though I must 
 needs say, a little pert, since my mother's death, in her 
 answers, and gives me two words for one ; which I can't 
 bear; nor is there reason I should, you know, Longman. 
 No, to be sure, sir, said he ; but 'tis strange, methinks, sh^ 
 should be so mild and meek to every one of us in the house, 
 and forget herself so, where she should show most respect ! 
 Very true, Mr. Longman, said he, but so it is, I'll assure 
 you ; and it was from her pertness, that Mrs. Jervis and I 
 had the words : And I should mind it the less, but that the 
 girl (there, she stands, I say it to her face) has wit and sense 
 above her years, and knows better. 
 
 I was in great pain to say something, but yet I knew not 
 what, before Mr. Longman ; and Mrs. Jervis looked at me, 
 and walked to the window to hide her concern for me. At 
 last, I said. It is for you, sir, to say what you please ; and 
 for me only to say, God bless your honour ! 
 
 Poor Mr. Longman faltered in his speech, and was ready 
 to cry. Said my insulting master to me. Why, pr'ythee, 
 Pamela, now, show thyself as thou art, before Longman. 
 Canst not give him a specimen of that pertness which thou 
 hast exercised upon me sometimes. 
 
 Did he not, my dear father and mother, deserve all the 
 truth to be told ? Yet I overcame myself so far, as to say. 
 Well, your honour may play upon a poor girl, that you 
 know can answer you, but dare not. 
 
 Why, pr'ythee now, insinuator, said he, say the worst 
 you can before Longman and Mrs. Jervis. I challenge the 
 utmost of thy impertinence; and as you are going away, 
 and have the love of everybody, I would be a little justified 
 to my family, that you have no reason to complain of hard- 
 ships from me, as I have pert saucy answers from you, 
 besides exposing me by your letters. , 
 
 Surely, sir, said I, I am of no consequence equal to this, 
 in your honour's family, that such a great gentleman as 
 you should need to justify yourself about me. I am glad 
 
76 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Mrs. Jervis stays with your honour ; and I know I have not 
 deserved to stay; and, more than that^ I don't desire to 
 stay. 
 
 Ads-bobbers! said Mr. Longman^ and ran tome; don't 
 say so, don't say so, dear Mrs. Pamela ! We all love you 
 dearly ; and pray down of your knees, and ask his honour 
 pardon, and we will all become pleaders in a body, and I, 
 and Mrs. Jervis too, at the head of it, to beg his honour's 
 pardon, and to continue you, at least, till his honour marries. 
 — No, Mr. Longman, said I, I cannot ask ; nor will I stay, 
 if I might. All I desire is, to return to my poor father and 
 mother : and though I love you all, I, won't stay.' — Oh well- 
 a-day, well-a-day ! said the good old man, I did not expect 
 this ! — When I had got matters thus far, and had made all 
 up for Mrs. Jervis, I was in hopes to have got a double 
 holiday of joy for all the family, in your pardon too. Well, 
 said my master, this is a little specimen of what I told you, 
 Longman. You see there's a spirit you did not expect. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis told me after, that she could stay no longer, 
 to hear me so hardly used ; and must have spoken, had she 
 stayed, what would never have been forgiven her ; so she 
 went out. I looked after her to go too ; but my master 
 said, Come, Pamela, give another specimen, I desire you, 
 to Longman : I am sure you must, if you will but speak. 
 Well, sir, said I, since it seems your greatness wants to be 
 justified by my lowness, and I have no desire you should 
 suffer in the sight of your family, I will say, on my bended 
 knees (and so I kneeled down), that I have been a very 
 faulty, and a very ungrateful creature to the best of masters: 
 I have been very perverse and saucy; and have deserved 
 nothing at your hands but to be turned out of your family 
 with shame and disgrace. I, therefore, have nothing to say 
 for myself, but that I am not worthy to stay, and so cannot 
 wish to stay, and will not stay: And so God Almighty bless 
 you, and you Mr. Longman, and good Mrs. Jervis, and 
 every living soul of the family ! and I will pray for you as 
 long as I live ! — And so I rose up, and was forced to lean 
 upon my master's elbow-chair, or I should have sunk down. 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 77 
 
 The poor old man wept more than I, and said. Ads- 
 bobbers, was ever the like heard ! 'Tis too much, too much ; 
 I can't bear it. As I hope to live, I am quite melted. Dear 
 sir, forgive her ! The poor thing prays for you; she prays 
 for us all 1 She owns her fault ; yet won't be forgiven ! I 
 profess I know not what to make of it. 
 
 My master himself, hardened wretch as he was, seemed a 
 little moved, and took his handkerchief out of his pocket, 
 and walked to the window : What sort of a day is it ? said 
 he. — And then, getting a little more hard-heartedness, he 
 said. Well, you may be gone from my presence, thou strange 
 medley of inconsistence! but you shan't stay after your 
 time in the house. 
 
 Nay, pray, sir, pray, sir, said the good old man, relent a 
 little. Ads-heartikins ! you young gentlemen are made of 
 iron and steel, I think : I'm sure, said he, my heart's turned ( 
 into butter, and is running away at my eyes. I never felt 
 the like before. — Said my master, with an imperious tone. 
 Get out of my presence, hussy! I can't bear you in my 
 sight. Sir, said I, I'm going as fast as I can. 
 
 But, indeed, my dear father and mother, my head was so 
 giddy, and my limbs trembled so, that I was forced to go 
 holding by the wainscot all the way with both my hands, 
 and thought I should not have got to the door : But when 
 I did, as I hoped this would be my last interview with this 
 terrible hard-hearted master, I turned about, and made a 
 low courtesy, and said, God bless you, sir ! God bless you, 
 Mr. Longman ! and I went into the lobby leading to the 
 great hall, and dropt into the first chair ; for I could get no 
 farther a good while. 
 
 I leave all these things to your reflection, my dear parents; 
 but I can write no more. My poor heart's almost broken ! 
 Indeed it is. — Oh when shall I get away 1 — Send me, good 
 God, in safety, once more to my poor father's peaceful cot ! 
 — and there the worst that can happen will be joy in per- 
 fection to what I now bear ! — Oh pity 
 
 Your distressed Daughter. 
 
 7^ 
 
PAMELA; OR, 
 
 LETTER XXIX. 
 
 My dear Father and Mother, — I must write on, 
 though I shall come so soon; for now I have hardly any- 
 thing else to do. I have finished all that lay upon me, and 
 only wait the good time of setting out. Mrs. Jervis said, I 
 must be low in pocket, for what I had laid out ; and so 
 would have presented me with two guineas of her five; but 
 I could not take them of her, because, poor gentlewoman, 
 she pays old debts for her children, that were extravagant, 
 and wants them herself. This, though, was very good 
 in her. 
 
 I am sorry I shall have but little to bring with me ; but 
 I know you won't, you are so good 1 — and I will work the 
 harder, when I come home, if I can get a little plain-work, 
 or anything, to do. But all your neighbourhood is so poor, 
 that I fear I shall want work, except, may be, Dame Mum- 
 ford can help me to something, from any good family she is 
 acquainted with. 
 
 Here, what a sad thing it is 1 I have been brought up 
 wrong, as matters stand. For, you know, my good lady, 
 now in heaven, loved singing and dancing; and, as she 
 would have it, I had a voice, she made me learn both ; and 
 often and often has she made me sing her an innocent song, 
 and a good psalm too, and dance before her. And I must 
 learn to fiower and draw too, and to work fine work with 
 my needle ; why, all this too I have got pretty tolerably at 
 my finger's end, as they say ; and she used to praise me, 
 and was a good judge of such matters. 
 
 Well now, what is all this to the purpose, as things have 
 turned about ? 
 
 Wh)', no more nor less, than that I am like the grass- 
 hopper in the fable, which I have read of in my lady's book 
 as follows :* — 
 
 * See the jEsop's Fables which have lately been selected and reformed 
 from those of Sir R. L'Estrange, and the most eminent mythologists. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 79 
 
 ' As the ants were airing their provisions one winter^ a 
 ' hungry grasshopper (as suppose it was poor I) begged a 
 ' charity of them. They told him. That he should have 
 ' wrought in summer, if he would not have wanted in 
 ' winter. Well, says the grasshopper, but I was not idle 
 ' neither ; for I sung out the whole season. Nay, then, 
 ' said they, you'll e'en do well to make a merry year of it, 
 ' and dance in winter to the tune you sung in summer.' 
 
 So I shall make a fine figure with my singing and my 
 dancing, when I come home to you ! Nay, I shall be unfit 
 even for a May-day holiday-time ; for these minuets, riga- 
 doons, and French dances, that I have been practising, will 
 make me but ill company for my milk-maid companions 
 that are to be. To be sure I had better, as things stand, 
 have learned to wash and scour, and brew and bake, and 
 such like. But I hope, if I can't get work, and can meet 
 with a place, to learn these soon, if anybody will have the 
 goodness to bear with me till I am able: For, notwith- 
 standing what my master says, I hope I have an humble 
 and teachable mind ; and, next to God's grace, that's all 
 my comfort : for I shall think nothing too mean that is 
 honest. It may be a little hard at first; but woe to my 
 proud heart, if I find it so on trial ; for I will make it bend 
 to its condition, or break it. 
 
 I have read of a good bishop that was to be burnt for 
 his religion ; and he tried how he could bear it, by putting 
 his fingers into the lighted candle : So I, t'other day, tried, 
 when Rachel's back was turned, if I could not scour a 
 pewter plate she had begun. I see I could do't by degrees : 
 it only blistered my hand in two places. 
 
 All the matter is, if I could get plain-work enough, I 
 need not spoil my fingers. But if I can't, I hope to make 
 my hands as red as a blood-pudding, and as hard as a 
 beechen trencher, to accommodate them to my condition. 
 — But I must break off; here's somebody coming. 
 
 'Tis only our Hannah with a message from Mrs. Jervis. — 
 But, hold, here's somebody else. — Well, it is only Rachel. 
 
8o PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I am as much frighted, as were the city mouse and the 
 country mouse, in the same book of fables, at everything 
 that stirs. Oh ! I have a power of these things to entertain 
 you with in winter evenings, when I come home. If I can 
 but get work, with a Httle time for reading, I hope we shall 
 be very happy over our peat fires. 
 
 What made me hint to you, that I should bring but 
 little with me, is this : 
 
 You must know, I did intend to do, as I have this after- 
 noon : and that is, I took all my clothes, and all my linen, 
 and I divided them into three parcels, as I had before told 
 Mrs. Jervis I intended to do ; and I said. It is now Monday, 
 Mrs. Jervis, and I am to go away on Thursday morning 
 betimes ; so, though I know you don't doubt my honesty, 
 I beg you will look over my poor matters, and let every 
 one have what belongs to them ; for, said I, you know I 
 am resolved to take with me only what I can properly call 
 my own. 
 
 Said she (I did not know her drift then ; to be sure she 
 meant well ; but I did not thank her for it, when I did 
 know it). Let your things be brought down in the green- 
 room, and I will do anything you will have me do. 
 
 With all my heart, said I, green-room or anywhere ; but 
 I think you might step up, and see 'em as they lie. 
 
 However, I fetched 'em down, and laid them in three 
 parcels, as before ; and when I had done, I went down to 
 call her up to look at them. 
 
 Now, it seems, she had prepared my master for this scene, 
 unknown to me ; and in this green-room was a closet, with 
 a sash-door, and a curtain before it ; for there she puts her 
 sweet-meats and such things ; and she did it, it seems to 
 turn his heart, as knowing what I intended, I suppose that 
 he should make me take the things ; for, if he had I should 
 have made money of them, to help us when we got together • 
 for, to be sure, I could never have appeared in them. 
 
 Well, as I was saying, he had got, unknown to me, into 
 this closet ; I suppose while I went to call Mrs. Jervis : and 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 8i 
 
 she since owned to me, it was at his desire, when she told 
 him something of what I intended, or else she would not 
 have done it : though I have reason, I am sure, to remember 
 the last closet-work. 
 
 So I said, when she came up. Here, Mrs. Jervis, is the 
 first parcel; I will spread it all abroad. These are the 
 things my good lady gave me. — In the first place, said I — 
 and so I went on describing the clothes and linen my lady 
 had given me, mingling blessings, as I proceeded, for her 
 goodness to me ; and when I had turned over that parcel, 
 I said, "Well, so much for the first parcel, Mrs. Jervis j that 
 was my lady's gifts. 
 
 Now I come to the presents of my dear virtuous master : 
 Hey, you know closet for that 1 Mrs. Jervis. She laughed, 
 and said, I never saw such a comical girl in my life ! But 
 go on. I will, Mrs. Jervis, said I, as soon as I have opened 
 the bundle; for I was as brisk and as pert as could be, 
 little thinking who heard me. 
 
 Now here, Mrs. Jervis, said I, are my ever worthy master's 
 presents ; and then I particularised all those in the second 
 bundle. 
 
 After which, I turned to my own, and said. 
 Now, Mrs. Jervis, comes poor Pamela's bundle; and a 
 little one it is to the others. First, here is a calico night- 
 gown, that I used to wear o' mornings. 'Twill be rather 
 too good for me when I get home ; but I must have some- 
 thing. Then there is a quilted calamanco coat, and a pair 
 of stockings I bought of the pedlar, and my straw hat with 
 blue strings ; and a remnant of Scots cloth, which will make 
 two shirts and two shifts, the. same I have on, for my poor 
 father and mother. And here are four other shifts, one 
 the fellow to that I have on; another pretty good one, 
 and the other two old ' fine ones, that will serve me to turn 
 and wind with at home, for they are not worth leaving 
 behind me ; and here are two pair of shoes, I have taken 
 the lace off, which I will burn, and may be will . fetch 
 me some little matter at a pinch, with an old silver buckle 
 or two. 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
8a PAMELA; OR, 
 
 What do you laugh for, Mrs. Jervis ? said I. — ^Why you 
 are like an April day j you cry and laugh in a breath. 
 
 Well, let me see; ay, here is a cotton handkerchief I 
 bought of the pedlar ; there should be another somewhere. 
 Oh, here it is ! and here too are my new-bought knit mittens : 
 and this is my new flannel coat, the fellow to that I have 
 on : and in this parcel, pinned together, are several pieces of 
 printed calico, remnants of silks, and such like, that, if good 
 luck should happen, and I should get work, would serve for 
 robins and facings, and such like uses. And here too are a 
 pair of pockets: they are too fine for me; but I have no 
 worse. Bless me, said I, I did not think I had so many 
 good things 1 
 
 Well, Mrs. Jervis, said I, you have seen all my store, and 
 I will now sit down, and tell you a piece of my mind. 
 
 Be brief then, said she, my good girl : for she was afraid, 
 she said afterwards, that I should say too much. 
 
 Why then the case is this : I am to enter upon a point 
 of equity and conscience, Mrs. Jervis ; and I must beg, if 
 you love me, you'd let me have my own way. Those 
 things there of my lady's, I can have no claim to, so as to 
 take them away ; for she gave them me, supposing I was 
 to wear them in her service, and to do credit to her boun- 
 tiful heart. But, since I am to be turned away, you 
 know, I cannot wear them at my poor father's; for I 
 should bring all the little village upon my back ; antlxso I 
 resolve not to have them. 
 
 Then, Mrs. Jervis, said I, I have far less right to these 
 of my worthy master's : for you see what was his intention 
 in giving them to me. So they were to be the price of my 
 shame, and if I could make use of them, I should think I 
 should never prosper with them ; and, besides, you know, 
 Mrs. Jervis, if I would not do the good gentleman's work, 
 why should I take his wages ? So, in conscience, in honour, 
 in everything, I have nothing to say to thee, thou second 
 wicked bundle 1 
 
 But, said I, come to my arms, my dear third parcel, the 
 
VIRTUE REJVARDED. 83 
 
 companion of my poverty^ and the witness of my honesty ; 
 and may I never deserve the least rag that is contained in 
 thee, when I forfeit a title to that innocence, that I hope 
 will ever be the pride of my life ! and then I am sure it will 
 be my highest comfort at my death, when all the riches and 
 pomps of the world will be worse than the vilest rags that can 
 be worn by beggars ! And so I hugged my third bundle. 
 
 But, said I, Mrs. Jervis (and she wept to hear me), one 
 thing more I have to trouble you with, and that's all. 
 
 There are four guineas, you know, that came out of my 
 good lady's pocket, when she died ; that, with some silver, 
 my master gave me : Now these same four guineas I sent 
 to my poor father and mother, and they have broken them ; 
 but would make them up, if I would : and if you think it 
 should be so, it shall. But pray tell me honestly your 
 mind : As to the three years before my lady's death, do 
 you think, as I had no wages, I may be supposed to be 
 quits ? — By quits, I cannot mean that my poor services 
 should be equal to my lady's goodness ; for that's impos- 
 sible. But as all her learning and education of me, as 
 matters have turned, will be of little service to me now ; 
 for it had been better for me to have been brought up to 
 hard labour, to be sure; for that I must turn to at last, if 
 I can't get a place (and you know, in places too, one is 
 subject to such temptations as are dreadful to think of) : 
 so, I say, by quits I only mean, as I return all the good 
 things she gave me, whether I may not set my little services 
 against my keeping ; because, as I said, my learning is not 
 now in the question; and I am sure my dear good lady 
 would have thought so, had she lived ; but that too is now out 
 of the question. Well then, if so, I would ask. Whether, 
 in above this year that I have lived with my master, as I 
 am resolved to leave all his gifts behind me, I may not have 
 earned, besides my keeping, these four guineas, and these 
 poor clothes here upon my back, and in my third bundle ? 
 Now tell me your mind freely, without favour or affection. 
 
 Alas! my dear girl, says she, you make me unable to 
 speak to you at all: To be sure it will be the highest 
 
84 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 affront that can be offered, for you to leave any of these 
 things behind you; and you must take all your bundles 
 with you, or my master will never forgive you. 
 
 Well, well, Mrs. Jervis, said I, I don't care ; I have been 
 too much used to be snubbed and hardly treated by my 
 master of late. I have done him no harm; and I shall 
 always pray for him and wish him happy. But I don't 
 deserve these things ; I know I don't. Then, I can't wear 
 them, if I should take them ; so they can be of no use to 
 me : And I trust I shall not want the poor pittance, that 
 is all I desire to keep life and soul together. Bread and 
 water I can live upon, Mrs. Jervis, with content. Water I 
 shall get anywhere ; and if I can't get me bread, I will 
 live like a bird in winter upon hips and haws, and at other 
 times upon pig-nuts and potatoes, or turnips, or anything. 
 So what occasion have I for these things ? — Buta 11 I ask 
 is about these four guineas, and if you think I need not 
 return them, that is all I want to know. — To be sure, my 
 dear, you need not, said she ; you have well earned them 
 by that waistcoat only. No, I think not so, in that only ; 
 but in the linen, and other things, do you think I have ? 
 Yes, yes, said she, and more. And my keeping allowed 
 for, I mean, said I, and these poor clothes on my back, 
 besides ? Remember that, Mrs. Jervis. Yes my dear odd- 
 one, no doubt you have. Well then, said I, I am as happy 
 as a princess. I am quite as rich as I wish to be : and 
 once more, my dear third bundle, I will hug thee to my 
 bosom. And I beg you'll say nothing of all this till I am 
 gone, that my master mayn't be so angry, but that I may 
 go in peace ; for my heart, without other matters, will be 
 ready to break to part with you all. 
 
 Now, Mrs. Jervis, said I, as to one matter more: and 
 that is my master's last usage of me, before Mr. Longman 
 — Said she, Pr'ythee, dear Pamela, step to my chamber 
 and fetch me a paper I left on my table. I have something 
 to show you in it. I will, said I, and stepped down ; but 
 that was only a fetch, to take the orders of my master I 
 found. It seems he said, he thought two or three times 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 85 
 
 to have burst out upon me; but he could not stand it^ and 
 wished I might not know he was there. But I tripped up 
 again so nimbly (for there was no paper), that I just saw 
 his back, as if coming out of that green-room, and going 
 into the next to it, the first door that was open — I whipped 
 in, and shut the door, and bolted it. O Mrs. jervis ! said 
 I, what have you done by me? — I see I can't confide in 
 anybody. I am beset on all hands. Wretched, wretched 
 Pamela^ where shalt thou expect a friend, if Mrs. Jervis 
 joins to betray thee thus? She made so many protesta- 
 tions (telling me all, and that he owned I had made him 
 wipe his eyes two or three times, and said she hoped it 
 would have a good effect, and remembered me, that I had 
 said nothing but what would rather move compassion than 
 resentment), that I forgave her. But oh ! that I was safe 
 from this house 1 for never poor creature sure was so flus- 
 tered as I have been so many months together ! — I am 
 called down from this most tedious scribble. I wonder what 
 
 will next befall 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis says, she is sure I shall have the chariot to 
 carry me home to you. Though this will look too 
 great for me, yet it will show as if I was not turned 
 away quite in disgrace. The travelling chariot is come 
 from Lincolnshire, and I fancy I shall go in that ; for 
 the other is quite grand. 
 
 LETTER XXX. 
 
 My dear Father and Mother, — I write again, though, 
 may be, I shall bring it to you in my pocket : for I shall 
 have no writing, nor writing-time, I hope, when I come to 
 you. This -is Wednesday morning, and I shall, I hope, set 
 out to you to-morrow morning ; but I have had more trials 
 and more vexations ; but of another complexion too a little 
 though all from the same quarter. 
 
85 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Yesterday my master, after he came from hunting, sent 
 for me. I went with great terror ; for I expected he would 
 storm, and be in a fine passion with me for my freedom of 
 speech before : so I was resolved to begin first, with submis- 
 sion, to disarm his anger ; and I fell upon my knees as soon 
 as I saw him; and said. Good sir, let me beseech you, as 
 you hope to be forgiven yourself^ and for the sake of my 
 dear good lady your mother, who recommended me to you 
 with her last words, to forgive me all my faults; and only 
 grant me this favour, the last I shall ask you, that you 
 will let me depart your house with peace and quietness 
 of mind, that I may take such a leave of my dear fellow- 
 servants as befits me; and that my heart be not quite 
 broken. 
 
 He took me up, in a kinder manner than ever I had 
 known ; and he said. Shut the door, Pamela, and come to 
 me in my closet : I want to have a little serious talk with 
 you. — How can I, sir, said I, how can I ! and wrung my 
 hands. Oh pray, sir, let me go out of your presence, I 
 beseech you ! — By the God that made me, said he, I'll do 
 you no harm. Shut the parlour door, and come to me in 
 my library. 
 
 He then went into his closet, which is his library, and 
 full of rich pictures besides ; a noble apartment, though 
 called a closet, and next the private garden, into which it 
 has a door that opens. 1 shut the parlour door, as he bid 
 me; but stood at it irresolute. Place some confidence in 
 me, said he : Surely you may, when I have spoken thus 
 solemnly. So I crept towards him with trembling feet, and 
 my heart throbbing through my handkerchief. Come in, 
 said he, when I bid you. I did so. Pray, sir, said I, pity 
 and spare me, I will, said he, as I hope to be saved. He 
 sat down upon a rich settee ; and took hold of my hand 
 and said, Don't doubt me, Pamela. From this moment I 
 will no more consider you as my servant ; and I desire 
 you'll not use me with ingratitude for the kindness I am 
 going to express towards you. This a little emboldened me; 
 and he said, holding both my hands between his. You have 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 87 
 
 too much wit and good sense not to discover^ that I, in spite 
 of my heartj and all the pride of it^ cannot but love you. 
 YeSj look up to me^ my sweet-faced girl ! I must say I love 
 you ; and have put on a behaviour to you^ that was much 
 against my hearty in hopes to frighten you from your 
 reservedness. You see I own it ingenuously ; and don't 
 play your sex upon me for it. 
 
 I was unable to speak ; and he, seeing me too much 
 oppressed with confusion to go on in that strain, said. Well, 
 Pamela, let me know in what situation of life is your father : 
 I know he is a poor man; but is he as low and as honest as 
 he was when my mother took you ? 
 
 Then I could speak a little ; and with a down look (and 
 I felt my face glow like fire), I said. Yes, sir, as poor and 
 as honest too ; and that is my pride. Says he, I will do 
 something for him, if it be not your fault, and make all 
 your family happy. Ah, sir, said I, he is happier already 
 than ever he can be, if his daughter's innocence is to be the 
 price of your favour : and I beg you will not speak to me 
 on the only side that can wound me. I have no design of 
 that sort, said he. Oh sir, said I, tell me not so, tell me not 
 so ! — Tis easy, said he, for me to be the making of your 
 father, without injuring you. Well, sir, said I, if this can 
 be done, let me know how ; and all I can do with innocence 
 shall be the study and practice of my life. — But, oh ! what 
 can such a poor creature as I do, and do my duty ? — Said he, 
 I would have you stay a week or fortnight only, and behave 
 yourself with kindness to me ; I stoop to beg it of you, and 
 you shall see all shall turn out beyond your expectation. 
 I see, said he, you are going to answer otherwise than I 
 would have you; and I begin to be vexed I should thus 
 meanly sue ; and so I will say, that your behaviour before 
 honest Longman, when I used you as I did, and you could 
 so well have vindicated yourself, has quite charmed me. And 
 though I am not pleased with all you said yesterday, while 
 I was in the closet, yet you have moved me more to admire 
 YOM than before ; and I am awakened to see more worthi- 
 ness in you, than ever I saw in any lady in the world. All 
 
88 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 the servantSj from the highest to the lowest, dote upon you, 
 instead of envying you ; and look upon you in so superior a 
 light, as speaks what you ought to be. I have seen more of 
 your letters than you imagine (This surprised me !), and am 
 quite overcome with your charming manner of writing, so 
 free, so easy, and many of your sentiments so much above 
 your years, and your sex ; and all put together, makes me, 
 as I tell you, love you to extravagance. Now, Pamela, 
 when I have stooped to acknowledge all this, oblige me only 
 to stay another week or fortnight^ to give me time to bring 
 about some certain affairs, and you shall see how much you 
 may find your account in it. 
 
 I trembled to find my poor heart giving way. — Oh, good 
 sir, said I, spare a poor girl that cannot look up to you, and 
 speak. My heart is full ; and why should you wish to undo 
 me ? — Only oblige me, said he, to stay a fortnight longer, 
 and John shall carry word to your father, that I will see 
 him in the time, either here, or at the Swan in his village. 
 Oh sir, said I, my heart will burst ; but on my bended knees, 
 J beg you to let me go to-morrow, as I designed : and don't 
 offer to tempt a poor creature, whose whole will would be 
 to do yours, if my virtue would permit ! — I shall permit it, 
 said he ; for I intend no injury to you, God is my witness ! 
 Impossible ! said I ; I cannot, sir, believe you, after what 
 has passed : how many ways are there to undo poor 
 creatures ! Good God, protect me this one time, and send 
 
 me but to my dear father's cot in safety ! — Strange, d d 
 
 fate! said he, that when I speak so solemnly, I can't be 
 believed ! — What should I believe, sir ? said I, what can I 
 believe ? What have you said, but that I am to stay a 
 fortnight longer ? and what then is to become of me ? — My 
 
 pride of birth and fortune (d n them both ! said he 
 
 since they cannot obtain credit with you, but must add to 
 your suspicions) will not let me descend all at once ; and I 
 ask you but a fortnight's stay, that, after this declaration I 
 may pacify those proud demands upon me. 
 
 Oh how my heart throbbed ! and I began (for I did not 
 know what I did) to say the Lord's prayer. None of your. 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 89 
 
 beads to me, Pamela ! said he ; thou art a perfect nun, I 
 think. 
 
 But I said aloud, with my eyes lifted up to heaven. Lead 
 me not into temptation : hut deliver me from evil, oh my good 
 God ! He hugged me in his arms, and said, Well, my dear 
 girl, then you stay this fortnight, and you shall see what I 
 will do for you — I'll leave you a moment, and walk into the 
 next room, to give you time to think of it, and to show you 
 I have no design upon you. Well, this, I thought, did not 
 look amiss. 
 
 He went out, and I was tortured with twenty different 
 doubts in a minute ; sometimes I thought that to stay a 
 week or fortnight longer in this house to obey him, while 
 Mrs. Jervis was with me, could do no great harm: But then, 
 thought I, how do I know what I may be able to do ? I have 
 withstood his anger; but may I not relent at his kindness? — 
 How shall I stand that ? — Well, I hope, thought I, by the 
 same protecting grace in which I will always confide! — But 
 then, what has he promised ? Why, he will make my poor 
 father and mother's life comfortable. Oh ! said I to myself, 
 that is a rich thought; but let me not dwell upon it, for fear 
 I should indulge it to my ruin. — ^What can he do for me, 
 poor girl as I am ! — What can his greatness stoop to ! He 
 talks, thought I, of his pride of heart, and pride of condition; 
 Oh these are in his head, and in his heart too, or he would 
 not confess them to me at such an instant. Well then, 
 thought I, this can be only to seduce me. — He has promised 
 nothing. — But I am to see what he will do, if I stay a fort- 
 night ; and this fortnight, thought I again, is no such great 
 matter ; and I shall see in a few days how he carries it. — 
 But then, when I again reflected upon this distance between 
 him and me, and his now open declaration of love, as he 
 called it; and that after this he would talk with me on that 
 subject more plainly than ever, and I shall be less armed, 
 may be, to withstand him ; and then I bethought myself, 
 why, if he meant no dishonour, he should not speak before 
 Mrs. Jervis; and the odious frightful closet came again into 
 
90 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 my head, and my narrow escape upon it; and how easy it 
 might be for him to send Mrs. Jervis and the maids out of 
 the way ; and so that all the mischief he designed me might 
 be brought about in less than that time; I resolved to go 
 away and trust all to Providence, and nothing to myself. 
 And how ought I to be thankful for this resolution! — as 
 you shall hear. 
 
 But just as I have writ to this place, John sends me 
 word, that he is going this minute your way ; and so I 
 will send you so far as I have written, and hope by to- 
 morrow night, to ask your blessings, at your own poor, 
 but happy abode, and tell you the rest by word of mouth ; 
 and so I rest, till then, and for ever. 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
 LETTER XXXI. 
 
 Dear Father and Mother, — I will continue my 
 writing still, because, may be, I shall like to read it, when 
 I am with you, to see what dangers I have been enabled to 
 escape ; and though I bring it along with me. 
 
 I told you my resolution, my happy resolution, as I have 
 reason to think it : and just then he came in again, with 
 great kindness in his looks, and said, I make no doubt, 
 Pamela, you will stay this fortnight to oblige me. I 
 knew not how to frame my words so as to deny, and yet 
 not make him storm. But, said I, Forgive, sir, your poor 
 distressed servant. I know I cannot possibly deserve any 
 favour at your hands, consistent with virtue ; and I beg 
 you will let me go to my poor father. Why, said he, thou 
 art the veriest fool that I ever knew. I tell you I will see 
 your father; Fll send for him hither to-morrow, in my 
 travelling chariot, if you will ; and Fll let him know what 
 I intend to do for him and you. What, sir, may I ask you, 
 can that be ? Your honour's noble estate may easily make 
 him happy, and not unuseful, perhaps to you, in some 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 91 
 
 respect or other. But what price am I to pay for all 
 this ? — You shall be happy as you can wish, said he, I do 
 assure you: And here I will now give you this purse, in 
 which are fifty guineas, which I will allow vour father 
 yearly, and find an employ suitable to his liking, to 
 deserve that and more : Pamela, he shall never want, 
 depend upon it. I would have given you still more for 
 him, but that, perhaps, you'd suspect I intended it as a 
 design upon you. — Oh sir, said I, take back your guineas ! 
 I will not touch one, nor will my father, I am sure, till he 
 knows what is to be done Jor them ; and particularly what 
 is to become of me. Why then, Pamela, said he, suppose 
 I find a man of probity, and genteel calling, for a husband 
 for you, that shall make you a gentlewoman as long as you 
 live ? — I want no husband, sir, said I ; for now I began to 
 see him in all his black colours 1 — Yet being so much in his 
 power, I thought I would a little dissemble. But, said he, 
 you are so pretty, that go where you will, you can never 
 be free from the designs of some or other of our sex; and 
 I shall think I don't answer the care of my dying mother 
 for you, who committed you to me, if I don't provide you 
 a husband to protect your virtue and your innocence; 
 and a worthy one I have thought of for you. 
 
 Oh black, perfidious creature!, thought I, what an im- 
 plement art thou in the hands or Lucifer, to ruin the in- 
 nocent heart! — Yet still I dissembled; for I feared much 
 both him and the place! was in. But whom, pray, sir, 
 have you thought of? — Why, said he, young Mr. Williams, 
 my chaplain, in Lincolnshire, who will make you happy. 
 Does he know, sir, said I, anything of your honour's in- 
 tentions ? — No, my girl, said he, and kissed me (much 
 against my will; for his very breath was now poison to 
 me), but his dependence upon my favour, and your beauty 
 and merit, will make him rejoice at my kindness to him. 
 Well, sir, said I, then it is time enough to consider of this 
 matter; and it cannot hinder me from going to my father's: 
 for what will staying a fortnight longer signify to this? 
 Your honour's care and goodness may extend to me there, 
 
9a PAMELA i OR, 
 
 as well as here ; and Mr. Williams, and all the world, shall 
 know that I am not ashamed of my father's poverty. 
 
 He would kiss me again, and I said. If I am to think 
 of Mr. Williams, or anybody, I beg yoii'W not be so free 
 with me : that is not pretty, I'm sure. Well, said he, but 
 you stay this next fortnight, and in that time I'll have both 
 Williams and your father here ; for I will have the match 
 concluded in my house; and when I have brought it on, 
 you shall settle it as you please together. Meantime take 
 and send only these fifty pieces to your father, as an 
 earnest of my favour, and Fll make you all happy. — Sir, 
 said I, I beg at least two hours to consider of this. I 
 shall, said he, be gone out in one hour ; and I would have 
 you write to your father what I propose; and John shall 
 carry it on purpose ; and he shall take the purse with him 
 for the good old man, if you approve it. Sir, said I, I will 
 then let you know in one hour my resolution. Do so, said 
 he ; and gave me another kiss, and let me go. 
 ■ DirTiow' rejoiced I had got out of his clutches! — So I 
 write you this, that you may see how matters stand ; for I 
 am resolved to come away, if possible. jBase, wicked, 
 treacherous gentleman as he is ! 
 
 So here was a trap laid for your poor Pamela! I tremble 
 to think of it ! Oh what a scene of wickedness was here laid 
 down for all my wretched life ! Blackhearted wretch ! how 
 I hate him i-JPor, at first, as you'll see by what I have 
 written, he wdbld have made me believe other things ; jind 
 this of Mr. Williams, I suppose, came into his head after 
 he walked out from his closet, to give himself time to think 
 how to delude me better: but the covering was now too 
 thin, and easy to be seen through. , 
 
 I went to my chamber, and the first thing I did was to 
 write to him; for I thought it was best not to see him 
 again, if I could help it; and I put it under his parlour 
 door, after I had copied it, as follows : 
 
 ' Honoured Sir,— Your last proposal to me convinces 
 ' me, that I ought not to stay, but to go to my father, if it 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 93 
 
 were but to ask his advice about Mr. "Williams. And I 
 am so set upon it, that I am not to be persuaded. So, 
 honoured sir, with a thousand thanks for all favours, I 
 will set out to-morrow early ; and the honour you designed 
 me, as Mrs. Jervis tells me, of your chariot, there will be 
 no occasion for: because I can hire, I believe. Farmer 
 Brady's chaise. So, begging you will not take it amiss, 
 I shall ever be 
 
 ' Your dutiful Servant.' 
 
 ' As to the purse, sir, my poor father, to be. sure, won't 
 ' forgive me, if I take it, till he can know how to de- 
 ' serve it : which is impossible.' 
 
 So he has just now sent Mrs. Jervis to tell me, that since 
 I am resolved to go, go I may, and the travelling chariot 
 shall be ready; but it shall be worse for me; for that he 
 will never trouble himself about me as long as he lives. 
 Well, so I get out of the house, I care not ; only I should 
 have been glad I could, with innocence, have made you, my 
 dear parents, happy. 
 
 I cannot imagine the reason of it, but John, who I 
 thought was gone with my last, is but now going ; and he 
 sends to know if I have anything else to carry. So I 
 break off to send you this with the former. 
 
 I am now preparing for my journey, and about taking 
 leave of my good fellow-servants: and if I have not time 
 to write, I must tell you the rest, when I am so happy as 
 to be with you. 
 
 One word more: I slip in a paper of verses, on my 
 going; sad poor stuff! but as they come from me, you'll 
 not dislike them, may be. I showed them to Mrs. Jervis, 
 and she liked them, and took a copy; and inade me sing 
 them to her, and in the green-room too ; but I looked into 
 the closet. first. I will only add, that I am 
 
 Your dutiful Daughter. 
 
 Let me just say. That he has this moment sent me five 
 guineas by Mrs. Jervis, as a present for my pocket: 
 So I shall be very rich; for as she brought them, I 
 
94 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 thought I might take them. He says he won't see me : 
 and I may go when I will in the morning; and Lin- 
 colnshire Robin shall drive me : but he is so angry, he 
 orders that nobody shall go out at the door with me, 
 not so much as into the coach-yard. Well ! I can't 
 help it, not I ! But does not this expose himself more 
 than me ? 
 
 But John waits, and I would have brought this and the 
 other myself J but he says, he has put it up among 
 other things, and so can take both as well as one. 
 
 John is very good, and very honest; I am under great 
 obligations to him. I'd give him a guinea, now I'm 
 so rich, if I thought he'd take it. I hear nothing of 
 my lady's clothes, and those my master gave me : for 
 I told Mrs. Jervis, I would not take them ; but I fancy, 
 by a word or two that was dropped, they will be sent 
 after me. Dear sirs 1 what a rich Pamela you'll have 
 if they should 1 But as I can't wear them if they do, 
 I don't desire them; and if I have them, will turn 
 them into money, as I can have opportunity. Well, 
 no more — I'm in a fearful hurry ! 
 
 VERSES ON MY GOING AWAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 My fellow-servants dear, attend 
 To these few lines, which I have penn'd : 
 I'm sure they're from your honest friend, 
 And wisher-well, poor Pamela. 
 
 II. 
 
 I, from a state of low degree, 
 Was plac'd in this good family : 
 Too high a fate for humble me. 
 
 The helpless, hopeless Pamela. 
 
 in. 
 
 Yet though my happy lot was so, 
 
 Joyful, I homeward from it go. 
 
 No less content, when poor and low. 
 
 Than here you find your Pamela. 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 95 
 
 IV. 
 
 ^ox what indeed is happiness, 
 But conscious innocence and peace ? 
 And that's a treasure I possess; 
 
 Thank Heaven that gave it Pamela. 
 
 My future lot I cannot know : 
 But this I'm sure, where'er I go, 
 Whate'er I am, whate'er I do, 
 
 I'll be the grateful Pamela. 
 
 VI. 
 
 No sad regrets my heart annoy, 
 I'll pray for all your peace and joy, 
 From master high to scullion boy. 
 
 For all your loves to Pamela. 
 
 VII. 
 
 One thing or two I've more to say ; 
 God's holy will, be sure, obey ; 
 And for our master always pray. 
 
 As ever shall poor PAMELA. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 For, oh ! we pity should the great, 
 Instead of envying their estate ; 
 Temptations always on 'em wait, 
 
 Exempt from which are such as we. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Their riches, gay deceitful snares, 
 Enlarge their fears, increase their cares : 
 Their servants' joy surpasses theirs ; 
 At least so judges Pamela. 
 
 X. 
 
 Your parents and relations love ; 
 Let them your duty ever prove ; 
 And you'll be bless'd by Heav'n above, 
 As will, I hope, poor Pamela. 
 
 XI. 
 
 For if asham'd I e'er could be 
 Of my dear parents' low degree, 
 What lot had been too mean for me, 
 
 Unbless'd, un virtuous Pamela. 
 
96 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 XII. 
 
 Thrice happy may you ever be, 
 Each one in his and her degree ; 
 And, sirs, whene'er you think of me, 
 Pray for content to PAMELA. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Pray for her wish'd content and peace ; 
 And rest assur'd she'll never cease 
 To pray for all your joys' increase, 
 
 While life is lent to Pamela. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 On God all future good depends : 
 Serve Him. And so my sonnet ends. 
 With, thank ye, thank ye, honest friends, 
 For all your loves to Pamela. 
 
 Here it is necessary the reader should know, that the fair 
 Pamela's trials were not yet over; but the worst were to 
 come, at a time when she thought them at an end, and that 
 she was returning to her father : for when her master found 
 her virtue was not to be subdued, and he had in vain tried 
 to conquer his passion for her, being a gentleman of pleasure 
 and intrigue, he had ordered his Lincolnshire coachman to 
 bring his travelling chariot from thence, not caring to trust 
 his Bedfordshire coachman, who, with the rest of the ser- 
 vants, so greatly loved and honoured the fair damsel ; and 
 having given him instructions accordingly, and prohibited 
 the other servants, on pretence of resenting Pamela's beha- 
 viour, from accompanying her any part of the road, he 
 drove her five miles on the way to her father's ; and then 
 turning oif, crossed the country, and carried her onwards 
 towards his Lincolnshire estate. 
 
 It is also to be observed, that the messenger of her letters 
 to her father, who so often pretended business that way, was 
 an implement in his master's hands, and employed by bin 
 for that purpose ; and always gave her letters first to him 
 and his master used to open and read them, and then senc 
 
FIRTUE REJVARDED. 97 
 
 them on; by which means, as he hints to her (as she 
 observes in one of her letters, p. 88), he was no stranger to 
 what she wrote. Thus every way was the poor virgin beset : 
 And the whole will show the base arts of designing men to 
 gain their wicked ends; and how much it behoves the fair 
 sex to stand upon their guard against artful contrivances, 
 especially when riches and power conspire against innocence 
 and a low estate. 
 
 A few words more will be necessary to make the sequel 
 better understood. The intriguing gentleman thought fit, 
 however, to keep back from her father her three last letters ; 
 in which she mentions his concealing himself to hear her 
 partitioning out her clothes, his last effort to induce her to 
 stay a fortnight, his pretended proposal of the chaplain, and 
 her hopes of speedily seeing them, as also her verses ; and 
 to send himself a letter to her father, which is as follows : 
 
 'Goodman Andrews, — You will wonder to receive a 
 ' letter from me. But I think I am obliged to let you 
 ' know, that I have discovered the strange correspondence 
 ' carried on between you and your daughter, so injurious to 
 ' my honour and reputation, and which, I think, you should 
 ' not have encouraged, till you knew there were sufficient 
 ' grounds for those aspersions, which she so plentifully 
 ' casts upon me. Something possibly there might be in 
 ' what she has written from time to time ; but, believe me, 
 ' with all her pretended simplicity and innocence, I never 
 ' knew so much romantic invention as she is mistress of. 
 ' In short, the girl's head's turned by romances, and such 
 ' idle stuff, to which she has given herself up, ever since her 
 ' kind lady's death. And she assumes airs, as if she was 
 ' a mirror of perfection, and everybody had a design upon 
 ' her. 
 
 ' Don't mistake me, however ; I believe her very honest 
 ' and very virtuous ; but I have found out also, that she is 
 ' carrying on a sort of correspondence, or love affair, with 
 ' a young clergyman, that I hope in time to provide for ; 
 ' but who, at present, is destitute of any subsistence but my 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
98 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 favour : And what would be the consequence, can you 
 think, of two young folks, who have nothing in the world 
 to trust to of their own, to come together with a family 
 multiplying upon them before they have bread to eat ? 
 
 ' For my part, I have too much kindness to them both, 
 not to endeavour to prevent it, if I can ; and for this 
 reason I have sent her o'lt of his way for a little while, 
 till I can bring them boti to better consideration ; and I 
 would not, therefore, have you be surprised you don't see 
 your daughter so soon as you might possibly expect. 
 
 ' Yet I do assure you, upon my honour, that she shall be 
 safe and inviolate ; and I hope you don't doubt me, not- 
 withstanding any airs she may have given herself, upon 
 my jocular pleasantry to her, and perhaps a little innocent 
 romping with her, so usual with young folks of the two 
 sexes, when they have been long acquainted, and grown 
 up together ; for pride is not my talent. 
 
 ' As she is a mighty letter-writer, I hope she has had 
 the duty to apprise you of her intrigue with the young 
 clergyman ; and I know not whether it meets with your 
 countenance : But now she is absent for a little while (for 
 I know he would have followed her to your village, if she 
 had gone home; and there, perhaps, they would have 
 ruined one another, by marrying), I doubt not I shall 
 bring him to see his interest, and that he engages not 
 before he know how to provide for a wife : And when that 
 can be done, let them come together in God's name, 
 for me. 
 
 ' I expect not to be answered on this head, but by your 
 good opinion, and the confidence you may repose in my 
 honour : being 
 
 ' Your hearty friend to serve you.' 
 
 ' P.S. — I find my man John has been the manager of 
 'the correspondence, in which such liberties have 
 ' been taken with me. I shall soon, in a manner that 
 ' becomes me, let the saucy fellow know how much I 
 ' resent his part of the affair. It is a hard thing, that 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 99 
 
 ' a man of my character in the world should be used 
 ' thus freely by his own servants/ 
 
 It is easy to guess at the poor old man's concern, upon 
 reading this letter from a gentleman of so much considera- 
 tion. He knew not what course to take, and had no 
 manner of doubt of his poor daughter's innocence, and 
 that foul play was designed her. Yet he sometimes hoped 
 the best, and was ready to believe the surmised correspond- 
 ence between the clergyman and her, having not received 
 the letters she wrote, which would have cleared up that 
 affair. 
 
 But, after all, he resolved, as well to quiet his own as her 
 mother's uneasiness, to undertake a journey to the 'squire's ; 
 and leaving his poor wife to excuse him to the farmer who 
 employed him, he set out that very evening, late as it was ; 
 and travelling all night, found himself, soon after daylight, 
 at the gate of the gentleman, before the family was up : 
 and there he sat down to rest himself till he should see 
 somebody stirring. 
 
 The grooms were the first he saw, coming out to water 
 their horses; and he asked, in so distressful a manner, what 
 was become of Pamela, that they thought him crazy ; and 
 said. Why, what have you to do with Pamela, old fellow ? 
 Get out of the horses' way. — Where is your master ? said 
 the poor man : Pray, gentlemen, don't be angry : my heart's 
 almost broken. — He never gives anything at the door, 
 I assure you, says one of the grooms; so you lose your 
 labour. — I am not a beggar yet, said the poor old man ; 
 I want nothing of him, but my Pamela : — Oh my child ! 
 my child ! 
 
 I'll be hanged, says one of them, if this is not Mrs. 
 Pamela's father. — Indeed, indeed, said he, wringing his 
 hands, I am ; and weeping, Where is my child ? Where is 
 my Pamela ? — Why, father, said one of them, we beg your 
 pardon ; but she is gone home to you : How long have 
 you been come from home ? — Oh ! but last night, said he ; 
 I have travelled all night : Is the 'squire at home, or is he 
 
100 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 not? — YeSj but he is not stirring though, said the groom, 
 as yet. Thank God for that ! said he ; thank God for 
 that ! Then I hope I may be permitted to speak to him 
 anon. They asked him to go in, and he stepped into the 
 stable, and sat down on the stairs there, wiping his eyes, and 
 sighing so sadly, that it grieved the servants to hear him. 
 
 The family was soon raised with a report of Pamela's 
 father coming to inquire after his daughter ; and the maids 
 would fain have had him go into the kitchen. But Mrs. 
 Jervis, having been told of his coming, arose, and hastened 
 down to her parlour, and took him in with her, and there 
 heard all his sad story, and read the letter. She wept 
 bitterly, but yet endeavoured, before him, to hide her con- 
 cern ; and said. Well, Goodman Andrews, I cannot help 
 weeping at your grief; but I hope there is no occasion. 
 Let nobody see this letter, whatever you do. I daresay 
 your daughter is safe. 
 
 Well, but, said he, I see you, madam, know nothing 
 about her : — If all was right, so good a gentlewoman as 
 you are, would not have been a stranger to this. To be 
 sure you thought she was with me ! 
 
 Said she, My master does not always inform his servants 
 of his proceedings; but you need not doubt his honour. 
 You have his hand for it : And you may see he can have 
 no design upon her, because he is not from hence, and does 
 not talk of going hence. Oh that is all I have to hope for ! 
 said he ; that is all, indeed ! — But, said he — and was going 
 on, when the report of his coming had reached the 'squire, 
 who came down, in his morning-gown and slippers, into 
 the parlour, where he and Mrs. Jervis were talking. 
 
 What's the matter, Goodman Andrews ? said he ; what's 
 the matter ? Oh my child ! said the good old man ; give me 
 my child ! I beseech you, sir.— Why, I thought, says the 
 'squire, that I had satisfied you about her : Sure you have 
 not the letter I sent you, written with my own hand. Yes 
 yes, but I have, sir, said he ; and that brought me hither • 
 and I have walked all night. Poor man, returned he with 
 great seeming compassion, I am sorry for it truly ! Whv 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. loi 
 
 your daughter has made a strange racket in my family ; and 
 if I thought it would have disturbed you so much, I would 
 have e'en let her gone home ; but what I did was to serve 
 her, and you too. She is very safe, I do assure you, Good- 
 man Andrews ; and you may take my honour for it, I 
 would not injure her for the world. Do you think I would, 
 Mrs Jervis ? No, I hope not, sir, said she. — Hope not ! said 
 the poor man ; so do I j but pray, sir, give me my child ; 
 that is all I desire; and I'll take care no clergyman shall 
 come near her. 
 
 Why, London is a great way off, said the 'squire, and I 
 can't send for her back presently. What, then, said he, 
 have you sent my poor Pamela to London ? I would not 
 have it said so, replied the 'squire ; but I assure you, upon 
 my honour, she is quite safe and satisfied, and will quickly 
 inform you of it by letter. She is in a reputable family, 
 no less than a bishop's, and is to wait on his lady, till I get 
 the matter over that I mentioned to you. 
 
 Oh how shall I know this ? replied he. — What ! said the 
 'squire, pretending anger, am I to be doubted ? Do you 
 believe I can have any view upon your daughter ? And if 
 I had, do you think I would take such methods as these to 
 effect it? Why, surely, man, thou forgettest whom thou 
 talkest to ! — Oh, sir, said he, I beg your pardon ! but con- 
 sider my dear child is in the case ; let me know but what 
 bishop, and where; and I will travel to London on foot 
 to see my daughter, and then shall be satisfied. 
 
 Why, Goodman Andrews, I think thou hast read ro- 
 mances as well as thy daughter, and thy head's turned with 
 them. May I not have my word taken ? Do you think, 
 once more, I would offer anything dishonourable to your 
 daughter? Is there anything looks like it? Pr'ythee, 
 man, recollect a little who I am ; and if I am not to be 
 believed, what signifies talking? — Why, sir, said he, pray 
 forgive me ; but there is no harm to say. What bishop's, or 
 whereabouts ? What, and so you'd go troubling his lord-* 
 ship with your impertinent fears and stories ! Will you 
 be satisfied, if you have a letter from her within a week, it 
 
loa PAMELA; OR, 
 
 may be less, if she be not negligent, to assure you all is well 
 with her ? Why that, said the poor man, will be some 
 comfort. Well, then, said the gentleman, I can't answer 
 for her negligence, if she don't write : And if she should 
 send a letter to you, Mrs. Jervis (for I desire not to see it ; 
 I have had trouble enough about her already), be sure you 
 send it by a man and horse the moment you receive it. To 
 be sure I will, answered she. Thank your honour, said the 
 good man: And then I must wait with as much patience 
 as I can for a week, which will be a year to me. 
 
 I tell you, said the gentleman, it must be her own fault if 
 she don't write ; for 'tis what I insisted upon, for my own 
 reputation ; and I shan't stir from this house, I assure you, 
 till she is heard from, and that to your satisfaction. God 
 bless your honour, said the poor man, as you say and mean 
 truth! Amen, Amen, Goodman Andrews, said he: you 
 see I am not afraid to say Amen. So, Mrs. Jervis, make 
 the good man as welcome as you can ; and let me have no 
 uproar about the matter. 
 
 He then, whispering her, bid her give him a couple of 
 guineas to bear his charges home ; telling him, he should be 
 welcome to stay there till the letter came, if he would, and 
 be a witness, that he intended honourably, and not to stir 
 from his house for one while. 
 
 The poor old man stayed and dined with Mrs. Jervis, with 
 some, tolerable ease of mind, in hopes to hear from his 
 beloved daughter in a few days ; and then accepting the 
 present, returned for his own house, and resolved to be as 
 patient as possible. 
 
 Meantime Mrs. Jervis, and all the family^ were in the 
 utmost grief for the trick put upon the poor Pamela • and 
 she and the steward represented it to their master in as mov- 
 ing terms as they durst : but were forced to rest satisfied with 
 his general assurances of intending her no harm • which 
 however, Mrs. Jervis little believed, from the pretence he 
 Wd made in his letter, of the correspondence between 
 Pamela and the young parson ; which she knew to be all 
 mere invention, though she durst not say so. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 103 
 
 But the week after, they were made a little more easy by 
 the following letter brought by an unknown hand, and left 
 for Mrs. Jervis, which, how procured, will be shown in the 
 sequel. 
 
 'Dear Mrs. Jervis, — I have been vilely tricked, and, 
 ' instead of being driven by Robin to my dear father's, I am 
 carried off, to where, I have no liberty to tell. However, I 
 am at present not used hardly, in the main : and write to 
 beg of you to let my dear father and mother (whose hearts 
 must be well-nigh broken) know that I am well, and that 
 I am, and, by the grace of God ever will be, their honest, 
 as well as dutiful daughter, and 
 
 ' Your obliged friend, 
 
 ' Pamela Andrews.' 
 
 ' I must neither send date nor place ; but have most 
 solemn assurances of honourable usage. This is the 
 only time my low estate has been troublesome to me, 
 since it has subjected me to the frights I have under- 
 gone. Love to your good self, and all my dear fellow- 
 servants. Adiezi, ! adieu ! but pray for poor Pamela.' 
 
 This, though it quieted not entirely their apprehensions, 
 was shown to the whole family, and to the gentleman him- 
 self, who pretended not to know how it came ; and Mrs. 
 Jervis sent it away to the good old folks ; who at first suspected 
 it was forged, and not their daughter's hand ; but, finding 
 the contrary, they were a little easier to hear she was alive 
 and honest : and having inquired of all their acquaintance 
 what could be done, and no one being able to put them in 
 a way how to proceed, with effect, on so extraordinary an 
 occasion, against so rich and so resolute a gentleman ; and 
 being afraid to make matters worse (though they saw plainly 
 enough, that she was in no bishop's family, and so mis- 
 trusted all the rest of his story), they applied themselves to 
 prayers for their poor daughter, and for an happy issue to an 
 affair that almost distracted them. 
 
I04 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 We shall now leave the honest old pair praying for their 
 dear Pamela, and return to the account she herself gives 
 of all this; having written it journal-wise, to amuse and 
 employ her time, in hopes some opportunity might offer 
 to send it to her friends ; and, as was her constant view, 
 that she might afterwards thankfully look back upon the 
 dangers she had escaped, when they should be happily over- 
 blown, as in time she hoped they would be ; and that then 
 she might examine, and either approve or repent of her 
 own conduct in them. 
 
 LETTER XXXII, 
 
 Oh my dearest Father and Mother! — Let me write, 
 and bewail my miserable hard fate, though I have no hope 
 how what I write can be conveyed to your hands ! — I have 
 now nothing to do, but write and weep, and fear and pray ! 
 But yet what can I hope for, when I seem to be devoted, 
 as a victim to the will of a wicked violator of all the laws 
 of God and man ! — But, gracious Heaven, forgive me my 
 rashness and despondency ! Oh let me not sin against Thee ; 
 for Thou best knowest what is fittest for Thy poor hand- 
 maid ! — And as Thou sufferest not Thy poor creatures to be 
 tempted above what they can bear, I will resign myself to 
 Thy good pleasure : And still, I hope, desperate as my con- 
 dition seems, that as these trials are not of my own seeking 
 nor the effects of my presumption and vanity, I shall be 
 enabled to overcome them, and, in God's own good time 
 be delivered from them. 
 
 Thus do I pray imperfectly, as I am forced by my dis- 
 tracting fears and apprehensions; and oh join with me my 
 dear parents ! — But, alas ! how can you know, how can I 
 reveal to you, the dreadful situation of your poor daughter ! 
 The unhappy Pamela may be undone (which God forbid 
 and sooner deprive me of life !) before you can' know her 
 hard lot ! ' 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 105 
 
 Oh the unparalleled wickedness, stratagems, and devices, 
 of those who call themselves gentlemen, yet pervert the 
 design of Providence, in giving them ample means to do 
 good, to their own everlasting perdition, and the ruin of 
 poor oppressed innocence ! 
 
 But now I will tell you what has befallen me ; and yet, 
 how shall you receive it ? Here is no honest John to carry 
 my letters to you ! And, besides, I am watched in all my 
 steps ; and no doubt shall be, till my hard fate may ripen 
 his wicked projects for my ruin. I will every day, how- 
 ever, write my sad state ; and some way, perhaps, may be 
 opened to send the melancholy scribble to you. But, alas ! 
 when you know it, what will it do but aggravate your 
 troubles ? For, oh ! what can the abject poor do against 
 the mighty rich, when they are determined to oppress ? 
 
 Well, but I must proceed to write what I had hoped to 
 tell you in a few hours, when I believed I should receive 
 your grateful blessings, on my return to you from so many 
 hardships. 
 
 I will begin with my account from the last letter I wrote 
 you, in which I enclosed my poor stuff of verses ; and con- 
 tinue it at times, as I have opportunity; though, as I said, 
 I know not how it can reach you. 
 
 The long-hoped-for Thursday morning came, when I was 
 to set out. I had taken my leave of my fellow-servants 
 over-night ; and a mournful leave it was to us all : for men, 
 as well as women servants, wept much to part with me ; 
 and, for my part, I was overwhelmed with tears, and the 
 aiFecting instances of their esteem. They all would have 
 made me little presents, as tokens of their love ; but I would 
 not take anything from the lower servants, to be sure. 
 But Mr. Longman would have me accept of several yards 
 of Holland, and a silver snufF-box, and a gold ring, which 
 tie desired me to keep for his sake ; and he wept over me ; 
 but said, I am sure so good a maiden God will bless; and 
 :hough you return to your poor father again, and his low 
 istate, yet Providence will find you out : Remember I tell 
 
io5 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 you so ; and one day, though I mayn't live to see it, you 
 will be rewarded. 
 
 I said, O dear Mr. Longman ! you make me too rich, 
 and too mody ; and yet I must be a beggar before my time: 
 for I shall want often to be scribbling (little thinking it 
 would be my only employment so soon), and I will beg you, 
 sir, to favour me with some paper'; and, as soon as I get 
 home, I will write you a letter, to thank you for all your 
 kindness to me; and a letter to good Mrs. Jervis too. 
 
 This was lucky ; for I should have had none else, but at 
 the pleasure of my rough-natured governess, as I may call 
 her ; but now I can write to ease my mind, though I can't 
 send it to you ; and write what I please, for she knows not 
 how well I am provided : for good Mr. Longman gave me 
 above forty sheets of paper, and a dozen pens, and a little 
 phial of ink ; which last I wrapped in paper, and put in my 
 pocket ; and some wax and wafers. 
 
 Oh, dear sir, said I, you have set me up. How shall I 
 requite you ? He said. By a kiss, my fair mistress ! And I 
 gave it very willingly ; for he is a good old man. 
 
 Rachel and Hannah cried sadly when I took my leave ; 
 and Jane, who sometimes used to be a little crossish, and 
 Cicely too, wept sadly, and said, they would pray for me ; 
 but poor Jane, I doubt, will forget that ; for she seldom says 
 her prayers for herself : More's the pity ! 
 
 Then Arthur the gardener, our Robin the coachman, and 
 Lincolnshire Robin too, who was to carry me, were very 
 civil ; and both had tears in their eyes ; which I thought 
 then very good-natured in Lincolnshire Robin, because he 
 knew but little of me. — ^But since, I find he might well be 
 concerned ; for he had then his instructions, it seems, and 
 knew how he was to be a means to entrap me. 
 
 Then our other three footmen, Harry, Isaac, and Ben- 
 jamin, and grooms, and helpers, were very much affected 
 likewise ; and the poor little scullion-boy. Tommy, was 
 ready to run over for grief. 
 
 They had got all together over-night, expecting to be 
 differently employed in the morning; and they all begged 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 107 
 
 to shake hands with me, and I kissed the maidens, and 
 prayed to God to bless them all ; and thanked them for 
 all their love and kindnesses to me : and, indeed, I was 
 forced to leave them sooner than I would, because I could 
 not stand it: Indeed I could not. Harry (I could not 
 have thought it; for he is a little wildish, they say) cried 
 till he sobbed again. John, poor hptiest John, was not 
 then come back from you. But as for the butler, Mr. 
 Jonathan, he could not stay in company. 
 
 I thought to have told you a deal about this ; but I have 
 worse things to employ my thoughts. 
 
 Mrs. Jervis, good Mrs. Jervis, cried all night long; and 
 I comforted her all I could : And she made me promise, 
 that if my master went to London to attend parliament, or 
 to Lincolnshire, I would come and stay a week with her : 
 and she would have given me money; but I would not 
 take it.-, 
 
 Well, next morning came, and I wondered I saw nothing 
 of poor honest John; for I waited to take leave of him, 
 and thank him for all his civilities to me and to you. But 
 I suppose he was sent farther by my master, and so could 
 not return; and I desired to be remembered to him. 
 
 And when Mrs. Jervis told me, with a sad heart, the 
 chariot was ready with four horses to it, T was just upon 
 sinking into the ground, though I wanted to be with you. 
 
 My master was above stairs, and never asked to see me. 
 I was glad of it in the main ; but he knew, false heart as 
 he is, that I was not to be out of his reach. — Oh preserve 
 me. Heaven, from his power, and from his wickedness ! 
 
 Well, they were not suffered to go with me one step, as 
 I writ to you before; for he stood at the window to see 
 me go. And in the passage to the gate, out of his sight, 
 there they stood all of them, in two rows; and we could 
 say nothing on both sides, but God bless you! and God 
 bless you! But Harry carried my own bundle, my third 
 bundle, as I was used to call it, to the coach, with some 
 plumb-cake, and diet-bread, made for me over-night, and 
 
io8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 some sweet-meatSj and six bottles of Canary wine, which 
 Mrs. Jervis would make me take in a basket, to cheer our 
 hearts now and then, when we got together, as she said. 
 And I kissed all the maids again, and shook hands with the 
 men again ; but Mr. Jonathan and Mr. Longman were not 
 ^there; and then I tripped down the steps to the chariot, 
 Mrs. Jervis crying most sadly. 
 
 I looked up when I got to the chariot, and I saw my 
 master at the window, in his gown ; and I courtesied three 
 times to him very low, and prayed for him with my hands 
 lifted up ; for I could not speak ; indeed I was not able : 
 And he bowed his head to me, which made me then very 
 glad he would take such notice of me; and in I stepped, 
 and was ready to burst with grief: and could only, till 
 Robin began to drive, wave my white handkerchief to 
 them, wet with my tears : and, at last, away he drove, 
 Jehu-like, as they say, out of the courtyard. And I too 
 soon found I had cause for greater and deeper grief. 
 
 Well, said I to myself, at this rate I shall soon be with 
 my dear father and mother ; and till I had got, as I sup- 
 posed, halfway, I thought of the good friends I had left : 
 And when, on stopping for a little bait to the horses, Robin 
 told me I was near halfway, I thought it was high time to 
 wipe my eyes, and think to whom I was going ; as then, 
 alack for me! I thought. So I began to ponder what a 
 meeting I should have with you ; how glad you'd both be 
 to see me come safe and innocent to you, after all my 
 dangers : and so I began to comfort myself, and to banish 
 the other gloomy side from my mind ; though, too, it 
 returned now and then ; for I should be ungrateful not to 
 love them for their love. 
 
 Well, I believe I set out about eight o'clock in the morn- 
 ing; and I wondered and wondered, when it was about 
 two, as I saw by a church dial, in a little village as we 
 passed through, that I was still more and more out of my 
 knowledge. Hey-day, thought I, to drive this strange pace, 
 and to be so long a going a little more than twenty miles is 
 very odd ! But to be sure, thought I, Robin knows the way. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 109 
 
 At last he stopped, and looked about hiiHj as if he was 
 at a loss for the road ; and I said, Mr. Robert, sure you are 
 out of the way ! — I'm afraid I am, said he. But it can't be 
 much ; I'll ask the first person I see. Pray do, said I ; and 
 he gave his horses a mouthful of hay : and I gave him some 
 cake, and two glasses of Canary wine ; and stopped about 
 half an hour in all. Then he drove on very fast again. 
 
 I had so much to think of, of the dangers I now doubted 
 not I had escaped, of the loving friends I had left, and my 
 best friends I was going to ; and the many things I had to 
 relate to you ; that I the less thought of the way, till I was 
 startled out of my meditations by the sun beginning to set, 
 and still the man driving on, and his horses sweating and 
 foaming; and then I began to be alarmed all at once, and 
 called to him ; and he said he had horrid ill luck, for he 
 had come several miles out of the way, but was now right, 
 and should get in still before it was quite dark. My heart 
 began then to misgive me a little, and I was very much 
 fatigued ; for I had no sleep for several nights before, to 
 signify; and at last I said. Pray, Mr. Robert, there is a 
 town before us, what do you call it ? — If we are so much 
 out of the way, we had better put up there, for the night 
 comes on apace: And, Lord protect me! thought I, I 
 shall have new dangers, mayhap, to encounter with the 
 man, who have escaped the master — little thinking of the 
 base contrivance of the latter. — Says he, I am just there: 
 'Tis but a mile on one side of the town before us. — Nay, 
 said I, I may be mistaken ; for it is a good while since I 
 was this way ; but I am sure the face of the country here 
 is nothing like what I remember it. 
 
 He pretended to be much out of humour with himself 
 for mistaking the way, and at last stopped at a farmhouse, 
 about two miles beyond the village I had seen ; and it was 
 then almost dark, and he alighted, and said. We must make 
 shift here ; for I am quite out. 
 
 Lord, thought I, be good to the poor Pamela! More 
 trials still ! — What will befall me next ! 
 
 The farmer's wife, and maid, and daughter, came out; 
 
no PAMELA;. OR, 
 
 and the wife said^ What brings you this way at this time 
 of night, Mr. Robert? And with a lady too? — Then I 
 began to be frightened out of my wits ; and laying middle 
 and both ends together, I fell a crying, and said, God give 
 me patience ! I am undone for certain ! — Pray, mistress, 
 said I, do you know 'Squire B , of Bedfordshire ? 
 
 The wicked coachman would have prevented the answer- 
 ing me; but the simple daughter said. Know his worship! 
 yes, surely ! why he is my father's landlord. — Well, said I, 
 then I am undone ; undone for ever ! — Oh, wicked wretch ! 
 what have I done to you, said I to the coachman, to serve 
 me thus ? — Vile tool of a wicked master ! — Faith, said the 
 fellow, I am sorry this task was put upon me : but I could 
 not help it. But make the best of it now ; here are very 
 civil reputable folks ; and you'll be safe here, I'll assure 
 you. — Let me get out, said I, and I'll walk back to the 
 town we came through, late as it is : — For I will not enter 
 here. 
 
 Said the farmer's wife, You'll be very well used here, I'll 
 assure you, young gentlewoman, and have better conve- 
 niences than anywhere in the village. I matter not con- 
 veniences, said I : I am betrayed and undone ! As you 
 have a daughter of your own, pity me, and let me know if 
 your landlord, as you call him, be here! — No, I'll assure 
 you he is not, said she. 
 
 And then came the farmer, a good-like sort of man, 
 grave, and well-behaved ; and spoke to me in such sort, as 
 made me a little pacified ; and seeing no help for it, I went 
 in ; and the wife immediately conducted me up stairs to 
 the best apartment, and told me, that was mine as long 
 as I stayed ; and nobody should come near me but when I 
 called. I threw myself on the bed ia the room, tired and 
 frightened to death almost ; and gave way to the most 
 excessive fit of grief that I ever had. 
 
 The daughter came up, and said, Mr. Robert had given 
 her a letter to give me ; and there it was. I raised myself 
 and saw it was the hand and seal of the wicked wretch mv 
 master, directed to Mrs. Pamela Andrews. — This was a 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. iii 
 
 little better than to have him here ; though, if he had, he 
 must have been brought through the air; for I thought 
 I was. 
 
 The good woman (for I began to see things about a 
 little reputable, and no guile appearing in them, but rather 
 a face of grief for my grief) offered me a glass of some 
 cordial water, which I accepted, for I was ready to sink ; 
 and then I sat up in a chair a little, though very faintish : 
 and they brought me two candles, and lighted a brushwood 
 fire; and said, if I called, I should be waited on instantly; 
 and so left me to ruminate on my sad condition, and to 
 read my letter, which I was not able to do presently. After 
 I had a little come to myself, I found it to contain these 
 words : 
 
 ' Dear Pamela, — The passion I have for you, and your 
 ' obstinacy, have constrained me to act by you in a manner 
 ' that I know will occasion you great trouble and fatigue, 
 ' both of mind and body. Yet, forgive me, my dear girl ; 
 ' for, although I have taken this step, I will, by all that's 
 ' good and holy ! use you honourably. Suffer not your 
 ' fears to transport you to a behaviour that will be disre- 
 ' putable to us both : for the place where you'll receive 
 ' this is a farm that belongs to me ; and the people civil, 
 ' honest, and obliging. 
 
 ' You will, by this time, be far on your way to the place 
 ' I have allotted for your abode for a few weeks, till I 
 ' have managed some affairs, that will make me show my- 
 ' self to you in a much different light, than you may pos- 
 ' sibly apprehend from this rash action : And to convince 
 ' you, that I mean no harm, I do assure you, that the house 
 ' you are going to shall be so much at your command, 
 ' that even I myself will not approach it without leave 
 ' from you. So make yourself easy ; be discreet and 
 'prudent; and a happier turn shall reward these your 
 ■ troubles than you may at present apprehend. 
 
 ' Meantime I pity the fatigue you will have, if this come 
 * ito your hand in the place I have directed : and will write 
 / 
 
112 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' to your father to satisfy him, that nothing but what is 
 ' honourable shall be offered to you, by 
 
 ' Your passionate admirer (so I must style myself). 
 
 ' Don't think hardly of poor Robin : You have so pos- 
 ' sessed all my servants in your favour, that I find they 
 ' had rather serve you than me ; and 'tis reluctantly 
 ■ the popr fellow undertook this task ; and I was 
 ' forced to submit to assure him of my honourable 
 ' intentions to you, which I am fully resolved to make 
 ' good, if you compel me not to a contrary conduct.' 
 
 I but too well apprehended that the letter was only to 
 pacify me for the present; but as my danger was not so 
 immediate as I had reason to dread, and he had promised to 
 forbear coming to me, and to write to you, my dear parents, 
 to quiet your concern, I was a little more easy than before : 
 and I made shift to eat a little bit of boiled chicken they had 
 got for me, and drank a glass of my sack, and made each of 
 them do so too. 
 
 But after I had so done, I was again a little flustered ; 
 for in came the coachman with the look of a hangman, I 
 thought, and madamed me up strangely ; telling me, he 
 would beg me to get ready to pursue my journey by five in 
 the morning, or else he should be late in. I was quite 
 grieved at this ; for I began not to dislike my company, 
 considering how things stood ; and was in hopes to get a 
 party among them, and so to put myself into any worthy 
 protection in the neighbourhood, rather than go forward. 
 
 When he withdrew, I began to tamper with the farmer 
 and his wife. But, alas ! they had had a letter delivered 
 them at the same time I had ; so securely had Lucifer put 
 it into his head to do his work ; and they only shook their 
 heads, and seemed to pity me ; and so I was forced to give 
 over that hope. 
 
 However, the good farmer showed me his letter; whictri 
 copied as follows : for it discovers the deep arts of this 
 wicked master ; and how resolved he seems to be on n;iy 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 113 
 
 rum, by the pains he took to deprive me of all hopes of 
 freeing myself from his power. 
 
 -' Farmer Norton, — I send to your house, /or one night 
 ' only, a young gentlewoman, much against her will, who 
 ' has deeply embarked in a love affair, which will be her ruin, 
 ' as well as the person's to whom she wants to betroth her- 
 ' self. I have, to oblige her father, ordered her to be carried 
 ' to one of my houses, where she will be well used, to try, 
 ' if by absence, and expostulation with both, they can be 
 ' brought to know their own interest : and I am sure you 
 ' will use her kindly for my sake : for, excepting this matter, 
 ' which she will not own, she does not want prudence and 
 ' discretion. I will acknowledge any trouble you shall be 
 ' at in this matter the first opportunity ; and am 
 
 ' Your Friend and Servant.' 
 
 He had said, too cunningly for me, that I would not own 
 this pretended love affair; so that he had provided them not 
 to believe me, say what I would; and as they were his 
 tenants, who all love him (for he has some amiable qualities, 
 and so he had need 1), I saw all my plot cut out, and so was 
 forced to say the less. 
 
 I wept bitterly, however ; for I found he was too hard for 
 ■me, as well in his contrivances as riches; and so had recourse 
 again to my only refuge, comforting myself, that God never 
 fails to take the innocent heart into His protection, and is 
 alone able to bafHe and confound the devices of the mighty. 
 Nay, the farmer was so prepossessed with the contents of his 
 letter, that he began to praise his care and concern for me, 
 and to advise me against entertaining addresses without ray 
 friends' advice and consent ; and made me the subject of a 
 lesson for his daughter's improvement. So I was glad to 
 shut up this discourse ; for I saw I was not likely to be 
 believed. 
 
 I sent, however, to tell my driver, that I was so fatigued, 
 I could not get out so soon the next morning. But he in- 
 sisted upon it, and said. It would make my day's journey 
 the lighter; and I found he was a more faithful servant to 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
114 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 his master, notwithstanding what he wrote of his reluctance, 
 than I could have wished : I saw still more and more, that 
 all was deep dissimulation, and contrivance worse and 
 worse. 
 
 Indeed I might have shown them his letter to me, as a 
 full confutation of his to them ; but I saw no probability 
 of engaging them in my behalf: and so thought it signified 
 little, as I was to go away so soon, to enter more particularly 
 into the matter with them ; and besides, I saw they were 
 not inclinable to let me stay longer, for fear of disobliging 
 him : so I went to bed, but had very little rest : and they 
 would make their servant-maid bear me company in the 
 chariot five miles, early in the morning, and she was to 
 walk back. 
 
 I had contrived in my thoughts, when I was on my way 
 in the chariot, on Friday morning, that when we came into 
 some town to bait, as he must do for the horses' sake, I 
 would, at the inn, apply myself, if I saw I any way could, 
 to the mistress of the inn, and tell her the case, and to 
 refuse to go farther, having nobody but this wicked coach- 
 man to contend with. 
 
 Well, I was ^ery full of this project, and in great hopes, 
 somehow or other, to extricate myself this way. But, oh ! 
 the artful wretch had provided for even this last refuge of 
 mine; for when we came to put up at a large town on the 
 way, to eat a morsel for dinner, and I was fully resolved to 
 execute my project, who should be at the inn that he put 
 up at, but the wicked Mrs. Jewkes, expecting me! And 
 her sister-in-law was the mistress of it; and she had provided 
 a little entertainment for me. 
 
 And this I found, when I desired, as soon as I came in 
 to speak with the mistress of the house. She came to me ■ 
 and I said, I am a poor unhappy young body, that want 
 your advice and assistance ; and you seem to be a good sort 
 of a gentlewoman, that would assist an oppressed innocent 
 person. Yes, madam, said she, I hope you guess right ; and 
 I have the happiness to know something of the matter 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 115 
 
 before you speak. Pray call my sister Jewkes. — Jewkes ! 
 Jewkes! thought I; I have heard of that name; I don't 
 like it. 
 
 Then the wicked creature appeared, whom I had never 
 seen but once before, and I was terrified out of my wits. 
 No stratagem, thought I, not one ! for a poor innocent girl ; 
 but everything to turn out against me; that is hard indeed! 
 
 So I began to pull in my horns, as they say, for I saw I 
 was now worse off than at the farmer's. 
 
 The naughty woman came up to me with an air of con- 
 fidence, and kissed me : See, sister, said she, here's a 
 charming creature ! Would she not tempt the best lord 
 in the land to run away with her ? Oh frightful ! thought 
 I ; here's an avowal of the matter at once : I am now 
 gone, that's certain. And so was quite silent and con- 
 founded ; and seeing no help for it (for she would not 
 part with me out of her sight), I was forced to set out with 
 her in the chariot ; for she came thither on horseback with 
 a man-servant, who rode by us the rest of the way, leading 
 her horse : and now I gave over all thoughts of redemption, 
 and was In a desponding condition indeed. 
 
 Well, thought I, here are strange pains taken to ruin a 
 poor innocent, helpless, and even worthless young body. 
 This plot is laid too deep, and has been too long hatching, 
 to be baffled, I fear. But then I put my trust in God, who 
 I knew was able to do everything for me, when all other 
 possible means should fail : and in Him I was resolved to 
 confide. 
 
 You may see — (Yet, oh ! that kills me ; for I know not 
 whether ever you can see what I now write or no — Else you 
 will see) — what sort of woman that Mrs. Jewkes is, compared 
 to good Mrs. Jervis, by this : — 
 
 Every now and then she would be staring in my face, in 
 the chariot, and squeezing my hand, and saying. Why, you 
 are very pretty, my silent dear ! And once she offered 
 to kiss me. But 1 said, I don't like this sort of carriage, 
 Mrs. Jewkes; it is not like two persons of one sex. She 
 fell a laughing very confidently, and said. That's prettily 
 
ii6 PAMELA: OR, 
 
 said, I vow ! Then thou hadst rather be kissed by the other 
 sex ? 'I fackins, I commend thee for that ! 
 
 I was sadly teased with her impertinence and bold way ; 
 but no wonder ; she was innkeeper's housekeeper, before 
 she came to my master ; and those sort of creatures don't 
 want confidence, you know : and indeed she made nothing 
 to talk boldly on twenty occasions ; and said two or three 
 times, when .she saw the tears every now and then, as we 
 rid, trickle dqjjirn my cheeks, I was sorely hurt, truly, to have 
 the handsomest and finest young gentleman in five counties 
 in love with me ! 
 
 So I find I am got into the hands of a wicked procuress ; 
 and if I was not safe with good Mrs. Jervis, and where 
 everybody loved me, what a dreadful prospect have I now 
 before me, in the hands of a woman that seems to delight 
 in filthiness ! 
 
 Oh, dear sirs 1 what shall I do ! What shall I do ! — Surely, 
 I shall never be equal to all these things ! 
 
 About eight at night, we entered the courtyard of this 
 handsome, large, old, and lonely mansion, that looks made 
 for solitude and mischief, as I thought, by its appearance, 
 with all its brown nodding horrors of lofty elms and pines 
 about it : and here, said I to myself, I fear, is to be the scene 
 of my ruin, unless God p'rotect me, who is all-sufficient ! 
 
 I was very sick at entering it, partly from fatigue, and 
 partly from dejection of spirits : and Mrs. Jewkes got me 
 some mulled wine, and seemed mighty officious to welcome 
 me thither; and while she was absent, ordering the wine 
 the wicked Robin came in to me, and said, I beg a thousand 
 pardons for my part in this affair, since I see your grief and 
 your distress ; and I do assure you, that I am sorry it fell to 
 my task. 
 
 Mighty well, Mr. Robert 1 said I ; I never saw an execu- 
 tion but once, and then the hangman asked the poor crea- 
 ture's pardon, and wiped his mouth, as you do, and pleaded 
 his duty, and then calmly tucked up the criminal. But I 
 am no criminal, as you all know : And if I could have 
 
VIRTUE REPFylRDED. 117 
 
 thought it my duty to obey a wicked master in his unlawful 
 commands, I had saved you all the merit of this vile service. 
 I am sorry, said he, you take it so : but everybody don't 
 think alike. Well, said I, you have done your part, Mr. 
 Robert, towards my ruin, very faithfully; and will have 
 cause to be sorry, may be, at the long run, when you shall 
 see the mischief that comes of it. — Your eyes were open, and 
 you knew I was to be carried to my father's, and that I was 
 barbarously tricked and betrayed; and I qan only, once 
 more, thank you for your part of it. God forgive you ! 
 
 So he went away a little sad. What have you said to 
 Robin, madam? said Mrs. Jewkes (who came in as he 
 went out) : the poor fellow's ready to cry. I need not be 
 afraid of your following his example, Mrs. Jewkes, said 
 I : I have been telling him, that he has done his part to my 
 ruin: and he now can't help it! So his repentance does ??2e 
 no good ; I wish it may him, 
 
 I'll assure you, madam, said she, I should be as ready to 
 cry as he, if I should do you any harm. It is not in his 
 power to help it now, said I ; but your part is to come, and 
 you may choose whether you^ll contribute to my ruin or 
 not. — Why, look ye, look ye, madam, said she, I have a 
 great notion of doing my duty to my master ; and therefore 
 you may depend upon it, if I can do that, and serve you, I 
 will : but you must think, if your desire, and his will, come 
 to clash once, I shall do as he bids me, let it be what it will. 
 
 Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, don't madam me so : I am but 
 a silly poor girl, set up by the gambol of fortune, for a May- 
 game; and now am to be something, and now nothing, just 
 as that thinks fit to sport with me : And let you and me 
 talk upon a foot together; for I am a servant inferior to 
 you, and so much the more, as I am turned out of place. 
 
 Ay, ay, says she, I understand something of the matter ; 
 you have so great power over my master, that you may soon 
 be mistress of us all; and so I would oblige you, if I could. 
 And I must and will call you madam; for I am instructed 
 to show you all respect, I'll assure you. 
 
 Who instructed you so to do ? said I. Who ! my master. 
 
ii8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 to be sure, said she. Why, said I, how can that be ? You 
 have not seen him lately. No, that's true, said she ; but I 
 have been expecting you here some time (oh the deep laid 
 wickedness 1 thought I) ; and, besides, I have a letter of in- 
 structions by Robin; but, may be, I should not have said so 
 much. If you would show them to me, said I, I should be 
 able to judge how far I could, or could not, expect favour 
 from you, consistent with your duty to our master. I beg 
 your pardon, fair mistress, for that, said she ; I am suffi- 
 ciently instructed; and you may depend upon it, I will 
 observe my orders ; and, so far as they will let me, so far 
 will I oblige you ; and there's an end of it. 
 
 Well, said I, you will not, I hope, do an unlawful or 
 wicked thing, for any master in the world. Look ye, said 
 she, he is my master; and if he bids me do anything that 
 I can do, I think I ought to do it ; and let him^ who has his 
 power to command me, look to the lawfulness of it. Why, 
 said I, suppose he should bid you cut my throat, would you 
 do it ? There's no danger of that, said she ; but to be sure 
 I would not ; for then I should be hanged ! for that would 
 be murder. Well, said I, and suppose he should resolve to 
 ensnare a poor young creature, and ruin her, would you 
 assist him in that ? For to rob a person of her virtue is 
 worse than cutting her throat. 
 
 Why now, says she, how strangely you talk ! Are not 
 the two sexes made for one another ? And is it not natural 
 for a gentleman to love a pretty woman ? And suppose he 
 can obtain his desires, is that so bad as cutting her throat ? 
 And then the wretch fell a laughing, and talked most im- 
 pertinently, and showed me, that I had nothing to expect 
 from her virtue or conscience: and this gave me great 
 mortification ; for I was in hopes of working upon her by 
 degrees. 
 
 So we ended our discourse here, and I bid her show me 
 where I must lie. — Why, said she, lie where you list 
 madam ; I can tell you, I must lie with you for the present. 
 For the present ! said I, and torture then wrung mv heart ! 
 — But is it in your instructions, that you must lie with me ? 
 
A 
 
 VIRTUE REWARDED. ^(TgT 
 
 Yes, indeedj said she. — I am sorry for it, said I. Why, said 
 she, I am wholesome, and cleanly too, I'll assure you. Yes, 
 said I, I don't doubt that; but I love to lie by myself. 
 How so ? said she ; was not Mrs. Jervis your bedfellow at 
 t'other house ? 
 
 Well, said I, quite 'sick of her, and my oondition; you 
 must do as you are instructed, I think. I can't help myself, 
 and am a most miserable creature. She repeated her insuf- 
 ferable nonsense. Mighty miserable, indeed, to be so well 
 beloved by one of the finest gentlemen in England ! 
 
 ^ _._ 
 
 I am now come down in my writing to this present SATURDAY, 
 and a deal I have written. 
 
 My wicked bedfellow has very punctual orders, it seems ; for 
 she locks me and herself in, and ties the two keys (for there 
 is a double door to the room) about her wrist, when she goes 
 to bed. She talks of the house having been attempted to 
 be broken open two or three times ; whether to fright me, I 
 can't tell ; but it makes me fearful ; though not so much as 
 I should be, if I had not other and greater fears. 
 
 I slept but little last night, and got up, and pretended to 
 sit by the window which looks into the spacious gardens ; 
 but I was writing all the time, from break of day, to h€r 
 getting up, and after, when she was absent. 
 
 At breakfast she presented the two maids to me, the cook 
 and housemaid, poor awkward souls, that I can see no 
 hopes of, they seem so devoted to her and ignorance. Yet 
 I am resolved, if possible, to find some way to escape, before 
 this wicked master comes. 
 
 There are, besides, of servants, the coachman, Robert, a 
 groom, a helper, a footman; all but Robert (and he is 
 accessory to my ruin), strange creatures, that promise no- 
 thing; and all likewise devoted to this woman. The gardener 
 looks like a good honest man; but he is kept at a distance, 
 and seems reserved. 
 
 I wondered I saw not Mr. Williams the clergyman, but 
 
I20 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 would not ask after him^ apprehending it might give some 
 jealousy ; but when I had beheld the rest, he was the only 
 one I had hopes of; for I thought his cloth would set him 
 above assisting in my ruin. — But in the afternoon he came; 
 for it seems he has a little Latin school in the neighbour- 
 ing village^ which he attends ; and this brings him in a little 
 matter, additional to my master's favour, till something 
 better falls, of which he has hopes. 
 
 He is a sensible sober young gentleman ; and when I saw 
 him I confirmed myself in my hopes of him ; for he seemed 
 to take great notice of my distress and grief (for I could 
 not hide it;) though he appeared fearful of Mrs. Jewkes, 
 who watched all our motions and words. 
 
 He has an apartment in the house ; but is mostly at a 
 lodging in the town, for a conveniency of his little school; 
 only on Saturday afternoon and Sundays : and he preaches 
 sometimes for the minister of the village, which is about 
 three miles off. 
 
 I hope to go to church with him to-morrow : Sure it is 
 not in her instructions to deny me ! ; He can't have thought 
 of every thing! And something may strike out for me 
 there. 
 
 I have asked her, for a feint (because she shan't think I 
 am so well provided), to indulge me with pen and ink, 
 though I have been using my own so freely when her 
 absence would let me ; for I begged to be left to myself as 
 much as possible. She says she will let me have it j but 
 then I must promise not to send any writing out of the 
 house, without her seeing it. I said, it was only to divert 
 my grief when I was by myself, as I desired to be ; for I 
 loved writing as well as reading ; but I had nobody to send 
 to, she knew well enough. 
 
 No, not at present, may be, said she; but I am told vou 
 are a great writer ; and it is in my instructions to see all 
 you write : So, look you here, said she, I will let you have 
 a pen and ink, and two sheets of paper : for this employ- 
 ment will keep you out of worse thoughts ; but I mUst see 
 them always when I ask, written or not written. That's 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. , lai 
 
 very hard, said I ; but may I not have to myself the closet 
 in the room where we lie, with the key to lock up my 
 things ? I believe I may consent to that, said she ; and I 
 will set it in order for you, and leave the key in the door. 
 And there is a spinnet too, said she ; if it be in tune, you 
 may play to divert you now and then ; for I know my old 
 lady learnt you : And below is my master's library : you 
 may take out what books you will. 
 
 And, indeed, these and my writing will be all my amuse- 
 ment : for I have no work given me to do ; and the spinnet, 
 if in tune, will not find my mind, I am sure, in tune to play 
 upon it. But I went directly and picked out some books 
 from the library, with which I filled a shelf in the closet 
 she gave me possession of: and from these I hope to receive 
 improvement, as well as amusement. But no sooner was 
 her back turned, than I set about hiding a pen of my own 
 here, and another there, for fear I should come to be 
 denied, and a little of my ink in a broken China cup, and 
 a little in another cup ; and a sheet of paper here and there 
 among my linen, with a little of the wax, and a few wafers, 
 in several places, lest I should be searched ; and something, 
 I thought, might happen to open a way for my deliverance, 
 by these or some other means. Oh the pride, thought I, 
 I shall have, if I can secure my innocence, and escape the 
 artful wiles of this wicked master ! For, if he comes hither, 
 I am undone, to be sure ! For this naughty woman will 
 assist him, rather than fail, in the worst of his attempts ; 
 and he'll have no occasion to send her out of the way, as he 
 would have done Mrs. Jervis once. So I must set all my 
 little wits at work. 
 
 It is a grief to me to write, and not to be able to send to 
 you what I write ; but now it is all the diversion I have, 
 and if God will favour my escape with my innocence, as I 
 trust He graciously will, for all these black prospects, with 
 what pleasure shall I read them afterwards ! 
 
 I was going to say. Pray for your dutiful daughter, as I 
 used ; but, alas ! you cannot know my distress, though I 
 am sure I have your prayers : And I will write on as things 
 
122 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 happen, that if a way should open, my scribble may b 
 ready to be sent : For what I do, must be at a jirk, to be sure 
 Oh how I want such an obliging, honest-hearted man a 
 John ! 
 
 I am now come to SUNDAY. 
 
 Well, here is a sad thing ! I am denied by this barbarou 
 woman to go to church, as I had built upon I might 
 and she has huffed poor Mr. Williams all to pieces, fo 
 pleading for me. I find he is to be forbid the house, if sh 
 pleases. Poor gentleman ! all his dependence is upon m 
 master, who has a very good living for him, if the incum 
 bent die; and he has kept his bed these four months, c 
 old age and dropsy. 
 
 He pays me great respect, and I see pities me ; and woulc 
 perhaps, assist my escape from these dangers : But I hav 
 nobody to plead for me ; and why should I wish to ruin 
 poor gentleman, by engaging him against his interest ? Ye 
 one would do anything to preserve one's innocence ; an 
 Providence would, perhaps, make it up to him ! 
 
 Oh judge (but how shall you see what I write !) of m 
 distracted condition, to be reduced to such a pass as to 
 desire to lay traps for mankind ! But he wants sadly to sa 
 something to me, as he whisperingly hinted. 
 
 The wretch (I think I will always call her the wretc 
 henceforth) abuses me more and more. I was but talkin 
 to one of the maids just now, indeed a little to tamper wit 
 her by degrees ; and she popt upon us, and said — Na' 
 madam, don't offer to tempt poor innocent country maider 
 from doing their duty. You wanted, I hear, she shoul 
 take a walk with you. But I charge youj. Nan, never st 
 with her, nor obey her, without letting me know it, in tt 
 smallest trifles. — I say, walk with you ! and where woul 
 you go, I tro' ? Why, barbarous Mrs. Jewkes, said I, on! 
 to look a little up the elm-walk, since you would not li 
 me go to church. 
 
VIRTUE REJVARDED. 123 
 
 NaUj said she, to show me how much they were all in her 
 power, pull oflF madam's shoes, and bring them to me. I 
 have taken care of her others. — Indeed she shan't, said I. — 
 Nay, said Nan, but I must if my mistress bids me: so pray, 
 madam, don't hinder me. And so indeed (would you 
 believe it ?) she took my shoes off, and left me barefoot : 
 and, for my share, I have been so frighted at this, that I 
 have not power even to relieve my mind by my tears. 
 I am quite stupefied to be sure ! — Here I was forced to 
 leave off. 
 
 Now I will give you a picture of this wretch: She is a 
 broad, squat, pursy, fat thing, quite ugly, if anything 
 human can be so called ; about forty years old. She has a 
 huge hand, and an arm as thick as my waist, I believe. 
 Her nose is fat and crooked, and her brows grow down over 
 her eyes ; a dead spiteful, grey, goggling eye, to be sure she 
 has. And her face is flat and broad ; and as to colour, 
 looks like as if it had been pickled a month in saltpetre : I 
 daresay she drinks: — She has a hoarse, man-like voice, and 
 is as thick as she is long ; and yet looks so deadly strong, 
 that I am afraid she would dash me at her foot in an instant, 
 if I was to vex her. — So that with a heart more ugly than 
 her face, she frightens me sadly ; and I am undone to be 
 sure, if God does not protect me; for she is very, very 
 wicked — indeed she is. 
 
 This is poor helpless spite in me : — But the picture is 
 too near the truth notwithstanding. She sends me a mes- 
 sage just now, that I shall have my shoes again, if I will 
 accept of her company to walk with me in the garden. — 
 To waddle with me, rather, thought I. 
 
 Well, 'tis not my business to quarrel with her down- 
 right. I shall be watched the narrower, if I do j and so 
 I will go with the hated wretch. — Oh for my dear Mrs. 
 Jervis ! or, rather, to be safe with my dear father and 
 mother. 
 
 Oh ! I am out of my wits for joy ! Just as I have got 
 my shoes on, I am told John, honest John, is come on 
 
13+ PAMELA; OR, 
 
 horseback! — A blessing on his faithful heart ! What joy is 
 this ! But I'll tell you more by and by. I must not let her 
 know I am so glad to see this dear blessed John, to be 
 sure !— Alas ! but he looks sad, as I see him out of the 
 window ! What can be the matter ! — I hope my dear 
 parents are well, and Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Longman, and 
 everybody, my naughty master not excepted ; — for I wish 
 him to live and repent of all his wickedness to poor me. 
 
 Oh dear heart ! what a world do we live in! — I am now 
 come to take up my pen again : But I am in a sad taking 
 truly ! Another puzzling trial, to be sure. 
 
 Here was John, as I said, and the poor man came to 
 me, with Mrs. Jewkes, who whispered, that I would say 
 nothing about the shoes, for ray own sake, as she said. 
 The poor man saw my distress, by my red eyes, and my 
 hagged looks, I suppose ; for I have had a sad time of it, 
 you must needs think ; and though he would have hid it, 
 if he could, yet his own eyes ran over. O Mrs. Pamela! 
 said he ; O Mrs. Pamela ! Well, honest fellow-servant, 
 said I, I cannot help it at present : I am obliged to your 
 honesty and kindness, to be sure ; and then he wept more. 
 Said I (for my heart was ready to break to see his grief; 
 for it is a touching thing to see a man cry), Tell me the 
 worst 1 Is my master coming ? No, no, said he, and sobbed. 
 — Well, said I, is there any news of my poor father and 
 mother ? How do they do ? — I hope well, said he, I know 
 nothing to the contrary. There is no mishap, I hope, to 
 Mrs. Jervis or to Mr. Longman, or my fellow-servants ! — 
 No — said he, poor man 1 with a long N — o, as if his heart 
 would burst. Well, thank God then ! said I. 
 
 The man's a fool, said Mrs. Jewkes, I think : What ado 
 is here ! Why, sure thou'rt in love, John. Dost thou not 
 see young madam is well ? What ails thee, man ? Nothing 
 at all, said he ; but I am such a fool as to cry for joy to 
 see good Mrs. Pamela: But I have a letter for you. 
 
 I took it, and saw it was from my master ; so I put it in 
 my pocket. Mrs. Jewkes, said I, you need not, I hope, 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 125 
 
 see this. No^ no, said she, I see whose it is, well enough ; 
 or else, may be, I must have insisted on reading it. 
 
 And here is one for you, Mrs. Jewkes, said he; but 
 yours, said he to me, requires an answer, which I must 
 carry back early in the morning, or to-night, if I can. 
 
 You have no more, John, said Mrs. Jewkes, for Mrs. 
 Pamela, have you ? No, said he, I have not, but every- 
 body's kind love and service. Ay, to us both, to be sure, 
 said she. John, said I, I will read the letter, and pray take 
 care of yourself; for you are a good man, God bless you ! 
 and I rejoice to see you, and hear from you all. But I 
 longed to say more ; only that nasty Mrs. Jewkes. 
 
 So I went up, and locked myself in my closet, and 
 opened the letter ; and this is a copy of it : 
 
 ' My dearest Pamela, — I send purposely to you on an 
 affair that concerns you very much, and me somewhat, but 
 chiefly for your sake. I am conscious that I have pro- 
 ceeded by you in such a manner as may justly alarm your 
 fears, and give concern to your honest friends : and all 
 my pleasure is, that I can and will make you amends for 
 the disturbance I have given you. As I promised, I sent 
 to your father the day after your departure, that he might 
 not be too much concerned for you, and assured him of 
 my honour to you; and made an excuse, such an one as 
 ought to have satisfied him, for your not coming to him. 
 But this was not sufficient, it seems ; for he, poor man ! 
 came to me next morning, and set my family almost in 
 an uproar about you. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear girl ! what trouble has not your obstinacy 
 given me, and yourself too ! I had no way to pacify him, 
 but to promise that he should see a letter written from 
 you to Mrs. Jervis, to satisfy him you are well. 
 
 ' Now all my care in this case is for your aged parents, 
 lest they should be touched with too fatal a grief; and 
 for you, whose duty and affection for them I know to be 
 so strong and laudable : for this reason I beg you will 
 write a few lines to them, and let me prescribe the form ; 
 
126 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' which I have done, putting myself as near as I can in 
 ' your place, and expressing your sense, with a warmth 
 ' that I doubt will have too much possessed you. 
 
 ' After what is done, and which cannot now be helped, 
 ' but which, I assure you, shall tiirn out honourably for 
 ' you, I expect not to be refused ; because I cannot pos- 
 ' sibly have any view in it, but to satisfy your parents ; 
 ' which is more your concern than mine ; and so I must 
 ' beg you will not alter one tittle of the underneath. If 
 ' you do, it will be impossible for me to send it, or that 
 ' it should answer the good end I propose by it. 
 
 ' I have promised, that I will not approach you without 
 ' your leave. If I find you easy, and not attempting to 
 ' dispute or avoid your present lot^ I will keep to my word, 
 ' although it is a difficulty upon me. Nor shall your re- 
 ' straint last Jong : for I will assure you, that I am resolved 
 ' very soon to convince you of my good intentions, and 
 ' with what ardour I am 
 
 ' Yours, &c.' 
 
 The letter he prescribed for me was as this ; 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Jervis, — I have, instead of being driven by 
 ' Robin to my dear father's, been carried off, where I have 
 ' no liberty to tell. However, at present, I am not used 
 ' hardly ; and I write to beg you to let my dear father and 
 ' mother, whose hearts must be well-nigh broken, know 
 ' that I am well ; and that I am, and, by the grace of God, 
 ' ever will be, their honest, as well as dutiful daughter, and 
 
 " Your obliged friend,' 
 
 ' I must neither send date nor place ; but have most 
 ' solemn assurances of honourable usage.' 
 
 I knew not what to do on this most strange request and 
 occasion. But my heart bled so much for you, my dear 
 father, who had taken the pains to go yourself, and inquire 
 after your poor daughter, as well as for my dear mother 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 127 
 
 that I resolved to wrlte^ and pretty much in the above 
 . fornij* that it might be sent to pacify you, till I could let 
 you, somehow or other, know the true state of the matter. 
 And I wrote thus to my strange wicked master himself: 
 
 ' Sir, — If you knew but the anguish of my mind, and 
 ' how much I suffer by your dreadful usage of me, you 
 ' would surely pity me, and consent to my deliverance. 
 ' What have I done, that I should be the only mark of your 
 ' cruelty? I can have no hope, no desire of living left me, 
 ' because I cannot have the least dependence, after what 
 ' has passed, upon your solemn assurances. — It is impossible 
 ' they should be consistent with the dishonourable methods 
 ' you take. 
 
 ' Nothing but your promise of not seeing me here in my 
 ' deplorable bondage, can give me the least "ray of hope. 
 
 ' Don't, I beseech you, drive the poor distressed Pamela 
 ' upon a rock, that may be the destruction both of her soul 
 ' and body ! You don't know, sir, how dreadfully I dare, 
 ' weak as I am of mind and intellect, when my virtue is in 
 ' danger. And, oh ! hasten my deliverance, that a poor un- 
 ' worthy creature, below the notice of such a gentleman as 
 ' you, may not be made the sport of a high condition, for 
 ' no reason in the world, but because she is not able to de- 
 ' fend herself, nor has a friend that can right her. 
 
 ' I have, sir, in part to show my obedience to you, but 
 ' indeed, I own, more to give ease to the minds of my poor 
 ' distressed parents, whose poverty, one would think, should 
 ' screen them from violences of this sort, as well as their 
 ' poor daughter, followed pretty much the form you have 
 'prescribed for me, in the letter to Mrs. Jervis ; and the 
 ' alterations I have made (for I could not help a few) are of 
 ' such a nature, as, though they show my concern a little, , 
 ' yet must answer the end you are pleased to say you prc- 
 ' pose by this letter. 
 
 ' For God's sake, good sir, pity my lowly condition, and 
 ' my present great misery ; and let me join with all the rest 
 * See p. 103 ; her alterations are in a different character. 
 
128 'PJMELA; OR, 
 
 ' of your servants to bless that goodness, which you have 
 ' extended to every one but the poor afflicted, heart-broken 
 
 ' Pamela.' 
 
 I thought, when I had written this letter, and that which 
 he had prescribed, it would look like placing a confidence in 
 Mrs. Jewkes, to show them to her ; and I showed her, at 
 the same time, my master's letter to me ; for I believed the 
 value he expressed for me, would give me credit with one 
 who professed in everything to serve him, right or wrong ; 
 though I had so little reason, I fear, to pride myself in it: 
 and I was not mistaken ; for it has seemed to influence her 
 not a little, and she is at present mighty obliging, and runs 
 over in my praises ; but is the less to be minded, because 
 she praises as much the author of my miseries, and his 
 honourable intentions, as she calls them ; for I see, that she 
 is capable of thinking, as I fear he does, that everything 
 that makes for his wicked will is honourable, though to the 
 ruin of the innocent. Pray God I may find it otherwise ! 
 Though, I hope, whatever the wicked gentleman may 
 intend, that I shall be at last rid of her impertinent bold 
 way of talk, when she seems to think, from his letter^ that 
 he means honourably. 
 
 I am now come to Monday, the 5th day of my bondage and misery. 
 
 I WAS in hope to have an opportunity to see John, and 
 have a little private talk with him, before he went away ; 
 but it could not be. The poorman^s excessive sorrow made 
 Mrs. Jewkes take it into her head, to think he loved me ; 
 and so she brought up a message to me from him this 
 morning that he was going. I desired he might come up 
 to my closet, as I called it, and she came with him. The 
 honest man, as I thought him, was as full of concern as 
 before, at taking leave : and I gave him two letters the one 
 for Mrs. Jervis, enclosed in another for my master : but 
 Mrs. Jewkes would see me seal them up, lest I should enclose 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 129 
 
 anything else. — I was surprised, at the man's going away, 
 to see him drop a bit of paper, just at the head of the stairs, 
 which I took up without being observed by Mrs. Jewkes : 
 but I was a thousand times more surprised, when I returned 
 to my closet,- and opening it read as follows : 
 
 ' Good Mrs. Pamela, — I [am grieved to tell you how 
 
 ' much you have been deceived and betrayed, and that by 
 
 ' such a vile dog as I. Little did I think it would come to 
 
 ' this. But I must say, if ever there was a rogue in the 
 
 ' world, it is me. I have all along showed your letters to 
 
 'my master: he employed me for that purpose; and he 
 
 ' saw every one, before I carried them to your father and 
 
 ' mother ; and then sealed them up, and sent me with them. 
 
 ' I had some business that way, but not half so often as I 
 
 ' pretended : and as soon as I heard how it was, I was ready 
 
 ' to hang myself. You may well think I could not stand 
 
 ' in your presence. Oh vile, vile wretch, to bring you to 
 
 ' this ! If you are ruined, I am the rogue that caused it. 
 
 ' All the justice I can do you, is to tell you, you are in vile 
 
 ' hands ; and I am afraid will be undone in spite of all your 
 
 ' sweet innocence ; and I believe I shall never live, after I 
 
 ' know it. If you can forgive me, you are exceeding good ; 
 
 ' but I shall never forgive myself, that's certain. Howsom- 
 
 ' ever, it will do you no good to make this known; and 
 
 ' mayhap I may live to do you service. If I can, I will : I 
 
 ' am sure I ought. — Master kept your last two or three 
 
 ' letters, and did not send them at all. I am the most 
 
 ' abandoned wretch of wretches. 
 
 'J. Arnold.' 
 
 ' You see your undoing has been long hatching. Pray 
 'take care of your sweet self. Mrs. Jewkes is a 
 ' devil : but in my master's t'other house you have not 
 ' one false heart, but myself. Out upon me for a 
 'villain!' 
 
 My dear father and mother, when you come to this 
 place, I make no doubt your hair will stand an end as mine 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
I30 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 does ! — Oh the deceitfulness of the heart of man ! — This 
 John, that I took to be the honestest of men ; that you 
 took for the same ; that was always praising you to me, and 
 me to you, and for nothing so much as for our honest hearts; 
 this very fellow was all the while a vile hypocrite, and a per- 
 fidious wretch, and helping to carry on my ruin. 
 
 But he says so much of himself, that I will only sit down 
 with this sad reflection. That power and riches never want 
 tools to promote their vilest ends, and there is nothing so 
 hard to be known as the heart of man : — I can but pity the 
 poor wretch, since he seems to have great remorse, and I 
 believe it best to keep his wickedness secret. If it lies in 
 my way, I will encourage his penitence ; for I may possibly 
 make some discoveries by it. 
 
 One thing I should mention in this place; he brought 
 down, in a portmanteau, all the clothes and things my lady 
 and master had given me, and moreover two velvet hoods, 
 and a velvet scarf, that used to be worn by my lady; but 
 I have no comfort in them, or anything else. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes had the portmanteau brought into my closet, 
 and she showed me what was in it ; but then locked it up, 
 and said, she would let me have what I would out of it, 
 when I asked ; but if 1 had the key, it might make me want 
 to go abroad, may be ; and so the confident woman put it 
 in her pocket. 
 
 I gave myself over to sad reflections upon this strange 
 and surprising discovery of John's, and wept much for him, 
 and for myself too ; for now I see, as he says, my ruin has 
 been long hatching, that I can make no doubt what my 
 master's honourable professions will end in. What a heap 
 of hard names does the poor fellow call himself! But what 
 must they deserve, then, who set him to work ? Oh what 
 has this wicked master to answer for, to be so corrupt him- 
 self, and to corrupt others, who would have been all inno- 
 cent ; and to carry on a poor plot, I am sure for a gentle- 
 man, to ruin a poor creature, who never did him harm nor 
 wished him any ; and who can still pray for his happiness 
 ;i.nd his repentance? 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 131 
 
 I can't but wonder what these gentlemen, as they are 
 called, can think of themselves for these vile doings ! John 
 had some inducement; for he hoped to please his master, 
 who rewarded him and was bountiful to him; and the 
 same may be said, bad as she is, for this same odious Mrs, 
 Jewkes. But what inducement has my master for taking 
 so much pains to do the devil's work for him ? — If he loves 
 me, as 'tis falsely called, must he therefore lay traps for me, 
 to ruin me, and make me as bad as himself? I cannot 
 imagine what good the undoing of such a poor creature as 
 I can procure hijn. — To be sure, I am a very worthless 
 body. People, indeed, say I am handsome ; but if I was so, 
 should not a gentleman prefer an honest servant to a guilty 
 harlot ? And must he be more earnest to seduce me, because 
 I dread of all things to be seduced, and would rather lose 
 my life than my honesty ? 
 
 Well, these are strange things to me ! I cannot account 
 for them, for my share ; but sure nobody will say, that these 
 fine gentlemen have any tempter but their own wicked 
 wills! — This naughty master could run away from me, when 
 he apprehended his servants might discover his vile attempts 
 upon me in that sad closet affair; but is it not strange 
 that he should not be afraid of the all-seeing eye, from 
 which even that base plotting heart of his, in its most secret 
 motions, could not be hid? — But what avail me these 
 sorrowful reflections ? He is and will be wicked, and designs 
 me a victim to his lawless attempts, if the God in whom I 
 trust, and to whom I hourly pray, prevent it not. 
 
 Tuesday and Wednesday. 
 I HAVE been hindered, by this wicked woman's watching 
 me so close, from writing on Tuesday; and so I will put 
 both these days together. I have been a little turn with 
 her for an airing, in the chariot, and walked several times 
 in the garden ; but have always her at my heels. 
 
 Mr. Williams came to see us, and took a walk with us 
 
133 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 once ; and while her back was just turned (encouraged by 
 the hint he had before given me), I said, Sir, I see two tiles 
 upon that parsley-bed j might not one cover them with 
 mould, with a note between them, on occasion ? — A good 
 hint, said he ; let that sunflower by the back-door of the 
 garden be the place ; I have a key to the door ; for it is my 
 nearest way to the town. 
 
 So I was forced to begin. Oh what inventions will 
 necessity push us upon ! I hugged myself at the thought ; 
 and she coming to us, he said, as if he was continuing a 
 discourse we were in : No, not extraordinary pleasant. 
 What's that? what's that? said Mrs. Jewkes. — Only, said 
 he, the town, I'm saying, is not very pleasant. No, indeed, 
 said she, it is not ; it is a poor town, to my thinking. Are 
 there any gentry in it? said I. And so we chatted on 
 about the town, to deceive her. But my deceit intended 
 no hurt to anybody. 
 
 We then talked of the garden, how large and pleasant, 
 and the like ; and sat down on the tufted slope of the fine 
 fish-pond, to see the fishers play upon the surface of the 
 water,] and she S9.id, I should angle if I would. 
 
 I wish, said I, you'd be so kind to fetch me a rod and 
 baits. Pretty mistress ! said she — I know better than that, 
 I'll assure you, at this time. — I mean no harm, said I, 
 indeed. Let me tell you, said she, I know none who have 
 their thoughts more about them than you. A body ought 
 to look to it where you are. But we'll angle a little to- 
 morrow. Mr. Williams, who is much afraid of her, turned 
 the discourse to a general subject. I sauntered in, and left 
 them to talk by themselves; but he went away to town, 
 and she was soon after me. 
 
 I had got to my pen and ink ; and I said, I want some 
 paper, Mrs. Jewkes (putting what I was about in my 
 bosom) : You know I have written two letters, and sent 
 them by John. (Oh how his name, poor guilty fellow, 
 . grieves me !) Well, said she, . you have some left ; ' one 
 sheet did for those two letters. Yes, said I ; but I used 
 half another for a cover, you know; and see how I have 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 133 
 
 scribbled the other half; and so I showed her a parcel of 
 broken scraps of verses^ which I had tried to recollect, and 
 had written purposely that she might see, and think me 
 usually employed to such idle purposes. Ay, said she, so 
 you have ; well, I'll give you two sheets more ; but let me 
 see how you dispose of them, either written or blank. 
 Well, thought I, I hope still, Argus, to be too hard for 
 thee. Now Argus, the poets say, had a hundred eyes, and 
 was set to watch with them all, as she does. 
 
 She brought me the paper, and said. Now, madam, let 
 me see you write something. I will, said I ; and took 
 the pen and wrote, ' I wish Mrs. Jewkes would be so 
 ' good to me, as I would be to her, if I had it in my 
 ' power.' — That's pretty now, said she ; well, I hope I am ; 
 but what then ? ' Why then (wrote I) she would do me 
 ' the favour to let me know, what I have done to be , 
 ' made her prisoner ; and what she thinks is to become 
 ' of me.' Well, and what then ? said she. ' Why then, of 
 ' consequence (scribbled I), she would let me see her in- 
 ' structions, that I may know how far to blame, or to 
 ' acquit her.' 
 
 Thus I fooled on, to show her my fondness for scribbling ; 
 for I had no expectation of any good from her ; that so she 
 might suppose I employed myself, as I said, to no better 
 purpose at other times : for she will have it, that I am upon 
 some plot, I am so silent, and love so much to be by myself. 
 — She would have made me write on a little further. No, 
 said I ; you have not answered me. Why, said she, what 
 can you doubt; when my master himself assures you of his 
 honour? Ay, said I; but lay your hand to your heart, 
 Mrs. Jewkes, and tell me, if you yourself believe him. Yes, 
 said she, to be sure I do. But, said I, what do you call 
 honour ? Why, said she, what does he call honour, think 
 . you ? — Ruin 1 shame ! disgrace ! said I, I fear. — Pho ! pho ! 
 said she ; if you have any doubt about it, he can best explain 
 his own meaning : — I'll send him word to come and satisfy 
 you, if you will. — Horrid creature ! said I, all in a fright — 
 Canst thou not stab me to the heart? I'd rather thou 
 
134 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 wouldst, than Say such another word I—But I hope there is 
 no such thought of his coming. 
 
 She had the wickedness to say. No, no ; he don't intend 
 to come, as I know of — but if I was he, I would not be long 
 away. What means the woman ? said I. — Mean ! said she 
 (turning it off) ; why I mean, I would come if I was he, and 
 put an end to all your fears — by making you as happy as 
 you wish. It is out of his power, said I, to make me happy, 
 great and rich as he is ! but by leaving me innocent, and 
 giving me liberty to go to my dear father and mother. 
 
 She went away soon after, and I ended my letter, in hopes 
 to have an opportunity to lay it in the appointed place. So 
 I went to her, and said ; I suppose, as it is not dark, I may 
 take another turn in the garden. It is too late, said she ; 
 but if you will go, don't stayj and, Nan, see and attena 
 madam, as she called me. 
 
 So I went towards the pond, the maid following me, and 
 dropt purposely my hussy: and when I came near the tiles, I 
 said, Mrs. Anne, I have dropt my hussy ; be so kind as to look 
 for it ; I had it by the pond side. She went back to look, 
 and I slipt the note between the tiles, and covered them as 
 quick as I could with the light mould, quite unperceived ; 
 and the maid finding the hussy, I took it, and sauntered in 
 again, and met Mrs. Jewkes coming to see after me. What 
 I wrote was this : 
 
 ' Reverend Sir, — The want of an opportunity to speak 
 ' my mind to you, I am sure will excuse this boldness in a 
 ' poor creature that is betrayed hither, I have reason to 
 * think, for the worst of purposes. You know something, 
 ' ^o be sure, of my story, my native poverty, which I am not 
 ' ashamed of, my late lady's goodness, and my master's 
 ' designs upon me. It is true he promises honour, and all 
 ' that ; but the honour of the wicked is disgrace and shame 
 ' to the virtuous : And he may think he keeps his promises 
 'according to the notions he may, allow himself to hold • 
 " and yet, according to mine and every good body's, basely 
 ' ruin me. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 135 
 
 ' I am so wretched, and ill-treated by this Mrs. Jewkes, 
 and she is so ill-principled a woman, that, as I may soon 
 want the opportunity which the happy hint of this day 
 affords to my hopes, I throw myself at once upon your 
 goodness, without the least reserve ; for I cannot be worse 
 than I am, should that fail me ; which, I daresay, to your 
 power, it will not: For 1 see it, sir, in your looks, I hope 
 it from your cloth, and I doubt it not from your inclina- 
 tion, in a case circumstanced as my unhappy one is. For, 
 sir, in helping me out of my present distress, you perform 
 all the acts of religion in one ; and the highest mercy and 
 charity, both to the body and soul of a poor wretch, that, 
 believe me, sir, has, at present, not so much as in thought 
 swerved from her innocence. 
 
 ' Is there not some way to be found out for my escape, 
 without danger to yourself? Is there no gentleman or 
 lady of virtue in this neighbourhood, to whom I may fly, 
 only till I can find a way to get to my poor father and 
 mother ? Cannot Lady Davers be made acquainted with 
 my sad story, by your conveying a letter to her? My 
 poor parents are so low in the world, they can do nothing 
 but break their hearts for me ; and that, I fear, will be the 
 end of it. 
 
 ' My master promises, if I will be easy, as he calls it, in 
 my present lot, he will not come down without my con- 
 sent. Alas ! sir, this is nothing : For what's the promise 
 of a person who thinks himself at liberty to act as he has 
 done by me ? If he comes, it must be to ruin me ; and 
 come to be sure he will, when he thinks he has silenced 
 the clamours of my friends, and lulled me, as no doubt he 
 hopes, into a fatal security. 
 
 ' Now, therefore, sir, is all the time I have to work and 
 struggle for the preservation of my honesty. If I stay 
 till he comes, I am undone. You have a key to the back 
 garden-door ; I have great hopes from that. Study, good 
 sir, and contrive for me. I will faithfully keep your secret. 
 —Yet I should be loath to have you suffer for me ! 
 
 ' I say no more, but commit this to the happy tiles, in 
 
136 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' the bosom of that earth, where, I hope, my deliverance will 
 ' take root, and bring forth such fruit, as may turn to my 
 ' inexpressible joy, and your eternal reward, both here and. 
 ' hereafter : As shall ever pray, 
 
 ' Your oppressed humble Servant.' 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 This completes a terrible week since my setting out, as I 
 hoped to see you, my dear father and mother. Oh how 
 different were my hopes then, from what they are now ! 
 Yet who knows what these happy tiles may produce ! 
 
 But I must tell you, first, how I have been beaten by 
 Mrs. Jewkes ! It is very true ! — And thus it came about : 
 
 My impatience was great to walk in the garden, to see 
 if anything had offered, answerable to my hopes. But this 
 wicked- Mrs. Jewkes would not let me go without her ; 
 and said, she was not at leisure. We had a great many 
 words about it; for I told her, it was very hard I could 
 not be trusted to walk by myself in the garden for a little 
 air, but must be dogged and watched worse than a thief. 
 
 She still pleaded her instructions, and said she was not 
 to trust me out of her sight : And you had better, said she, 
 be easy and contented, I assure you; for I have worse 
 orders than you have yet found. I remember, added she, 
 your asking Mr,, Williams, if there were any gentry in the 
 neighbourhood ? This makes me suspect you want to get 
 away to them, to tell your sad dismal story, as you call it. 
 
 My heart was at my mouth ; for I feared, by that hint, 
 she had seen my letter under the tiles : oh how uneasy I 
 was! At last she said. Well, since you take on so, you 
 may take a turn, and I will be with you in a minute. 
 
 When I was out of sight of her window, I speeded 
 towards the hopeful place; but was soon forced to slacken 
 my pace by her odious voice: Hey-day, why so nimble 
 and whither so fast ? said she : What ! are you upon a 
 wager ? I stopt for her, till her pursy sides were waddled 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 137 
 
 up to me ; and she held by my arm, half out of breath : 
 So I was forced to pass by the dear place, without daring 
 to look at it. 
 
 The gardener was at work a little farther, and so we 
 looked upon him, and I began to talk about his art ; but 
 she said, softly. My instructions are, not to let you be so 
 familiar with the servants. Why, said I, are you afraid I 
 should confederate with them to commit a robbery upon 
 my master ? May be I am, said the odious wretch ; for to 
 rob him of yourself, would be the worst that could happen 
 to him, in his opinion. 
 
 And pray, said I, walking on, how came I to be his pro- 
 perty ? What right has he in me, but such as a thief may 
 plead to stolen goods ? — Why, was ever the like heard ? 
 says she. — This is downright rebellion, I protest ! — ^Well, 
 well, lambkin (which the foolish often calls me), if I was 
 in his place, he should not have his property in you long 
 questionable. Why, what would you do, said I, if you 
 were he ? — Not stand shill-I-shall-I, as he does ; but put 
 you and himself both out of your pain. — Why, Jezebel, 
 said I (I could not help it), would you ruin me by force ? 
 — Upon this she gave me a deadly slap upon my shoulder : 
 Take that, said she ; whom do you call Jezebel ? 
 
 I was so surprised (for you never beat me, my dear 
 father and mother, in your lives), that I was like one 
 thunder-struck ; and looked round, as if I wanted some- 
 body to help me; but, alas! I had nobody; and said, at 
 last, rubbing my shoulder. Is this also in your instruc- 
 tions? — Alas! for me! am I to be beaten too? And so 
 fell a crying, and threw myself upon the grass-walk we 
 were upon.— Said she, in a great pet, I won't be called 
 such names, I'll assure you. Marry come up! I see you 
 have a spirit: You must and shall be kept under. I'll 
 manage such little provoking things as you, I warrant ye ! 
 Come, come, we'll go in a'doors, and I'll lock you up, and 
 you shall have no shoes, nor anything else, if this be the 
 
 case. 
 
 I did not know what to do. This was a cruel thing to 
 
T38 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 me, and I blamed myself for my free speech; for now I 
 have given her some pretence : and oh ! thought I, here I 
 have, by ray malapertness, ruined the only project I had 
 left. 
 
 The gardener saw this scene: but she called to him, 
 Well, Jacob, what do you stare at? Pray mind what 
 you're upon. And away he walked, to another quarter, 
 out of sight. ,t 
 
 Well, thought I, I must put on the dissembler a little, I 
 see. She took my hand roughly : Come, get up, said she, 
 and come in a' doors ! — I'll Jezebel you, I will so ! — Why, 
 dear Mrs. Jewkes, said I. — None of your dears, and your 
 coaxing ! said she ; why not Jezebel again ? — She was in a 
 fearful passion, I saw, and I was out of my wits. Thought 
 I, I have often heard women blamed for their tongues ; I 
 wish mine had been shorter. But I can't go in, said I, 
 indeed I can't ! — Why, said she, can't you ? I'll warrant I 
 can take, such a thin body as you under my arm, and carry 
 you in, if you won't walk. You don't know my strength. 
 — Yes, but I do, said I, too well ; and will you not use me 
 worse when I come in ? — So I arose, and she muttered to 
 herself all the way, She to be a Jezebel with me, that had 
 used me so well ! and such like. 
 
 When I came near the house, I said, sitting down upon 
 a settle-bench. Well, I will not go in, till you say you for- 
 give me, Mrs. Jewkes. — If you will forgive my calling you 
 that name, I will forgive your beating me. — She sat down 
 by me, and seemed in a great pucker, and said. Well, 
 come, I will forgive you for this time; and so kissed me, 
 as a mark of reconciliation. — But pray, said I, tell me 
 where I am to walk and go, and give me what liberty you 
 can ; and when I know the most you can favour me with, 
 you shall see I will be as content as I can, and not ask you 
 for more. 
 
 Ay, said she, this is something like : I wish I could give 
 you all the liberty you desire; for you must think it is 
 no pleasure to me to tie you to my petticoat, as it were 
 and not let you stir without me. — But people that will do 
 
VIRTUE REWJRDED. 139 
 
 their duties, must have some trouble j and what I do, is to 
 serve as good a master, to be sure, as Hves.— Yes, said I, 
 to everybody but me ! He loves you too well, to be sure, 
 returned she ; and that's the reason ; so you ought to bear 
 it. I say, love ! replied I. Come, said she, don't let the 
 wench see you have been crying, nor tell her any tales; 
 for you won't tell them fairly, I am sure ; and I'll send her, 
 and you shall take another walk in the garden, if you will : 
 May be it will get you a stomach to your dinner ; for you 
 don't eat enough to keep life and soul together. You are 
 beauty to the bone, added the strange wretch, or you 
 could not look so well as you do, with so little stomach, 
 so little rest, and so much pining and whining for nothing 
 at all. Well, thought I, say what thou wilt, so I can be rid 
 of thy bad tongue and company: and I hope to find some 
 opportunity now to come at my sunflower. But I walked the 
 other way, to take that in ray return, to avoid suspicion. 
 
 I forced my discourse to the maid ; but it was all upon 
 general things ; for I find she is asked after everything I 
 say and do. When I came near the place, as I had been 
 devising, I said. Pray step to the gardener, and ask him to 
 gather a salad for me to dinner. She called out, Jacob ! 
 Said I, He can't hear you so far off; and pray tell him, I 
 should like a cucumber too, if he has one. When she had 
 stept about a bow-shot from me, I popt down, and whipt 
 my fingers under the upper tile, and pulled out a letter 
 without direction, and thrust it in my bosom, trembling for 
 joy. She was with me, before I could well secure it; and 
 I was in such a taking that I feared I should discover my- 
 self. You seem frightened, madam, said she. Why, said 
 I, with a lucky thought (alas ! your poor daughter will 
 make an intriguer by and by ; but I hope an innocent one!) 
 I stooped to smell at the sunflower, and a great nasty 
 worm ran into the ground, that startled me; for I can't 
 abide worms. Said she. Sunflowers don't smell. So I 
 find, replied I. And then we walked in; and Mrs. Jewkes 
 said : Well, you have made haste now. — You shall go an- 
 other time. 
 
I40 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I went up to my closet, locked myself in, and opening 
 my letter, found in it these words : 
 
 ' I AM infinitely concerned for your distress. I most 
 ' heartily wish it may be in my power to serve and save so 
 ' much innocence, beauty, and merit. My whole depend- 
 
 ' ence is upon Mr. B , and I have a near view of being 
 
 ' provided for by his favour to me. But yet I would 
 ' sooner forfeit all my hopes in him (trusting in God for 
 ' the rest), than not assist you, if possible. I never looked 
 
 ' upon Mr. B in the light he now appears in to me, 
 
 ' in your case. To be sure, he is no professed debauchee, 
 ' But I am entirely of opinion, you should, if possible, get 
 ' out of his hands j and especially as you are in very bad 
 ' ones in Mrs. Jewkes's. 
 
 ' We have here the widow Lady Jones, mistress of a 
 ' good fortune ; and a woman of virtue, I believe. We 
 ' have also old Sir Simon Darnford, and his lady, who is 
 ' a good woman ; and they have two daughters, virtuous 
 ' young ladies. All the rest are but middling people, and 
 ' traders, at best. I will try, if you please, either Lady 
 ' Jones, or Lady Darnford, if they'll permit you to take 
 ' refuge with them. I see no probability of keeping myself 
 ' concealed in this matter ; but will, as I said, risk all things 
 ' to serve you ; for I never saw a sweetness and innocence 
 ' like yours ; and your hard case has attached me entirely 
 ' to you ; for I know, as ■ you so happily express, if I can 
 ' serve you in this case, I shall thereby perform all the acts 
 ' of religion in one. 
 
 ' As to Lady Davers, I will convey a letter, if you 
 ' please, to her; but it must not be from our post-house, 
 ' I give you caution ; for the man owes all his bread to 
 
 ' Mr. B , and his place too; and I believe, by some- 
 
 ' thing that dropt from him, over a can of ale, has his 
 ' instructions. You don't know how you are surrounded ; 
 ' all which confirms me in your opinion, that no honour is 
 ' meant you, let what will be professed ; and I am glad you 
 ' want no caution on that head. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 141 
 
 ' Give me leave to say, that I had heard much in your 
 ' praise ; but, I think, greatly short of what you deserve, 
 ' both as to person and mind : My eyes convince me of the 
 ' one, your letter of the other. For fear of losing the 
 ' present lucky opportunity, I am longer than otherwise I 
 ' should be. But I will not enlarge, any further than to 
 ' assure you that I am, to the best of my power, 
 
 ' Your faithful friend and servant, 
 
 'Arthur Williams.' 
 
 ' I will come once every morning, and once every evening, 
 ' after school-time, to look for your letters. I'll come 
 ' in, and return without going into the house, if I 
 ' see the coast clear : otherwise, to avoid suspicion, I'll 
 ' come in.' 
 
 I instantly, in answer to this pleasing letter, wrote as 
 follows : 
 
 ' Reverend Sir, — Oh how suited to your function, and 
 ' your character, is your kind letter 1 God bless you for it ! 
 ' I now think I am beginning to be happy. I should be 
 ' sorry to have you suffer on my account : but I hope it will 
 ' be made up to you an hundredfold, by that God whom 
 ' you so faithfully serve. I should be too happy, could I 
 ' ever have it in my power to contribute in the least to it. 
 ' But, alas ! to serve me^ must be for God's sake only ; for I 
 ' am poor and lowly in fortune ; though in mind, I hope, 
 ' too high to do a mean or unworthy deed to gain a king- 
 ' dom. But I lose time. 
 
 ' Any way you think best, I should be pleased with ; for 
 ' I know not the persons, nor in what manner it is best to 
 ' apply to them. I am glad of the hint you so kindly give 
 ' me of the man at the post-house. I was thinking of 
 ' opening a way for myself by letter, when I could have 
 ' opportunity ; but I see more and more that I am, indeed, 
 'strangely surrounded with dangers; and that there is no 
 ' dependence to be made on my master's honour. 
 
 ' I should think, sir, if either of those ladies would give 
 
142 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' leave, I might some way get out by favour of your key ; 
 ' and as it is impossible, watched as I am, to know when 
 ' it can be, suppose, sir, you could get one made by it, 
 ' and put it, the next opportunity, under the sunflower ? 
 ' — I am sure no time is to be lost, because it is rather my 
 ' wonder, that she is not thoughtful about this key, than 
 ' otherwise ; for she forgets not the minutest thing. But, 
 ' sir, if I had this key, I could, if these ladies would not 
 ' shelter me, run away anywhere : and if I was once out 
 ' of the house, they could have no pretence to force me 
 ' again ; for I have done no harm, and hope to make my 
 ' story good to any compassionate body ; and by this way 
 ' you need not to be known. Torture should not wring it 
 ' from me, I assure you. 
 
 ' One thing more, good sir. Have you no correspondence 
 ' with my master's Bedfordshire family ? By that means, 
 ' may be, I could be informed of his intention of coming 
 ' hither, and when. I enclose you a letter of a deceitful 
 ' wretch ; for I can trust you with anything ; poor John 
 ' Arnold. Its contents will tell why I enclose it. Perhaps, 
 ' by his means, something may be discovered ; for he seems 
 ' willing to atone for his treachery to me, by the intimation 
 ' of future service. I leave the hint to you to improve 
 ' upon, and am, 
 
 ' Reverend Sir, 
 ' Your for ever obliged and thankful servant.' 
 
 ' I hope, sir, by your favour, I could send a little packet, 
 ' now and then, somehow, to my poor father and 
 ' mother. I have a little stock of money, about five 
 ' or six guineas : Shall I put half in your hands, to 
 ' defray the charge of a man and horse, or any other 
 ' incidents ? ' 
 
 I had but just time to transcribe this, before I was called 
 to dinner; and I put that for Mr. Williams, with a wafer 
 in it, in my bosom, to get an opportunity to lay it in the 
 dear place. 
 
 Oh, good sirs, of all the flowers in the garden, the sunflower, 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. r^^ 
 
 sure, is the loveliest 1 — It is a propitious one to me ! How 
 nobly my plot succeeds ! But I begin to be afraid my writ- 
 ings may be discovered ; for they grow large : I stitch them 
 hitherto in my under-coat, next my linen. But if this brute 
 should search me. — I must try to please her, and then shu 
 won't. 
 
 Well, I am but just come off from a walk in the garden, 
 and have deposited my letter by a simple wile. I got'some 
 horse-beans ; and we took a turn in the garden, to angle, as 
 Mrs. Jewkes had promised me. She baited the hook, and I 
 held it, and soon hooked a lovely carp. Play it, play it, 
 said she: I did, and brought it to the bank. A sad thought 
 just then came into my head; and I took it, and threw it in 
 again ; and oh the pleasure it seemed to have, to flounce in, 
 when at liberty ! — Why this ? says she. O Mrs. Jewkes ! 
 said I, I was thinking this poor carp was the unhappy Pamela. 
 I was likening you and myself to my naughty master. As 
 we hooked and deceived the poor carp, so was I betrayed by 
 false baits ; and when you said, Play it, play it, it went to 
 my heart, to think I should sport with the destruction of 
 the poor fish I had betrayed ; and I could not but fling it in 
 again : and did you not see the joy with which the happy 
 carp flounced from us ? Oh 1 said I, may some good merci- 
 ful body procure me my liberty in the same manner ; for to 
 be sure, I think my danger equal 1 
 
 Lord bless thee ! said she, what a thought is there ! — 
 Well, I can angle no more, added I. Pll try my fortune, 
 said she, and took the rod. Do, answered I ; and I will 
 plant life, if I can, while you are destroying it. I have 
 some horse-beans here, and will go and stick them in one 
 of the borders, to see how long they will be coming up ; and 
 I will call them my garden. 
 
 So you see, dear father and mother (I hope now you will 
 soon see ; for, may be, if I can't get away so soon myself, I 
 may send my papers somehow; I say you will see), that 
 this furnishes me with a good excuse to look after my garden 
 another time; and if the mould should look a little freshish. 
 
144 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 it won't be so much suspected. She mistrusted nothing o 
 this ; and I went and stuck in here and there my beans, fo 
 about the length of five ells, of each side of the sunflower 
 and easily deposited my letter. And not a little proud am ' 
 of this contrivance. Sure something will do at last ! 
 
 Friday, Saturday. 
 I HAVE just now told you a trick of mine ; now I'll tell yoi 
 a trick of this wicked woman's. She comes up to me 
 Says she, I have a bill I cannot change till to-morrow ; an( 
 a tradesman wants his money most sadly : and I don't lovi 
 to turn poor trades-folks away without their money : Hav 
 you any about you ? I have a little, replied I : how mucl 
 will do ? Oh 1 said she, I want eight pounds. Alack 
 said I, I have but between five and six. Lend me that 
 said she, till to-morrow. I did so ; and she went dowi 
 stairs : and when she came up, she laughed, and said, Well 
 I have paid the tradesman. Said I, I hope you'll give it mi 
 again to-morrow. At that, the assurance, laughing loud 
 said, Why, what occasion have you for money ? To tel 
 you the truth, lambkin, I didn't want it. I only feared yoi 
 might make a bad use of it; and now I can trust Nan witl 
 you a little oftener, especially as I have got the key of you 
 portmanteau ; so that you can neither corrupt her witl 
 money, nor fine things. Never did anybody look more silb 
 than I. — Oh how I fretted, to be so foolishly outwitted! — An( 
 the more, as I had hinted to Mr. Williams, that I wouL 
 put some in his hands to defray the charges of my sendinj 
 to you. I cried for vexation. — And now I have not fiv 
 shillings left to support me, if I can get away. — Was eve 
 such a fool as I ! I must be priding myself in my contriv 
 ances, indeed 1 said I. Was this your instructions, wolfkin 
 (for she called me lambkin). Jezebel, you mean, child 
 said she. — ^Well, I now /orgive you heartily ; let's buss an 
 be friends. — Out upon you! said. I; I cannot bear you !- 
 But I durst not call her names again ; for I dread her hug 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 H5 
 
 paw most sadly. The more I think of this thing, the more 
 do I regret it, and blame myself. 
 
 This night the man from the post-house brought a letter 
 for Mrs. Jewkes, in which was one enclosed to me: She 
 brought it me up. Said she. Well, my good master don't 
 forget us. He has sent you a letter ; and see what he writes 
 to me. So she read. That he hoped her fair charge was well, 
 happy, and contented. Ay, to be sure, said I, I can't 
 choose ! — That he did not doubt her care and kindness to 
 me j that I was very dear to him^ and she could not use me 
 too well ; and the like. There's a master for you ! said she : 
 sure you will love and pray for him. I desired her to read 
 the rest. No, no, said she, but I won't. Said I, Are there 
 any orders for taking my shoes away, and for beating me ? 
 No, said she, nor about Jezebel neither. Well, returned I, 
 I cry truce ; for I have no mind to be beat again. I thought, 
 said she, we had forgiven one another. 
 
 My letter is as follows : 
 
 * My dear Pamela, — I begin to repent already, that I 
 have bound myself, by promise, not to see you till you give 
 me leave; for I think the time very tedious. Can you 
 place so much confidence in me, as to invite me down ? 
 Assure yourself, that your generosity shall not be thrown 
 away upon me. I the rather would press this, as I am 
 uneasy for your uneasiness ; for Mrs. Jewkes acquaints me, 
 that you take your restraint very heavily ; and neither eat, 
 drink, nor rest well ; and I have too great an interest in 
 your health, not to wish to shorten the time of this trial ; 
 which will be the consequence of my coming down to you. 
 John, too, has intimated to me your concern, with a grief 
 that hardly gave him leave for utterance ; a grief that 
 a little alarmed my tenderness for you. Not that I fear 
 ' anything, but that your disregard to me, which yet my 
 ' proud heart will hardly permit me to own, may throw 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
146 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' you upon some rashness, that might encourage a daring 
 ' hope: But how poorly do I descend, to be anxious about 
 ' such a menial as he ! — I will only say one thing, that 
 ' if you will give me leave to attend you at the Hall (con- 
 ' sider who it is that requests this from you as a. favour), I 
 ' solemnly declare, that you shall have cause to be pleased 
 ' with this obliging mark of your confidence in me, and con- 
 ' sideration for me ; and if I find Mrs. Jewkes has not behaved 
 ' to you with the respect due to one I s'o dearly love, I will 
 ' put it entirely into your power to discharge her the house, 
 ' if you think proper ; and Mrs. Jervis, or who else you 
 ' please, shall attend you in her place. This I say on a hint 
 ' John gave me, as if you resented something from that 
 ' quarter. Dearest Pamela, answer favourably this earnest 
 ' request of one that cannot live without you, and on whose 
 ' honour to you, you may absolutely depend ; and so much 
 ' the more, as you place a confidence in it. — I am, and 
 ' assuredly ever will be, 
 
 ' Your faithful and affectionate, &c. 
 
 ' You will be glad, I know, to hear your father and mother 
 ' are well, and easy upon your last letter. That gave 
 ' me a pleasure that I am resolved you shall not re- 
 ' pent. Mrs. Jewkes will convey to me your answer.' 
 
 I but slightly read this letter for the present, to give way 
 to one I had^bopes of finding by this time from Mr. 
 Williams. I took an evening turn, as I called it, in Mrs. 
 Jewkes' company; and walking by the place, I said. Do 
 you think, Mrs. Jewkes, any of my beans can have struck 
 since yesterday ? She laughed, and said. You are a poor 
 gardener ; but I love to see you divert yourself. She pass- 
 ing on, I found my good friend had provided for me ; and, 
 slipping it in my bosom |(for her back was towards me), 
 Here, said I (having a bean in my hand), is one of them ; 
 but it has not stirred. No, to be sure, said she, and turned 
 upon me a most wicked jest, unbecoming* the mouth of a 
 woman, about planting, &c. When I came in, I hied to 
 my closet, and read as follows : 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. ,47 
 
 ' I AM sorry to tell you, that I have had a repulse from 
 ' Lady Jones. She is concerned at your case, she says ; 
 ' but don't care to make herself enemies. I applied to 
 ' Lady Darnford, and told her in the most pathetic manner 
 ' I could your sad story, and showed her your more pathetic 
 ' letter. I found her well disposed ; but she would advise 
 ' with Sir Simon, who by the by is not a man of an extra- 
 ' ordinary character for virtue ; but he said to his lady in 
 ' my presence. Why, what is all this, my dear, btit that our 
 ' neighbour has a mind to his mother's waiting-maid ! And 
 ' if he takes care she wants for nothing, I don't see any 
 ' great injury will be done her. He hurts no family by 
 ' this : ' (So, my dear father and mother, it seems that poor 
 people's honesty is to go for nothing) : 'And I think, Mr. 
 ' Williams, you, of all men, should not engage in this affair, 
 ' against your friend and patron. He spoke this in so deter- 
 ' mined a manner, that the lady had done ; and I had only to 
 ' beg no notice should be taken of the matter as from me. 
 
 ' I have hinted your case to Mr. Peters, the minister of 
 ' this parish ; but I am concerned to say, that he imputed 
 ' selfish views to me, as if I would make an interest in 
 * your affections by my zeal. And when I represented the 
 ' duties of our function, and the like, and protested my dis- 
 ' interestedness, he coldly said, I was very good ; but was 
 ' a young man, and knew little of the world. And though 
 ' it was a thing to be lamented, yet when he and I should 
 ' set about to reform mankind in this respect, we should 
 ' have enough upon our hands ; for, he said, it was too 
 ' common and fashionable a case to be withstood by a 
 ' private clergyman or two : and then he uttered some re- 
 ' flections upon the conduct of the present fathers of the 
 ' church, in regard to the first personages of the realm, as 
 ' a justification of his coldness on this score. 
 
 ' I represented the different circumstances of your affair ; 
 ' that other women lived evilly by their own consent, but 
 ' to serve you, was to save an innocence that had but few 
 ' examples ; and then I showed him your letter. 
 
 ' He said it was prettily written ; and he was sorry for 
 
148 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' you ; and that your good intentions ought to be en- 
 ' couraged : But what, said he, would you have me do, 
 ' Mr. Williams ? Why suppose, sir, said I, you give her 
 '•shelter in your house, with your spouse and niece, till she 
 ' can get to her friends. — What ! and embroil myself with 
 
 ' a man of Mr. B 's power and fortune ! No, not I, 
 
 ' I'll assure you ! — And I would have you consider what 
 ' you are about. Besides, she owns, continued he, that he 
 ' promises to do honourably by her; and her shyness will 
 ' procure her good terms enough ; for he is no covetous 
 ' nor wicked gentleman, except in this case ; and 'tis what 
 ' all young gentlemen will do. 
 
 ' I am greatly concerned for him, I assure you ; but I 
 ' am not discouraged by this ill success, let what will come 
 ' of it, if I can serve you. 
 
 ' I don't hear, as yet, that Mr. B is coming. I am 
 
 ' glad of your hint as to that unhappy fellow John Arnold. 
 ' Something, perhaps, will strike out from that, which may 
 ' be useful. As to your packets, if you seal them up, and 
 ' lay them in the usual place, if you find it hot suspected, 
 ' I will watch an opportunity to convey them ; but if they 
 ^ are large, you had best be very cautious. This evil 
 ' woman, I find, mistrusts me much. 
 
 ' I just hear, that the gentleman is dying, whose living 
 
 ' Mr. B has promised me. I have almost a scruple to 
 
 ' take it, as I am acting so contrary to his desires; but I 
 ' hope he will one day thank me for it. As to money, 
 ' don't think of it at present. Be assured you may com- 
 ' mand all in my power to do for you without reserve. 
 
 ' I believe, when we hear he is coming, it will be best to 
 ' make use of the key, which I shall soon procure you ; 
 ' and I can borrow a horse for you, I believe, to wait 
 ' within half a mile of the back-door, over the pasture; 
 ' and will contrive, by myself, or somebody, to have you 
 ' conducted some miles distant, to one of the villages there- 
 ' abouts ; so don't be discomforted, I beseech you. — I am, 
 ' excellent Mrs. Pamela, 
 
 ' Your faithful friend, &c.' 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 149 
 
 I made a thousand sad reflections upon the former part 
 of this honest gentleman's kind letter ; and but for the 
 hope he gave me at last, should have given up my case as 
 quite desperate. I then wrote to thank him most grate- 
 fully for his kind endeavours ; to lament the little concern 
 the gentry had for my deplorable case ; the wickedness of 
 the worldj first to give way to such iniquitous fashions^ and 
 then plead the frequency of them, against the attempt to 
 amend them ; and how unaffected people were with the 
 distresses of others. I recalled my former hint as to writ- 
 ing to Lady Davers, which I feared, I said, would only 
 serve to apprise her brother, that she knew his wicked 
 scheme, and more harden him in it, and make him come 
 down the sooner, and to be the more determined on my 
 ruin ; besides that it might make Mr. Williams guessed at, 
 as a means of conveying my letter : And being very fearful, 
 that if that good lady would interest herself in my behalf 
 (which was a doubt, because she both loved and feared her 
 brother), it would have no effect upon him; and that there- 
 fore I would wait the happy event I might hope for from 
 his kind assistance in the key, and the horse. I intimated 
 my master's letter, begging to be permitted to come down : 
 was fearful it might be sudden ; and that I was of opinion 
 no time was to be lost ; for we might let slip all our 
 opportunities; telling him the money trick of this vile 
 woman, &c. 
 
 I had not time to take a copy of this letter, I was so 
 watched. And when I had it ready in my bosom, I was 
 easy. And so I went to seek out Mrs. Jewkes, and told 
 her, I would have her advice upon the letter I had received 
 from my master ; which point of confidence in her pleased 
 her not a little. Ay, said she, now this is something like : 
 and we'll take a turn in the garden, or where you please. I 
 pretended it was indifferent to me ; and so we walked into 
 the garden. I began to talk to her of the letter; but was 
 far from acquainting her with all the contents ; only that 
 he wanted my consent to come down, and hoped she used 
 me kindly, and the like. And I said, Now, Mrs. Jewkes, 
 
[50 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 et me have your advice as to this. Why then, said she, I 
 vill give it you freely ; E'en send to him to'come down. It 
 vill highly oblige him, and I daresay you'll fare the better 
 'or it. How the better ? said I. — I daresay, you think 
 ,'ourself, that he intends my ruin. — I hate, said she, that 
 "oolish word, your ruin ! Why, ne'er a lady in the land 
 nay live happier than you if you will, or be more honour- 
 ibly used. 
 
 Well, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, I shall not, at this time, dis- 
 pute with you about the words ruin and honourable : for I 
 ind we have quite different notions of both : But now I 
 vill speak plainer than ever I did. Do you think he intends 
 make proposals to me as to a kept mistress, or kept slave 
 ather, or do you not ? — Why, lambkin, said she, what dost 
 ;hou think thyself? — I fear, said I, he does. Well, said she, 
 )ut if he does (for I know nothing of the matter, I assure 
 ^ou), you may have your own terms — I see that ; for you 
 nay do anything with him. 
 
 I could not bear this to be spoken, though it was all I 
 eared of a long time ; and began to exclaim most sadly. 
 STay, said she, he may marry you, as far as I know. — No, 
 10, said I, that cannot be. — I neither desire nor expect it. 
 3is condition don't permit me to have such a thought; and 
 hat, and the whole series of his conduct, convinces me of 
 he contrary ; and you would have me invite him to come 
 lown, would you ? Is not this to invite my ruin ? 
 
 'Tis what I would do, said she, in your place; and if it 
 vas to be as you think, I should rather be out of my pain, 
 :han live in continual frights and apprehensions, as you do. 
 "^o, replied I, an ho7J.r of innocence is worth an age of guilt ; 
 ind were my life to be made ever so miserable by it, I should 
 lever forgive myself, if I were not to lengthen out to the 
 ongest minute my happy time of honesty. Who knows 
 vhat Providence may do for me ! 
 
 Why, may be, said she, as he loves you so well, you may 
 )revail upon him by your prayers and tears ; and for that 
 •eason, I should think, you'd better let him come down. 
 Well, said I, I will write him a letter, because he expects 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 151 
 
 an answer, or may be he will make a pretence to come 
 down. How can it go ? 
 
 I'll take care of that, said she ; it is in my instructions. — 
 Ay, thought I, so I doubt, by the hint Mr. Williams gave 
 me about the post-house. 
 
 The gardener coming by, I said, Mr. Jacob, I have 
 planted a few beans, and I call the place my garden. It is 
 just by the door out yonder : I'll show it you ; pray don't 
 dig them up. So I went on with him ; and when we had 
 turned the alley, out of her sight, and were near the place, 
 said I, Pray step to Mrs. Jewkes, and ask her if she has any 
 more beans for me to plant ? He smiled, I suppose at my 
 foolishness ; and I popped the letter under the mould, and 
 stepped back, as if waiting for his return ; which, being 
 near, was immediate; and she followed him. What should 
 / do with beans ? said she, — and sadly scared me ; for she 
 whispered me, I am afraid of some fetch ! You don't use 
 to send on such simple errands. — What fetch ? said I : It 
 is hard I can neither stir, nor speak, but I must be suspected. 
 — Why, said she, my master writes, that I must have all 
 my eyes about me; for though you are as innocent as a 
 dove, yet you are as cunning as a serpent. But I'll forgive 
 you, if you cheat me. 
 
 Then I thought of my money, and could have called her 
 names, had I dared : And I said. Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, now 
 you talk of forgiving me, if I cheat you, be so kind as to 
 pay me my money ; for though I have no occasion for it, 
 yet I know you was but in jest, and intended to give it me 
 again. You shall have it in a proper time, said she ; but, 
 indeed, I was in earnest to get it out of your hands, for fear 
 you should make an ill use of it. And so we cavilled upon 
 this subject, as we walked in, and I went up to write my 
 letter to my master; and, as I intended to show it her, I 
 resolved to write accordingly as to her part of it ; for I made 
 little account of his offer of Mrs. Jervis to me, instead of 
 this wicked woman (though the most agreeable thing that 
 could have befallen me, except my escape from hence), nor 
 
153 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 indeed anything he said. For to be honourable, in the just 
 sense of the word, he need not have caused me to be run 
 away with, and confined as I am. I wrote as follows : 
 
 ' Honoured Sir, — When I consider how easily you 
 might make me happy, since all I desire is to be permitted 
 to go to my poor father and mother ; when I reflect upon 
 your former proposal to me, in relation to a certain person, 
 not one word of which is now mentioned ; and upon my 
 being in that strange manner run away with, and still 
 kept here a miserable prisoner ; do you think, sir (pardon 
 your poor servant's freedom; my fears make me bold; do" 
 you think, I say), that your general assurances of honour 
 to me, can have the effect upon me, that, were it not for 
 these things, all your words ought to have ? — Oh, good sir ! 
 I too much apprehend, that your notions of honour and 
 mine are very different from one another : and I have no 
 other hopes but in your continued absence. If you hav^ 
 any proposals to make me, that are consistent with your 
 honourable professions, in riiy humble sense of the word, 
 a few lines will communicate them to me, and I will return 
 such an answer as befits me. But, oh 1 what proposals 
 can one in your high station have to make to one in my 
 low one 1 I know what belongs to your degree too welL 
 to imagine, that anything can be expected but sad tempta- 
 tions, and utter distress, if you come down ; and you know 
 not, sir, when I am made desperate, what the wretched 
 Pamela dares to do I 
 
 ' Whatever rashness you may impute to me, I cannot help 
 it ; but I wish I may not be forced upon any, that other- 
 wise would never enter into my thoughts. Forgive me, 
 sir, my plainness ; I should be loath to behave to my 
 master unbecomingly; but I must needs say, sir, my 
 innocence is so dear to me, that all other considerations 
 are, and, I hope, shall ever be, treated by me as niceties, 
 that ought, for that, to be dispensed with. If you mean 
 honourably, why, sir, should you not let me know it 
 plainly ? Why is it necessary to imprison me, to convince 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 153 
 
 ' me of it? And why must I be close watched, and at- 
 ' tended, hindered from stirring out, from speaking to any- 
 ' body, from going so much as to church to pray for you, 
 ' who have been, till of late, so generous a benefactor to me ? 
 ' Why^ sir, I humbly ask, why all this, if you mean honour- 
 ' ably ? — It is not for me to expostulate so freely, but in a 
 ' case so near to me, with you, sir, so greatly my superior. 
 ' Pardon me, I hope you will ; but as to seeing you, I can- 
 ' not bear the dreadful apprehension. Whatever you have 
 ' to propose, whatever you intend by me, let my assent be 
 ' that of a free person, mean as I am, and not of a sordid 
 ' slave, who is to be threatened and frightened into a com- 
 ' pliance with measures, which your conduct to her seems 
 ' to imply would be otherwise abhorred by her. — My restraint 
 ' is indeed hard upon me : I am very uneasy under it. 
 ' Shorten it, I beseech you, or — but I will not dare to say 
 ' more, than that I am 
 
 ' Your greatly oppressed unhappy servant.' 
 
 After I had taken a copy of this, I folded it up ; and 
 Mrs. Jewkes, coming just as I had done, sat down by me; 
 and said, when she saw me direct it, I wish you would tell 
 me if you have taken my advice, and consented to my 
 master's coming down. If it will oblige you, said I, I will 
 read it to you. That's good, said she; then I'll love you 
 dearly. — Said I, Then you must not offer to alter one word. 
 I won't, replied she. So I read it to her, and she praised 
 me much for my wording it; but said she thought I pushed 
 the matter very close ; and it would better bear talking of, 
 than writing about. She wanted an explanation or two, as 
 about the proposal to a certain person ; but I said, she must 
 take it as she heard it. Well, well, said she, I make no doubt 
 you understand one another, and will do so more and more. 
 I sealed up the letter, and she undertook to convey it. 
 
154 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 For my part, I knew It in vain to expect to have leave to 
 go to church now, and so I did not ask; and I was the 
 more indifferent, because, if I might have had permission, 
 the sight of the neighbouring gentry, who had despised 
 my sufferings, would have given me great regret and sor- 
 row; and it was impossible I should have edified under 
 any doctrine preached by Mr. Peters : so I applied myself 
 to my private devotions. 
 
 Mr. Williams came yesterday, and this day, as usual, 
 and took my letter ; but, having no good opportunity, we 
 avoided one another's conversation, and kept at a distance : 
 But I was concerned I had not the key ; for I would not 
 have lost a moment in that case, had I been he, and he I. 
 When I was at my devotion, Mrs. Jewkes came up, and 
 wanted me sadly to sing her a psalm, as she had often on 
 common days importuned me for a song upon the spinnet : 
 but I declined it, because my spirits were so low I could 
 hardly speak, nor cared to be spoken to ; but when she was 
 gone, I remembering the cxxxviith psalm to be a little touch- 
 ing, turned to it, and took the liberty to alter it, somewhat 
 nearer to my case. I hope I did not sin in it; but thus I 
 turned it: 
 
 I. 
 
 When sad I sat in B n Hall, 
 
 All guarded round about, 
 And thought of ev'ry absent friend, 
 
 The tears for grief burst out. 
 
 II. 
 
 My joys and hopes all overthrown, 
 
 My heart-strings almost broke, 
 Unfit my mind for melody, 
 
 Much more to bear a joke. 
 
 III. 
 
 Then she to whom I pris'ner was. 
 
 Said to me, tauntingly, 
 Now cheer your heart, and sing a song, 
 
 And tune your mind to joy. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. i^^ 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alas ! said I, how can I frame 
 
 My heavy heart to sing, 
 Or tune my mind, while thus entlirall'd 
 
 By such a wicked thing ! 
 
 But yet, if from my innocence 
 I, ev'n in thought, should slide, 
 
 Then let my fingers quite forget 
 The sweet spinnet to guide, 
 
 VI. 
 
 And let my tongue within my mouth 
 
 Be lock'd for ever fast, 
 If I rejoice, before I see 
 
 My full deliv'rance past. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And thou, Almighty, recompense 
 
 The evils I endure, 
 From those who seek my sad disgrace. 
 
 So causeless, to procure. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Remember, Lord, this Mrs. Jewkes 
 When, with a mighty sound. 
 
 She cries, Down with her chastity, 
 Down to the very ground ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ev'n so shalt thou, O wicked one ! 
 
 At length to shame be brought, 
 And happy shall all those be call'd 
 
 That my deliv'rance vrought. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yea, blessed shall the man be call'd 
 That shames thee of thy evil. 
 
 And saves me from thy vile attempts, 
 And thee, too, from the D 1. 
 
156 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. 
 I WRITE now with a little more liking, though less oppor- 
 tunity, because Mr. Williams has got a large parcel of my 
 papers, safe in his hands, to send them to you, as he has 
 opportunity ; so I am not quite uselessly employed ; and I 
 am delivered, besides, from the fear of their being found, 
 if I should be searched, or discovered. I have been per- 
 mitted to take an airing, five or six miles, with Mrs. Jewkes : 
 But, though I know not the reason, she watches me more 
 closely than ever; so that we have discontinued, by con- 
 sent, for these three days, the sunflower correspondence. 
 
 The poor cook-maid has had a bad mischance; for she 
 has been hurt much by a bull in the pasture, by the side 
 of the garden, not far from the back-door. Now this 
 pasture I am to cross, which is about half a mile, and then 
 is a common, and near that a private horse-road, where I 
 hope to find an opportunity for escaping, as soon as Mr. 
 Williams can get me a horse, and has made all ready for 
 me : for he has got me the key, which he put under the 
 mould, just by the door, as he found an opportunity to 
 hint to me. 
 
 He just now has signified, that the gentleman is dead 
 whose living he has had hope of; and he came pretendedly 
 to tell Mrs. Jewkes of it ; and so could speak this to her 
 before me. She wished him joy. See what the world is ! 
 One man's death is another man's joy. Thus we thrust 
 out one another ! — My hard case makes me serious. He 
 found means to slide a letter into my hands, and is gone 
 away : He looked at me with such respect and solemnness 
 at parting, that Mrs. Jewkes said. Why, madam, I believe 
 our young parson is half in love with you. — Ah ! Mrs. 
 Jewkes, said I, he knows better. Said she (I believe to 
 sound me). Why, ■ I can't see you can either of you do 
 better ; and I have lately been so touched for you, seeing 
 how heavily you apprehend dishonour from my master, 
 that I think it is a pity you should not have Mr. Williams. 
 
 I knew this niust be a fetch of hers ; because, instead of 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 157 
 
 being troubled for me, as she pretended, she watched me 
 closer, and him too : and so I said. There is not the man 
 living that I desire to marry. If I can but keep myself 
 honest, it is all my desire: And to be a comfort and 
 assistance to my poor parents, if it should be my happy 
 lot to be so, is the very top of my ambition. Well, but, 
 said she, I have been thinking very seriously, that Mr. 
 Williams would make you a good husband ; and as he will 
 owe all his fortune to my master, he will be very glad, to 
 be sure, to be obliged to him for a wife of his choosing: 
 especially, said she, such a pretty one^ and one so ingenious 
 and genteelly educated. 
 
 This gave me a doubt, whether she knew of my master's 
 intimation of that sort formerly; and I asked her, if she 
 had reason to surmise that that was in view? No, she 
 said; it was only her own thought; but it was very likely 
 that my master had either that in view, or something better 
 for me. But, if I approved of it, she would propose such 
 a thing to her master directly ; and gave a detestable hint, 
 that I might take resolutions upon it, of bringing such an 
 affair to effect. I told her I abhorred her vile insinuation ; 
 and as to Mr. Williams, I thought him a civil good sort 
 of man ; but as, on one side, he was above me ; so, on the 
 other, I said of all things I did not love a parson. So, 
 finding she could make nothing of me, she quitted the 
 subject. 
 
 I will open his letter by and by, and give you the con- 
 tents of it; for she is up and down so much, that I am 
 afraid of her surprising me. 
 
 Well, I see Providence has not abandoned me: I shall. 
 be under no necessity to make advances to Mr. Williams, 
 if I was (as I am sure I am not) disposed to it. This is his 
 letter : 
 
 ' I KNOW not how to express myself, lest I should appear 
 ' to you to have a selfish view in the service I would do you. 
 ' But I really know but one effectual and honourable way 
 
58 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 to disengage yourself from the dangerous situation you 
 are in. It is that of marriage with some person that 
 you could make happy in your approbation. As for my 
 own part, it would be, as things stand, my apparent ruin ; 
 and, worse still, I should involve you in misery too. But, 
 yet, so great is my veneration for you, and so entire my 
 reliance on Providence, upon so just an occasion, that I 
 should think myself but too happy, if I might be accepted. 
 I would, in this case, forego all my expectations, and be 
 your conductor to some safe distance. But why do I say, 
 in this case? That I will do, whether you think fit to 
 reward me so eminently or not : And I will, the moment 
 
 I hear of Mr. B 's setting out (and I think now I 
 
 have settled a very good method of intelligence of all his 
 motions), get a horse ready, and myself to conduct you. 
 I refer myself wholly to your goodness and direction ; and 
 am, with the highest respect, 
 
 ' Your most faithful humble servant. 
 
 ' Don't think this a sudden resolution. I always admired 
 ' your hearsay character ; and the moment I saw you, 
 ' wished to serve so much excellence.' 
 
 What shall I say, my dear father and mother, to this 
 mexpected declaration ? I want, now, more than ever, your 
 )lessing and direction. But, after all, I have no mind to 
 narry : I had rather live with you. But yet, I would 
 narry a man who begs from door to door, and has no home 
 lor being, rather than endanger my honesty. Yet I cannot, 
 nethinks, hear of being a wife. — After a thousand different 
 ;houghts, I wrote as follows : 
 
 ' Reverend Sir, — I am greatly confused at the con- 
 tents of your last. You are much too generous, and I 
 can't bear you should risk all your future prospects for so 
 unworthy a creature. I cannot think of your offer with- 
 out equal concern and gratitude; for nothing, but to 
 avoid my utter ruin, can make me think of a change of 
 condition ; and so, sir, you ought not to accept of such 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 159 
 
 an involuntary compliance, as mine would be, were I, 
 upon the last necessity, to yield to your very generous 
 proposal. I will rely wholly upon your goodness to me, 
 in assisting my escape; but shall not, on your account 
 principally, think of the honour you propose for me, at 
 present; and never, but at the pleasure of my parents; 
 who, poor as they are, in such a weighty point, are as 
 much entitled to my obedience and duty, as if they were 
 ever so rich. I beg you, therefore, sir, not to think of 
 anything from me, but everlasting gratitude, which will 
 always bind me to be 
 
 ' Your most obliged servant.' 
 
 Thursday, Friday, Saturday, the 14th, 
 15th, and i6lh, of my bondage. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes has received a letter, and is much civiller to 
 me, and Mr. Williams too, than she used to be. I wonder 
 I have not one in answer to mine to my master. I suppose I 
 put the matter too home to him ; and he is angry. I am 
 not the more pleased with her civility; for she is horrid 
 cunning, and is not a whit less watchful. I laid a trap 
 to get at her instructions, which she carries in the bosom 
 of her stays ; but it has not succeeded. 
 
 My last letter is come safe to Mr. Williams by the old 
 conveyance, so that he is not suspected. He has intimated, 
 that though I have not come so readily as he hoped into 
 his scheme, yet his diligence shall not be slackened, and he 
 will leave it to Providence and himself to dispose of him 
 as he shall be found to deserve. He has signified to me, 
 that he shall soon send a special messenger with the packet 
 to you, and I have added to it what has occurred since. 
 
i6o PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Sunday. 
 I AM just now quite astonished! — I hope all is right! — 
 but I have a strange turn to acquaint you with. Mr. 
 Williams and Mrs. Jewkes came to me both together ; he 
 in ecstacieSj she with a strange fluttering sort of air. Well, 
 said she, Mrs. Pamela, I give you joy! I give you joy!— 
 Let nobody speak but me ! Then she sat down, as out of 
 breath, puffing and blowing. Why, everything turns as I 
 said it would! said she: Why, there is to be a match 
 between you and Mr. Williams ! Well, I always thought it. 
 Never was so good a master ! — Go to, go to, naughty, mis- 
 trustful Mrs. Pamela ; nay, Mrs. Williams, said the forward 
 creature, I may as good call you: you ought on your 
 knees to beg his pardon a thousand times_for mistrusting 
 him. 
 
 She was going on ; but I said. Don't torture me thus, I 
 beseech you, Mrs. Jewkes. Let me know all ! — Ah ! Mr. 
 Williams, said I, take care, take care ! — Mistrustful again ! 
 said she : Why, Mr. Williams, show her your letter, and I 
 will show her mine : they were brought by the same hand, i 
 
 I trembled at the thoughts of what this might mean ; and 
 said. You have so surprised me, that I cannot stand, nor 
 hear, nor read ! Why did you come up in such a manner to 
 attack such weak , spirits ? Said he, to Mrs. Jewkes, Shall 
 we leave our letters with Mrs. Pamela, and let her recover 
 from her surprise? Ay, said she, with all my heart; here is 
 nothing but flaming honour and good will ! And so saying, 
 they left me their letters and withdrew. 
 
 My heart was quite sick with the surprise ; so that I could 
 not presently read them, notwithstanding my impatience; 
 but, after a while, recovering, I found the contents thus 
 strange and unexpected : 
 
 ' Mr. Williams, — ' The death of Mr. Fownes lias now 
 ' given me the opportunity I have long wanted, to make you 
 ' happy, and that in a double respect : For I shall soon put 
 ' you in possession of his living ; and, if you have the art 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. i6i 
 
 of making yourself well received, of one of the loveliest 
 wives in England. She has not been used (as she has 
 reason to think) according to her merit; but when she 
 finds herself under the protection of a man of virtue and 
 probity, and a happy competency to support life in the 
 manner to which she has been of late years accustomed, 
 I am persuaded she will forgive those seeming hardships 
 which have paved the way to so happy a lot, as I hope it 
 will be to you both. I have only to account for and 
 excuse the odd conduct I have been guilty of, which I shall 
 do when I see you : but as I shall soon set out for London, 
 I believe it will not be yet this month. Meantime, if you 
 can prevail with Pamela, you need not suspend for that 
 your mutual happiness; only let me have notice of it first, 
 and that she approves of it; which ought to be, in so 
 material a point, entirely at her option ; as I assure you, 
 on the other hand, I would have it at yours, that nothing 
 may be wanting to complete your happiness. 
 
 ' I am your humble servant.' 
 
 Was ever the like heard ?— Lie still, my throbbing heart, 
 divided as thou art, between thy hopes and thy fears ! — But 
 this is the letter Mrs. Jewkes left with me : 
 
 'Mrs. Jewkes, — You have been very careful and dili- 
 ' gent in the task, which, for reasons I shall hereafter 
 ' explain, I had imposed upon you. Your trouble is now 
 ' almost at an end ;, for I have written my intentions to Mr. 
 ' Williams so particularly, that I need say the less here, 
 ' because he will not scruple, I believe, to let you know the 
 ' contents of my letter. I have only one thing to mention, 
 ' that if you find what I have hinted to him in the least 
 ' measure disagreeable to either, you assure them both, that 
 ' they are at entire liberty to pursue their own inclmations. 
 ' I hope you continue your civilities to the mistrustful, 
 ' uneasy Pamela, who now will begin to think better of 
 
 ' hers and , o , 
 
 ' Your friend, &c.' 
 
 L 
 VOL. I. 
 
i63 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I had hardly time to transcribe these letters, though, 
 writing so much, I write pretty fast, before they both came 
 up again in high spirits ; and Mr. Williams said, I am glad 
 at my heart, madam, that I was beforehand in my declara- 
 tions to you : this generous letter has made me the happiest 
 man on earth ; and, Mrs. Jewkes, you may be sure, that if 
 I can procure this fair one's consent, I shall think myself— 
 I interrupted the good man, and said. Ah ! Mr. Williams, 
 take care, take care; don't let— There I stopt; and Mrs. 
 Jewkes said. Still mistrustful !— I never saw the like in my 
 life !— But I see, said she, I was not wrong, while my old 
 orders lasted, to be wary of you both — I should have had 
 a hard task to prevent you, I find ; for, as the saying is. 
 Nought can restrain consent of twain. 
 
 I doubted not her taking hold of his joyful indiscretion. 
 — I took her letter, and said. Here, Mrs. Jewkes, is yours ; 
 I thank you for it; but I have been so long in a maze, that 
 I can say nothing of this for the present. Time will bring 
 all to light. — Sir, said I, here is yours: May everything 
 turn to your happiness ! I give you joy of my master's good- 
 ness in the living. — It will be dying, said he, not a living, 
 without you. — Forbear, sir, said I ; while I have a father 
 and mother, I am not my own mistress, poor as they are ; 
 and I'll see myself quite at liberty, before I shall think 
 myself fit to make a choice. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes held up her eyes and hands, and said, Such 
 art, such caution, such cunning, for thy years ! — Well ! — 
 Why, said I (that he might be more on his guard, though 
 I hope there cannot be deceit in this ; 'twould be strange 
 villany, and that is a hard word, if there should !) I have 
 been so used to be made a fool of .by fortune, that I hardly 
 can tell how to govern myself; and am almost an infidel as 
 to mankind. But I hope I may be wrong; henceforth, Mrs. 
 Jewkes, you shall regulate my opinions as you please, and 
 I will consult you in everything — (that I think proper, said 
 I to myself) — for, to be sure, though I may forgive her, I 
 can never love her. 
 
 She left Mr. Williams and me, a few minutes, together ; 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 163 
 
 and I said, Consider, sir, consider what you have done. 
 'Tis impossible, said he, there can be deceit. I hope so, 
 said I ; but what necessity was there for you to talk of 
 your former declaration? Let this be as it will, that could 
 do no good, especially before this woman. Forgive me, 
 sir ; they talk of women's promptness of speech ; but 
 indeed, I see an honest heart is not always to be trusted 
 with itself in bad company. 
 
 He was going to reply, but though her task is said to be 
 ALMOST (I took notice of that word) at an end, she came 
 up to us again, and said : Well, I had a good mind to show 
 you the way to church to-morrow. I was glad of this, 
 because, though in my present doubtful situation I should 
 not have chosen it, yet I would have encouraged her 
 proposal, to be able to judge by her being in earnest or 
 otherwise, whether one might depend upon the rest. But 
 Mr. Williams again indiscreetly helped her to an excuse, 
 by saying, that it was now best to defer it one Sunday, 
 and till matters were riper for my appearance : and she 
 readily took hold of it, and confirmed his opinion. 
 
 After all, I hope the best: but if this should turn out 
 to be a plot, I fear nothing but a miracle can save me. 
 But, sure the heart of man is not capable of such black 
 deceit. Besides, Mr. Williams has it under his own hand, 
 and he dare not but be in earnest ; and then again, though 
 to be sure he has been very wrong to me, yet his education, 
 and parents' example, have neither of them taught him 
 such very black contrivances. So I will hope for the best. 
 
 Mr. Williams, Mrs. Jewkes, and I, have been all three 
 walking together in the garden ; and she pulled out her 
 key, and we walked a little in the pasture to look at the 
 bull, an ugly, grim, surly creature, that hurt the poor 
 cook-maid; who is got pretty well again. Mr. Williams 
 pointed at the sunflower, but I was forced to be very re- 
 served to him ; for the poor gentleman has no guard, no 
 caution at all. 
 
 We have just supped together, all three; and I cannot 
 
1 64 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 yet think but all must be right. — Only I am resolved not 
 to marry, if I can help it ; and I will give no encourage- 
 ment, I am resolved, at least, till I am with you. 
 
 Mr. Williams said, before Mrs. Jewkes, he would send a 
 messenger with a letter to my father and mother. — I think 
 the man has no discretion in the world : but I desire you 
 will send no answer, till I have the pleasure and happiness 
 which now I hope for soon, of seeing you. He will, in 
 sending my packet, send a most tedious parcel of stuff, of 
 my oppressions, my distresses, my foars ; and so I will send 
 this with it (for Mrs. Jewkes gives me leave to send a 
 letter to my father, which looks well) ; and I am glad I 
 can conclude, after all my sufferings, with my hopes, to be 
 soon with you, which I know will give you comfort ; and 
 so I rest, begging the continuance of your prayers and 
 blessings. 
 
 Your ever dutiful Daughter. 
 
 My dear Father and Mother, — I have so much time 
 upon my hands, that I must write on, to employ myself. 
 The Sunday evening, where I left off, Mrs. Jewkes asked 
 me, if I chose to lie by myself; I said. Yes, with all my 
 heart, if she pleased. Well, said she, after to-night you 
 shall. I asked her for more paper ; and she gave me a 
 bottle of ink, eight sheets of paper, which she said was all 
 her store (for now she would get me to write for her to our 
 master, if she had occasion), and six pens, with a piece of 
 sealing wax. This looks mighty well. 
 
 She pressed me, when she came to bed, very much, to 
 give encouragement to Mr. Williams, and said many things 
 in his behalf; and blamed my shyness to him. I told her, 
 I was resolved to give no encouragement, till I had talked 
 to my father and mother. She said, he fancied I thought 
 of somebody else, or I could never be so insensible. I 
 assured her, as I could do very safely, that there was not a 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 165 
 
 man on earth I wished to have; and as to Mr. Williams, 
 he might do better by far; and I had proposed so much 
 happiness in living with my poor father and mother, that I 
 could not think of any scheme of life with pleasure, till 
 I had tried that. I asked her for my money ; and she 
 said, it was above in her strong box, but that I should have 
 it to-morrow. All these things look well, as I said. 
 
 Mr. Williams would go home this night, though late, 
 because he would despatch a messenger to you with a letter 
 he had proposed from himself, and my packet. But pray 
 don't encourage him, as I said ; for he is much too heady 
 and precipitate as to this matter, in my way of thinking; 
 though, to be sure, he is a very good man, and I am much 
 obliged to him. 
 
 Monday morning. 
 
 Alas-a-day! we have bad news from poor Mr. Williams. 
 He has had a sad mischance ; fallen among rogues in his 
 way home last night : but by good chance has saved my 
 papers. This is the account he gives of it to Mrs. Jewkes. 
 
 ' Good Mrs. Jewkes, — I have had a sore misfortune 
 ' in going from you. When I had got as near the town as 
 ' the dam, and was going to cross the wooden bridge, two 
 ' fellows got hold of me, and swore bitterly they would kill 
 ' me, if I did not give them what I had. They rummaged 
 ' my pockets, and took from me my snuff-box, my seal-ring, 
 ' and half a guinea, and some silver, and halfpence ; also 
 ' my handkerchief, and two or three letters I had in my 
 ' pockets. By good fortune, the letter Mrs. Pamela gave 
 ' me was in my bosom, and so that escaped : but they 
 ' bruised my head and face, and cursing me for having no 
 ' more money, tipped me into the dam, crying. Lie there, 
 ' parson, till to-morrow ! My shins and knees were bruised 
 ' much in the fall against one of the stumps; and I had 
 ' like to have been suffocated in water and mud. To be 
 ' sure, I shan't be able to stir out this dav or two : for T am 
 
i66 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' a frightful spectacle ! My hat and wig I was forced to 
 ' leave behind me, and go home, a mile and a half, with- 
 ' out ; but they were found next morning, and brought me, 
 ' with my snuff-box, which the rogues must have dropped. 
 ' My cassock is sadly torn, as is my band. To be sure, I 
 ' was much frightened ; for a robbery in these parts has 
 ' not been known many years. Diligent search is making 
 ' after the rogues. My humble respects to good Mrs. 
 ' Pamela : if she pities my misfortunes, I shall be the 
 ' sooner well, and fit to wait on her and you. This did 
 ' not hinder me in writing a letter, though with great pain, 
 'as I do this (To he sure this good man can keep no 
 ' secret !) and sending it away by a man and horse, this 
 ' morning. I am, good Mrs. Jewkes, 
 
 ' Your most obliged humble servant. 
 
 ' God be praised it is no worse ! And I find I have got 
 ' no cold, though miserably wet from top to toe. My 
 ' fright, I believe, prevented me from catching cold; 
 ' for I was not rightly myself for some hours, and 
 ' know not how I got home. I will write a letter of 
 ' thanks this night, if I arn able, to my kind patron, 
 ' for his inestimable goodness to me. I wish I was 
 ' enabled to say all I hope, with regard to the letter part 
 ' of his bounty to me, incomparable Mrs. Pamela.' 
 
 The wicked brute fell a laughing, when she had read 
 this letter, till her fat sides shook. Said she, I can but 
 think how the poor parson looked, after parting with his 
 pretty mistress in such high spirits, when he found himself 
 at the bottom of the dam ! And what a figure he must cut 
 in his tattered band and cassock, and without a hat and 
 wig, when he got home. I warrant, added she, he was in 
 a sweet pickle ! — I said, I thought it was very barbarous to 
 laugh at such a misfortune : but she replied. As he was safe 
 she laughed ; otherwise she would have been sorry : and 
 she was glad to see me so concerned for him — It looked 
 promising, she said. 
 
 I heeded not her reflections ; but as I have been used to 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 167 
 
 causes for mistrusts^ I cannot help saying that I don't like 
 this thing : And their taking his letters most alarms me. 
 — How happy it was they missed my packet ! I knew not 
 what to think of it ! — But why should I let every accident 
 break my peace ? Yet it will do so, while I stay here. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes is mightily at me, to go with her in the 
 chariot, to visit Mr. Williams. She is so officious to bring 
 on the affair between us, that, being a cunning, artful 
 woman, I know not what to make of it : I have refused 
 her absolutely; urgipg, that except I intended to encourage 
 his suit, I ought not to do it. And she is gone without me. 
 
 I have strange temptations to get away in her absence, 
 for all these fine appearances. 'Tis sad to have nobody to 
 advise with ! — I know not what to do. But, alas for me ! 
 I have no money, if I should, to buy anybody's civilities, 
 or to pay for necessaries or lodgings. But I'll go into the 
 garden, and resolve afterwards 
 
 I have been in the garden, and to the back-door : and 
 there I stood, my heart up at my mouth. I could not see 
 I was watched ; so this looks well. But if anything should 
 go bad afterwards, I should never forgive myself, for not 
 taking this opportunity. Well, I will go down again, and 
 see if all is clear, and how it looks out at the back-door in 
 the pasture. 
 
 To be sure, there is witchcraft in this house; and I 
 believe Lucifer is bribed, as well as all about me, and is 
 got into the shape of that nasty grim bull to watch me ! — 
 For I have been down again, and ventured to open the 
 door, and went out about a bow-shot into the pasture ; but 
 there stood that horrid bull, staring mc full in the face, 
 with fiery saucer eyes, as I thought. So I got in again, 
 for fear he should come at me. Nobody saw me, however. 
 —Do you think there are such things as witches and spirits? 
 If there be, I believe, in my heart, Mrs. Jewkes has got this 
 bull of her side. But yet, what could I do without money, or 
 
1 68 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 a friend ? — Oh this wicked woman ! to trick me so ! Every- 
 thing, man, woman, and beast, is in a plot against your 
 poor Pamela, I think ! — Then I know not one step of the 
 way, nor how far to any house or cottage ; and whether 
 I could gain protection, if I got to a house: And now the 
 robbers are abroad too, I may run into as, great danger as 
 I want to escape ; nay, greater much, if these promising 
 appearances hold : And sure my master cannot be so black 
 as that they should not ! — What can I do ? — I have a good 
 mind to try for it once more ; but then I may be pursued and 
 taken ; and it will be worse for me ; and this wicked woman 
 will beat me, and take my shoes away, and lock me up. 
 
 But, after all, if my master should mean well, he can't be 
 angry at my fears, if I should escape ; and nobody can 
 blame me ; and I can more easily be induced^ with you, 
 when all my apprehensions are over, to consider his pro- 
 posal of Mr. Williams, than I could here ; and he pretends, 
 as you have read in his letter, he will leave me to my 
 choice : Why then should I be afraid ? I will go down 
 again, I think ! But yet my heart misgives me, because of 
 the difficulties before me, in escaping; and being so poor 
 and so friendless ! — O good God ! the preserver of the 
 innocent ! direct me what to do ! 
 
 Well, I have just now a sort of strange persuasion upon 
 me, that I ought to try to get away, and leave the issue to 
 Providence. So, once more — I'll see, at least, if this bull 
 be still there. 
 
 Alack-a-day ! what a fate is this ! I have not the courage 
 to go, neither can I think to stay. But I must resolve. 
 The gardener was in sight last time ; so made me come up 
 again. But I'll contrive to send him out of the way, if I 
 can : — For if I never should have such another opportunity, 
 I could not forgive myself. Once more I'll venture. God 
 direct my footsteps, and make smooth my path and my way 
 to safety ! 
 
 Well 
 
 , here I am, come back again ! frightened, like a 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 169 
 
 fool, out of all my purposes ! Oh how terrible everything 
 appears to me ! I had got twice as far again^ as I was 
 before, out of the back-door : and I looked and saw the 
 bull, as I thought, between me and the door ; and another 
 bull coming towards me the other way : Well, thought I, 
 here is double witchcraft, to be sure ! Here is the spirit 
 of my master in one bull, and Mrs. Jewkes's in the other. 
 And now I am gone, to be sure ! Oh help 1 cried I, like a 
 fool, and ran back to the door, as swift as if I flew. When 
 I had got the door in my hand, I ventured to look back, to 
 see if these supposed bulls were coming ; and I saw they 
 were only two poor cows, a grazing in distant places, that 
 my fears had made all this rout about. But as everything 
 is so frightful to me, I find I am not fit to think of my 
 escape : for I shall be as much frightened at the first strange 
 man that I meet with : and I am persuaded, that fear brings 
 one into more dangers, than the caution, that goes along 
 with it, delivers one from. 
 
 I then locked the door, and put the key in my pocket, 
 and was in a sad quandary ; but I was soon determined ; 
 for the maid Nan came in sight, and asked, if anything 
 was the matter, that I was so often up and down stairs? 
 God forgive me (but I had a sad lie at my tongue's end), 
 said I; Though Mrs. Jewkes is sometimes a little hard 
 upon me, yet I know not -where I am without her : I go up, 
 and I come down to walk about in the garden ; and, not 
 having her, know scarcely what to do with myself. Ay, 
 said the idiot, she is main good company, madam, no wonder 
 you miss her. 
 
 So here I am again, and here likely to be ; for I have no 
 courage to help myself anywhere else. Oh why are poor 
 foolish maidens tried with such dangers, when they have 
 such weak minds to grapple with them !— I will, since it is 
 so, hope the best: but yet I cannot but observe how 
 grievously everything makes against me: for here are the 
 robbers ; though I fell not into their hands myself, yet they 
 gave me as much terror, and had as great an effect upon 
 
170 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 my fears, as if I had: And here is the bull; it has as 
 effectually frightened me, as if I had been hurt by it instead 
 of the cook-maid ; and so these joined together, as I may 
 say, to make a very dastard of me. But my folly was the 
 worst of all, because that deprived me of my money : for 
 had I had that, I believe I should have ventured both the 
 bull and the robbers. 
 
 Monday afternoon. 
 
 So, Mrs. Jewkes is returned from her visit : Well, said she, 
 I would have you set your heart at rest ; for Mr. Wilhams 
 will do very well again. He is not half so bad as he fancied. 
 Oh these scholars, said she, they have not the hearts of mice ! 
 He has only a few scratches on his face ; which, said she, I 
 suppose he got by grappling among the gravel at the bottom 
 of the dam, to try to find a hole in the ground, to hide 
 himself from the robbers. His shin and his knee are hardly 
 to be seen to ail anything. He says in his letter, he was a 
 frightful spectacle : He might be so, indeed, when he first 
 came in a doors ; but he looks well enough now : and, 
 only for a few groans now and then, when he thinks of 
 his danger, I see nothing is the matter with him. So, Mrs. 
 Pamela, said she, I would have you be very easy about it. 
 I am glad of it, said I, for all your jokes, to Mrs. Jewkes. 
 
 Well, said she, he talks of nothing but you; and when 
 I told him I would fain have persuaded you to come with 
 me, the man was out of his wits with his gratitude to me : 
 and so has laid open all his heart to me, and told me all 
 that has passed, and was contriving between you two. 
 This alarmed me prodigiously ; and the rather, as I saw, by 
 two or three instances, that his honest heart could keep 
 nothing, believing every one as undesigning as himself. I 
 said, but yet with a heavy heart, Ah ! Mrs. Jewkes, Mrs. 
 Jewkes, this might have done with me, had he had any- 
 thing that he could have told you of. But you know well 
 enough, that had we been disposed, we had no opportunity 
 for it, from your watchful care and circumspection. No, 
 
FIRTUE REWARDED. 171 
 
 said she, that's very true^ Mrs. Pamela; not so much as for 
 that declaration that he owned before me, he had found 
 opportunity, for all my watchfulness, to make you. Come, 
 come, said she, no more of these shams with me ! You have 
 an excellent head-piece for your years j but maybe I am 
 as cunning as you. — However, said she, all is well now; 
 because my watchments are now over, by my master's direc- 
 tion. How have you employed yourself in my absence? 
 
 I was so troubled at what might have passed between 
 Mr. Williams and her, that I could not hide it ; and she 
 said, Well, Mrs. Pamela, since all matters are likely to be 
 so soon and so happily ended, let me advise you to be a 
 little less concerned at his discoveries : and make me your 
 confidant, as he has done, and I shall think you have some 
 favour for me, and reliance upon me; and perhaps you 
 might not repent it. 
 
 She was so earnest, that I mistrusted she did this to pump 
 me J and I knew how, now, to account for her kindness to 
 Mr. Williams in her visit to him ; which was only to get' 
 out of him what she could. Why, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, is 
 all this fishing about for something, where there is nothing, 
 if there be an end of your watchments, as you call them ? 
 Nothing, said she, but womanish curiosity, I'll assure you ; 
 for one is naturally led to find out matters, where there is 
 such privacy intended. Well, said I, pray let me know 
 what he has said ; and then I'll give you an answer to your 
 curiosity. I don't care, said she, whether you do or not ; 
 for I have as much as I wanted from him ; and I despair of 
 getting out of you anything you ha'n't a mind I should 
 know, my little cunning dear. — Well, said I, let him have 
 said what he would, I care not : for I am sure he can say 
 no harm of me ; and so let us change the talk. 
 
 I was the easier, indeed, because, for all her pumps, she 
 gave no hints of the key and the door, &c., which, had he 
 communicated to her, she would not have forborne giving 
 me a touch of. — And so we gave up one another, as de- 
 spairing to gain our ends of each other. But I am sure he 
 must have said more than he should.— And I am the more 
 
 N /A 
 
173 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 apprehensive all is not right, because she has now been 
 actually, these two hours, shut up a writing; though she 
 pretended she had given me up all her stores of papers, 
 &c., and that I should write for her. I begin to wish I had 
 ventured everything and gone off, when I might. Oh when 
 will this state of doubt and uneasiness end ! 
 
 She has just been with me, and says she shall send a 
 messenger to Bedfordshire; and he shall carry a letter of 
 thanks for me, if I will write it, for my master's favour to 
 me. Indeed, said I, I have no thanks to give, till I am 
 with my father and mother : and, besides, I sent a letter, as 
 yoii know; but have had no answer to it. She said, she 
 thought that his letter to Mr. Williams was sufficient ; and 
 the least I could do was to thank him, if but in two lines. 
 No need of it, said I ; for I don't intend to have Mr. 
 Williams : What then is that letter to me ? Well, said 
 she, I see thou art quite unfathomable ! 
 
 I don't like ^.ll this. Oh my foolish fears of bulls and 
 robbers ! — For now all my uneasiness begins to double upon 
 me. Oh what has this incautious man said ! That, no 
 doubt, is the subject of her long letter. 
 
 I will close this day's writing, with just saying, that she 
 is mighty silent and reserved, to what she was ; and says 
 nothing but No, or Yes, to what I ask. Something must 
 be hatching, I doubt ! — I the rather think so, because I find 
 she does not keep her word with me, about lying by myself, 
 and my money ; to both which points she returned suspicious 
 answers, saying, as to the one, Why, you are mighty earnest 
 for your money ; I shan't run away with it. And to the 
 other. Good-lack ! you need not be so willing, as I know 
 of, to part with me for a bedfellow, till you are sure of one 
 you like better. This cut me to the heart ; and, at the same 
 time, stopped my mouth. 
 
VIRTUE RRWJRDED. 173 
 
 Tuesday, Wednesday. 
 
 Mr Williams has been here ; but we have had no oppor- 
 tunity to talk together: He seemed confounded at Mrs. 
 Jewkes's change of temper, and reservedness, after her kind 
 visit, and their freedom With one another, and much more 
 at what I am going to tell you. He asked, If I would take 
 a turn in the garden with Mrs. Jewkes and him. No, said 
 she, I can't go. Said he. May not Mrs. Pamela take a 
 walk ? — Nq, said she ; I desire she won't. Why, Mrs. 
 Jewkes ? said he : I am afraid I have somehow disobliged 
 you. Not at all, replied she ; but I suppose you will soon 
 be at liberty to walk together as much as you please : and 
 I have sent a messenger for my last instructions, about this 
 and more weighty matters; and when they come I shall 
 leave you to do as you both will ; but, till then, it is no 
 matter how little you are together. This alarmed us both ; 
 and he seemed quite struck of a heap, and put on, as I 
 thought, a self-accusing countenance. So I went behind 
 her back, and held my two hands together, flat, with a bit 
 of paper, I had, between them, and looked at him : and he 
 seemed to take me as I intended ; intimating the renewing 
 of the correspondence by the tiles. 
 
 I left them both together, and retired to my closet to 
 write a letter for the tiles ; but having no time for a copy, 
 I will give you the substance only. 
 
 I expostulated with him on his too great openness and 
 easiness to fall into Mrs. Jewkes's snares; told him my 
 apprehensions of foul play; and gave briefly the reasons 
 which moved me : begged to know what he had said ; and 
 intimated, that I thought there was the highest reason to 
 resume our prospect of the escape by the back-door. I 
 put this in the usual place in the evening ; and now wait 
 with impatience for an answer. 
 
174 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Thursday. 
 I have the following answer : 
 
 'Dearest Madam^ — I am utterly confounded^ and must 
 ' plead guilty to all your just reproaches. I wish I were 
 ' master of all but half your caution and discretion ! I hope, 
 ' after all, this is only a touch of this ill woman's temper, 
 'to show her power and importance: For I think Mr. 
 
 'B neither can nor dare deceive me in so black a 
 
 ' manner. I would expose him all the world over if he did. 
 'But it is not, cannot be in him. I have received a letter 
 'from John Arnold, in which he tells me, that his master 
 'is preparing for his London journey; and believes, after- 
 ' wards, he will come into these parts : But he says. Lady 
 'Davers is at their house, and is to accompany her brother 
 ' to London, or meet him there, he knows not which. He 
 ' professes great zeal and affection to your service : and I 
 ' find he refers to a letter he sent me before, but which is 
 ' not come to my hand. I think there can be no treachery ; 
 ' for it is a particular friend at Gainsborough, that I have 
 'ordered him to direct to; and this is come safe to my 
 ' hands by this means ; for well I know, I durst trust 
 ' nothing to Brett, at the post-house here. This gives me 
 ' a little pain ; but I hope all will end well, and we shall 
 'soon hear, if it be necessary to pursue our former inten- 
 ' tions. If it be, I will lose no time to provide a horse for 
 ' you, and another for myself; for I can never do either 
 ' God or myself better service, though I were to forego all 
 'my expectations for it here. I am 
 
 ' Your most faithful humble servant.' 
 
 ' I was too free indeed with Mrs. Jewkes, led to it by 
 'her dissimulation, and by her pretended concern to 
 ' make me happy with you. I hinted, that I would 
 ' not have scrupled to have procured your deliverance 
 'by any means; and that I had proposed to you, as 
 'the only honourable one, marriage with me. But I 
 ' assured her, though she would hardly believe me, that 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 175 
 
 ' you discouraged my application : which is too true ! 
 ' But not a word of the back-door key^ &c.' 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes continues still sullen and ill-natured, and I 
 am almost afraid to speak to her. She watches me as close 
 as ever, and pretends to wonder why I shun her company 
 as I do. 
 
 I have just put under the tiles these lines inspired by my 
 fears, which are indeed very strong; and, I doubt, not 
 without reason. 
 
 ' Sir, — Everything gives me additional disturbance. The 
 'missed letter of John Arnold's makes me suspect a plot. 
 'Yet am I loath to think myself of so much importance, as 
 'to suppose every one in a plot against me. Are you sure, 
 'however, the London journey is not to be a Lincolnshire 
 ' one ? May not John, who has been once a traitor, be so 
 'again? — Why need I be thus in doubt? — If I could have 
 'this horse, I would turn the reins on his neck, and trust 
 ' to Providence to guide him for my safeguard ! For I 
 ' would not endanger you, now just upon the edge of your 
 ' preferment. Yet, sir, I fear your fatal openness will make 
 ' you suspected as accessory, let us be ever so cautious. 
 
 ^Were my life in question, instead of my honesty, I 
 'would not wish to involve you, or anybody, in the least 
 'difficulty, for so worthless a poor creature. But oh, sir ! 
 ' my soul is of equal importance with the soul of a princess ; 
 'though my quality is inferior to that of the meanest 
 ' slave. 
 
 'Save then my innocence, good Heaven! and preserve 
 'my mind spotless; and happy shall I be to lay down my 
 'worthless life; and see an end to all ray troubles and 
 ' anxieties ! 
 
 ' Forgive my impatience : But my presaging mind bodes 
 ' horrid mischiefs ! Everything looks dark around me ; 
 ' and this woman's impenetrable sullenness and silence, 
 ' without any apparent reason, from a conduct so very con- 
 ' trarij, bid me fear the worst.— Blame me, sir, if you think 
 
176 PAMELA: OR, 
 
 ' me wrong ; and let me have your advice what to do ; 
 ' which will oblige 
 
 ' Your most afflicted servant.' 
 
 Fi iday. 
 I HAVE this half angry answer ; but, what is more to me 
 than all the letters in the world could be, yours, my dear 
 father, enclosed. 
 
 ' Madam, — I think you are too apprehensive by much ; 
 ' I am sorry for your uneasiness. You may depend upon 
 ' me, and ail I can do. But I make no doubt of the London 
 journey, nor of John's contrition and fidelity. I have just 
 received, from my Gainsborough friend, this letter, as I 
 suppose, from your good father, in a cover, directed for me, 
 as I had desired. I hope it contains nothing to add to 
 your uneasiness. Pray, dearest madam, lay aside your 
 fears, and wait a few days for the issue of Mrs. Jewkes's 
 
 letter, and mine of thanks to Mr. B . Things, I hope, 
 
 must be better than you expect. Providence will not 
 desert such piety and innocence : and be this -your com- 
 fort and reliance : Which is the best advice that can at 
 present be given, by 
 
 ' Your most faithful humble servant.' 
 
 J'/.B. — The father's letter was as follows : 
 
 ' My dearest Daughter, — Our prayers are at length 
 ' heard, and we are overwhelmed with joy. Oh what sufFer- 
 ' ings, what trials, hast thou gone through ! Blessed be the 
 ' Divine goodness, which has enabled thee to withstand so 
 ' many temptations ! We have not yet had leisure to read 
 ' through your long accounts of all your hardships. I say 
 ' long, because I wonder how you could find time and 
 ' opportunity for them ; but otherwise they are the delight 
 ' of our spare hours ; and we shall read them over and over 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 177 
 
 as long as we live, with thankfulness to God, who has 
 given us so virtuous and so discreet a -daughter. How 
 happy is our lot in the midst of our poverty ! Oh let none 
 ever think children a burden to them ; when the poorest 
 circumstances can produce so much riches in a Pamela ! 
 Persist, my dear daughter, in the same excellent course ; 
 and we shall not envy the highest estate, but defy them to 
 produce such a daughter as ours. 
 
 ' I said, we had not read through all yours in course. 
 
 We were too impatient, and so turned to the end ; where 
 
 we find your virtue within view of its reward, and your 
 
 master's heart turned to see the folly of his ways, and the 
 
 injury he had intended to our dear child : For, to be sure, 
 
 my dear, he would have ruined you, if he could. But seeing 
 
 your virtue, his heart is touched ; and he has, no doubt, 
 
 been awakened by your good example. 
 
 ' We don't see that you can do any way so well, as to 
 
 come into the present proposal, and make Mr. Williams, 
 
 the worthy Mr. Williams ! God bless him ! — happy. And 
 
 ' though we are poor, and can add no merit, no reputation, 
 
 ' no fortune, to our dear child, but rather must be a disgrace 
 
 ' to her, as the world will think ; yet I hope I do not sin in 
 
 ' my pride, to say, that there is no good man, of a common 
 
 ' degree (especially as your late lady's kindness gave you 
 
 ' such good opportunities, which you have had the grace to 
 
 ' improve), but may think himself happy in you. But, as 
 
 ' you say, you had rather not marry at present, far be it 
 
 ' from us to offer violence to your inclination ! So much 
 
 ' prudence as you have shown in all your conduct, would 
 
 ' make it very wrong in us to mistrust it in this, or to offer 
 
 ' to direct you in your choice. But, alas ! my child, what 
 
 ' can we do for you ? — To partake our hard lot, and involve 
 
 ' yourself into as hard a life, would not help us, but add to 
 
 ■ your afflictions. But it will be time enough to talk of these 
 
 ' things, when we have the pleasure you now put us in hope 
 
 ' of, of seeing you with us; which God grant. Amen, amen, 
 
 ' say 
 
 ' Your most indulgent parents. Amen ! 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 M 
 
178 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 • ' Our humblest service and thanks to the worthy Mr. 
 ' Williams. . Again, we say, God bless him for ever 1 
 ' Oh what a deal we have to say to you ! God give us a 
 ' happy meeting ! We understand the 'squire is setting 
 ' out for London. He is a fine gentleman, and has wit 
 ' at will. I wish he was as good. But I hope he will 
 ' now reform.' 
 
 Oh what inexpressible comfort, my dear father, has your 
 letter given me! — You ask, What can you do for me? — 
 What is it you cannot do for your child ! — You can give her 
 the advice she has so much wanted, and still wants, and will 
 always want : You can confirm her in the paths of virtue, 
 into which you first initiated her ; and you can pray for her, 
 with hearts so sincere and pure, that are not to be met with 
 in palaces ! — Oh ! how I long to throw myself at your feet, 
 and receive from your own lips the blessings of such good 
 parents ! But, alas ! how are my prospects again over- 
 clouded, to what they were when I closed my last parcel ! — 
 More trials, more dangers, I fear, must your poor Pamela 
 be engaged in : But through the Divine goodness, and your 
 prayers, I hope, at last, to get well out of all my difficulties; 
 and the rather, as they are not the effect of my own vanity 
 or presumption ! 
 
 But I will . proceed with my hopeless story. I saw Mr. 
 Williams was a little nettled at my impatience ; and so I 
 wrote to assure him I would be as easy as I could, and 
 wholly directed by him ; especially as my father, whose 
 respects I mentioned, had assured me my master was setting 
 out for London, which he must have somehow from his 
 own family : or he would not have written me word of it. 
 
FIRTUE REWARDED. 379 
 
 Saturday, Sunday^ 
 
 Mr. Williams has been here both these days, as usual ; 
 but is very indifferently received still by Mrs. Jewkes ; and, 
 to avoid suspicion, I left them together, and went up to my 
 closet, most of the time he was here. He and she, I found 
 by her, had a quarrel ; and she seems quite out of humour 
 with him ; but I thought it best not to say anything : and 
 he said, he would very little trouble the house, till he had 
 
 an answer to his letter from Mr. B . And she returned. 
 
 The less, the better. Poor man ! he has got but little by his 
 openness, making Mrs. Jewkes his confidant, as she bragged, 
 and would have had me to do likewise. 
 
 I am more and more satisfied there is mischief brewing; 
 and shall begin to hide my papers, and be circumspect. 
 She seems mighty impatient for an answer to her letter to 
 my master. 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, the 25th and 26th days 
 of my heavy restraint. 
 
 Still more and more strange things to write! A messenger 
 is returned^ and no wall is out ! Oh wretched, wretched 
 Pamela ! What, at last, will become of me ! — Such strange 
 turns and trials sure never poor creature, of my years, expe- 
 rienced. He brought two letters, one to Mrs. Jewkes, and 
 one to me : but, as the greatest wits may be sometimes mis- 
 taken, they being folded and sealed alike, that for me was 
 directed to Mrs. Jewkes ; and that for her was directed to 
 me. But loth are stark naught, abominably bad! She 
 brought me up that directed for me, and said. Here's a 
 letter for you : Long looked for is come at last. I will ask 
 the messenger a few questions, and then I will read mine. 
 So she went down, and I broke it ofien in my closet, and 
 found it directed To Mrs. Pamela Andrews. But when 
 I opened it, it began, Mrs. Jewkes. I was quite con- 
 founded; but, thought I, this may be a lucky mistake; I 
 
i8o PAMELA; OR, 
 
 may discover something: And so I read on these horrid 
 contents : 
 
 ' Mrs. Jewkes, — What you write me has given me no 
 small disturbance. This wretched fool's plaything, no 
 doubt, is ready to leap at anything that offers, rather than 
 express the least sense of gratitude for all the benefits she 
 has received from my family, and which I was determined 
 more and more to heap upon her. I reserve her for my 
 future resentment; and I charge you double your dili- 
 gence in watching her, to prevent her escape. I send 
 this by an honest Swiss, who attended me in my travels ; 
 a man I can trust; and so let him be your assistant: for 
 the artful creature is enough to corrupt a nation by her 
 seeming innocence and simplicity ; and she may have got 
 a party, perhaps, among my servants with you, as she 
 has here. Even John Arnold, whom I confided in, and 
 favoured more than any, has proved an execrable villain; 
 and shall meet his reward fpr^t-:' 
 
 ' As to that college novice, Williams, I need not bid you 
 take care he sees not this painted bauble: for I have 
 ordered Mr; Shorter, my attorney, to throw him instantly 
 into gaol, on an action of debt, for money he has had of 
 me, which I had intended never to carry to account 
 against him ; for I know all his rascally practices, besides 
 what you write me of his perfidious intrigue with that 
 girl, and his acknowledged contrivances for her escape ; 
 when he knew not, for certain, that I designed her any 
 mischief; and when, if he had been guided by a sense of 
 piety, or compassion for injured innocence, as he pre- 
 tends, he would have expostulated with me, as his func- 
 tion, and my friendship for him, might have allowed him. 
 But to enter into a vile intrigue with the amiable gewgaw, 
 to favour her escape in so base a manner (to say nothing of 
 his disgraceful practices against me, in Sir Simon Darnford's 
 family, of which Sir Simon himself has informed me), is a 
 conduct that, instead of preferring the ungrateful wretch, 
 as I had intended, shall pull down upon him utter ruin. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 ISI 
 
 ' Monsieur Colbrand^ my trusty Swiss^ will obey you 
 ' without reserve, if my other servants refuse. 
 
 ' As for her denying that she encouraged his declaration, 
 ' I believe it not. It is certain the speaking picture, with 
 ' all that pretended innocence and bashfulness, would have 
 ' run away with him. Yes, she would run away with a 
 ' fellow that she had been acquainted with (and that not 
 ' intimately, if you were as careful as' you ought to be) but 
 ' a few days ; at a time when she had the strongest assur- 
 ' ances of my honour to her. 
 
 ' Well, I think, I now hate her perfectly; and though I 
 ' will do nothing to her myself, yet I can bear, for the sake 
 ' of my revenge, and my injured honour and slighted love, 
 ' to see anything, even what she most fears, be done to her ; 
 ' and then she may be turned loose to her evil destiny, and 
 ' echo to the woods and groves her piteous lamentations for 
 ' the loss of her fantastical innocence, which the romantic 
 ' idiot makes such a work about. I shall go to London, 
 ' with my sister Davers ; and the moment I can disengage 
 ' myself, which, perhaps, may be in three weeks from this 
 ' time, I will be with you, and decide her fate, and put an 
 ' end to your trouble. Meantime be doubly careful ; for 
 ' this innocent, as I have warhed you, is full of con- 
 ' trivances. I am 
 
 ' Your friend.' 
 
 I had but just read this dreadful letter through, when 
 Mrs Jewkes came up in a great fright, guessing at the mis- 
 take, and that I had her letter; and she found me with it 
 open in my hand, just sinking away. What business, said 
 she, had you to read my letter ? and snatched it from me. 
 You see, said she, looking upon it, it says Mrs. Jewkes, at 
 top : You ought, in manners, to have read no further. Oh 
 add not, said I, to my afflictions ! I shall be soon out of all 
 your ways! This is too much! too much! I never can 
 support this— and threw myself upon the couch, in my 
 closet, and wept most bitterly. She read it in the next 
 
i82 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 room, and came in again afterwards. Why, this, said she, 
 is a sad letter indeed : I am sorry for it : But I feared you 
 would carry your niceties too far ! — Leave me, leave me, 
 Mrs. Jewkes, said I, for a while : I cannot speak nor talk. — 
 Poor heart ! said she ; Well, I'll come up again presently, 
 and hope to find you better. But here, take your own 
 letter ; I wish you well ; but this is a sad mistake ! And so 
 she put down by me that which was intended for me: But 
 I have no spirit to read it at present. Oh man ! man ! hard- 
 hearted, cruel man ! what mischiefs art thou not capable of, 
 unrelenting persecutor as thou art ! 
 
 I sat ruminating, when I had a little come to myself, 
 upon the terms of this wicked letter ; and had no inclina- 
 tion to look into my own. The bad names, _/ooZ'5 plaything, 
 artful creature, painted liauble, gewgaw, speaking picture, are 
 hard words for your poor Pamela ! and I began to think 
 whether I was not indeed a very naughty body, and had not 
 done vile things : But when I thought of his having dis- 
 covered poor John, and of Sir Simon's base officiousness, in 
 telling him of Mr. Williams, with what he had resolved 
 against him in revenge for his goodness to me, I was quite 
 dispirited ; and yet still more about that fearful Colbrand, 
 and what he could see done to me ; for then I was ready to 
 gasp for breath, and my heart quite failed me. Then how 
 dreadful are the words, that he will decide my fate in three 
 weeks ! Gracious Heaven, said I, strike me dead, before that 
 time, with a thunderbolt, or provide some way for my escap- 
 ing these threatened mischiefs ! God forgive me, if I sinned ! 
 
 At last, I took up the letter directed for Mrs. Jewkes, but 
 designed for me ; and I find that little better than the other. 
 These are the hard terms it contains : 
 
 ' Well have you done, perverse, forward, artful, yet foolish 
 ' Pamela, to convince me, before it was too late, how ill I 
 ' had done to place my affections on so unworthy an object : 
 ' I had vowed honour and love to your unworthiness, believ- 
 ' ing you a mirror of bashful modesty and unspotted inno- 
 ' cence; and that no perfidious designs lurked in so fair a 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 183 
 
 ' bosom. But now I have found you outj you specious 
 ' hypocrite ! and I see, that though you could not repose the 
 ' least confidence in one you had known for years, and who, 
 ' under my good mother's misplaced favour for you, had 
 ' grown up in a manner with you ; when my passion, in 
 ' spite of my pride, and the difference of our condition, made 
 ' me stoop to a meanness that now I despise myself for; yet 
 ' you could enter into an intrigue with a man you never 
 ' knew till within these few days past, and resolve to run 
 ' away with a stranger, whom your fair face, and insinuating 
 ' arts, had bewitched to break through all the ties of honour 
 ' and gratitude to me, even at a time when the happiness of 
 ' his future life depended upon my favour. 
 
 ' Henceforth, for Pamela's sake, whenever I see a lovely 
 ' face, will I mistrust a deceitful heart : and whenever I 
 ' hear of the greatest pretences to innocence, will I suspect 
 ' some deep-laid mischief. You were determined to place no 
 ' confidence in me, though I have solemnly, over and over, 
 ' engaged my honour to you. What, though I had alarmed 
 ' your fears in sending you one way, when you hoped to go 
 ' another ; yet, had I not, to convince you of my resolution 
 ' to do justly by you (although with great reluctance, such 
 ' then was my love for you), engaged not to come near you 
 ' without your own consent ? Was not this a voluntary 
 ' demonstration of the generosity of my intention to you ? 
 ' Yet how have you requited me ? The very first fellow that 
 ' your charming face, and insinuating address, could influ- 
 ' ence, you have practised upon, corrupted too, I may say 
 ' (and even ruined, as the ungrateful wretch shall find), and 
 ' thrown your forward self upon him. As, therefore, you 
 ' would place no confidence in me, my honour owes you 
 ' nothing ; and, in a little time, you shall find how much you 
 ' have erred, in treating, as you have done, a man who was 
 
 ' once 
 
 ' Your affectionate and kind friend. 
 
 ' Mrs. Jewkes has directions concerning you : and if your 
 ' lot is now harder than you might wish, you will bear 
 
i84 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' it the easier, because your own rash folly has brought 
 ' it upon you.' 
 
 Alas ! for me, what a fate is mine, to be thus thought art- 
 ful, and forward, and ungrateful ; when all I intended was to 
 preserve my innocence ; and when all the poor little shifts, 
 which his superior wicked wit and cunning have rendered 
 ineffectual, were forced upon me in my own necessary 
 defence ! 
 
 When Mrs. Jewkes came up to me again, she found me 
 bathed in tears. She seemed, as I thought^ to be moved to 
 some compassion ; and finding myself now entirely in her 
 power, and that it is not for me to provoke her, I said. It is 
 now, I see, in vain for me to contend against my evil destiny, 
 and the superior arts of my barbarous master. I will resign 
 myself to the Divine will, and prepare to expect the worst. 
 But you see how this poor Mr. Williams is drawn in and 
 undone : I am sorry I am made the cause of his ruin. Poor, 
 poor man ! — to be thus involved, and for my sake too ! — 
 But if you'll believe me, said I, I gave no encouragement to 
 what he proposed, as to marriage ; nor would he have pro- 
 posed it, I believe, but as the only honourable way he 
 thought was left to save me : And his principal motive to 
 it at all, was virtue and compassion to one in distress. 
 What other view could he have ? You know I am poor and 
 friendless. All I beg of you is, to let the poor gentleman 
 have notice of my master's resentment ; and let him fly the 
 country, and not be thrown into gaol. This will answer 
 my master's end as well ; for it will as effectually hinder him 
 from assisting me, as if he was in a prison. 
 
 Ask me, said she, to do anything that is in my power, 
 consistent with my duty and trust, and I will do it : for I 
 am sorry for you both. But, to be sure, I shall keep no 
 correspondence with him, nor let you. I offered to talk of 
 a duty superior to that she mentioned, which would oblige 
 her to help distressed innocence, and not permit her to go 
 the lengths enjoined by lawless tyranny; but she plainly 
 
VIRTUE REWJRBED. 185 
 
 bid me be silent on that head ; for it was in vain to attempt 
 to persuade her to betray her trust :— All I have to advise 
 youj said she, is to be easy ; lay aside all your contrivances 
 and arts to get away, and make me your friend, by giving 
 me no reason to suspect you ; for I glory in my fidelity to 
 my master : And you have both practised some strange sly 
 arts, to make such a progress as he has owned there was 
 between you, so seldom as I thought you saw one another ; 
 and I must be more circumspect than I have been. 
 
 This doubled my concern ; for I now apprehended I 
 should be much closer watched than before. 
 
 Well, said I, since I have, by this strange accident, dis- 
 covered my hard destiny ; let me read over again that fearful 
 letter of yours, that I may get it by heart, and with it feed 
 my distress, and make calamity familiar to me. Then, said 
 she, let me read yours again. I gave her mine, and she lent 
 me hers ; and so I took a copy of it, with her leave ; because, 
 as I said I would, by it, prepare myself for the worst. 
 And when I had done, I pinned it on the head of the couch : 
 This, said I, is the use I shall make of this wretched copy 
 of your letter ; and here you shall always find it wet with 
 my tears. 
 
 She said she would go down to order supper; and insisted 
 upon my company to it. I would have excused myself; 
 but she began to put on a commanding air, that I durst not 
 oppose. And when I went down, she took me by the hand, 
 and presented me to the most hideous monster I ever saw 
 in my life. Here, Monsieur Colbrand, said she, here is your 
 pretty ward and mine ; let us try to make her time with us 
 easy. He bowed, and put on his foreign grimaces, and 
 seemed to bless himself; and, in broken English, told me, I 
 was happy in de affections of de finest gentleman in de 
 varld! — I was quite frightened, and ready to drop down; 
 and I will describe him to you, my dear father and mother, 
 if now you will ever see this : and you shall judge if I had 
 not reason, especially not knowing he was to be there, and 
 being apprised, as I was, of his hated employment, to watch 
 me closer. 
 
]85 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 He is a giant of a man for stature ; taller by a good deal 
 than Harry Mowlidge, in your neighbourhood, and large 
 boned, and scraggy ; and has a hand ! — I never saw such an 
 one in my life. He has great staring eyes, like the bull's 
 that frightened me so; vast jaw-bones sticking out: eye- 
 brows hanging over his eyes; two great scars'upon his fore- 
 head, and one on his left cheek; and two large whiskers^ 
 and a monstrous wide mouth; blubber lips; long yellow 
 teeth, and a hideous grin. He wears his own frightful long 
 hair, tied up in a great black bag ; a black crape neckcloth 
 about a long ugly neck ; and his throat sticking out like a 
 wen. As to the rest, he was dressed well enough, and had 
 a sword on, with a nasty red knot to it ; leather garters, 
 buckled below his knees; and a foot — near as long as my 
 arm, I verily think. 
 
 He said, he fright de lady ; and offered to withdraw ; but 
 she bid him not ; and I told Mrs. Jewkes^ That as she knew 
 I had been crying, she should not have called me to the 
 gentleman without letting me know he was there. I soon 
 went up to my closet; for my heart ached all the time I 
 was at table, not being able to look upon him without 
 horror; and this brute of a woman, though she saw my 
 distress, before this addition to it, no doubt did it on purpose 
 to strike more terror into me. And indeed it had its effect ; 
 for when I went to bed, I could think of nothing but his 
 hideous person, and my master's more hideous actions : and 
 thought them too well paired ; and when I dropt asleep, I 
 dreamed they were both coming to my bedside, with the 
 worst designs ; and I jumped out of my bed in my sleep, and 
 frightened Mrs. Jewkes ; till, waking with the terror, I told 
 her my dream; and the wicked creature only laughed, and 
 said. All I feared was but a dream, as well as that; and 
 when it was over, and I was well awake, I should laugh at 
 it as such ! 
 
 i 
 
 f 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 187 
 
 And now I am come to the close of Wednesday, the 27tli day of 
 my distress. 
 
 Poor Mr. Williams is actually arrested, and carried away 
 to Stamford. So there is an end of all my hopes from 
 him, poor gentleman ! His over-security and openness have 
 ruined us both ! I was but too well convinced, that we 
 ought not to have lost a moment's time ; but he was half 
 angry, and thought me too impatient; and then his fatal 
 confessions, and the detestable artifice of my master! — But 
 one might well think, that he who had so cunningly, and 
 so wickedly, contrived all his stratagems hitherto, that it 
 was impossible to avoid them, would stick at nothing to 
 complete them. I fear I shall soon find it so ! 
 
 But one stratagem I have just invented, though a very 
 discouraging one to think of; because I have neither friends 
 nor money, nor know one step of the way, if I was out of 
 the house. But let bulls, and bears, and lions, and tigers, 
 and, what is worse, false, treacherous, deceitful men, stand 
 in my way, I cannot be in more danger than I am ; and I 
 depend nothing upon his three weeks : for how do I know, 
 now he is in such a passion, and has already begun his 
 vengeance on poor Mr. Williams, that he will not change 
 his mind, and come down to Lincolnshire before he goes to 
 London ? 
 
 My stratagem is this : I will endeavour to get Mrs. 
 Jewkes to go to bed without me, as she often does, while I 
 sit locked up in my closet; and as she sleeps very sound 
 in her first sleep, of which she never fails to give notice by 
 snoring, if I can but then get out between the two bars of 
 the window (for you know I am very slender, and I find I 
 can get my head through), then I can drop upon the leads 
 underneath, which are little more than my height, and 
 which leads are over a little summer-parlour, that juts out 
 towards the garden ; and as I am light, I can easily drop 
 from them ; for they are not high from the ground : then I 
 shall be in the garden ; and then, as I have the key of the 
 back-door, I will get out. But I have another piece of 
 
1 88 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 cunning still : Good Heaven, succeed to me my dangerous, 
 but innocent devices ! — I have read of a great captain, who, 
 being in danger, leaped over-board into the sea, and his 
 enemies, as he swam, shooting at him writh bows and arrows, 
 he unloosed his upper garment, and took another course, 
 while they stuck that full of their darts and arrows ; and so 
 he escaped, and lived to triumph over them all. So what 
 will I do, but strip off my upper petticoat, and throw it into 
 the pond, with my neckhandkerchief ! For to be sure, when 
 they miss me, they will go to the pond first, thinking I have 
 drowned myself: and so, when they see some of my clothes 
 floating there, they will be all employed in dragging the 
 pond, which is a very large one ; and as I shall not, perhaps, 
 be missed till the morning, this will give me opportunity to 
 get a great way off; and I am sure I will run for it when I 
 am out. And so I trust, that Providence will direct my 
 steps to some good place of safety, and make some worthy 
 body my friend ; for sure, if I suffer ever so, I cannot be in 
 more danger, nor in worse hands, than where I am ; and 
 with such avowed bad designs. 
 
 Oh my dear parents ! don't be frightened when you come 
 to read this! — But all will be over before you can see it; 
 and so God direct me for the best ! My writings, for fear I 
 should not escape, I will bury in the garden; for, to be 
 sure, I shall be searched and used dreadfully, if I can't get 
 off. And so I will close here, for the present, to prepare 
 for my plot. Prosper thou, O gracious Protector of op- 
 pressed innocence 1 this last effort of thy poor handmaid ! 
 that I may escape the crafty devices and snares that have 
 begun to entangle my virtue ; and from which, but by this 
 one trial, I see no way of escaping. And oh ! whatever 
 becomes of me, bless my dear parents, and protect poor 
 Mr. Williams from ruin! for he, was happy before he 
 knew me. 
 
 Just now, just now ! I heard Mrs. Jewkes, who is in he?*l 
 cups, own to the horrid Colbrand, that the robbing of 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 189 
 
 poor Mr. Williams was a contrivance of herSj and executed 
 by the groom and a helper^ in order to seize my letters upon 
 him, which they missed. They are now both laughing at 
 the dismal story^ which they little think I overheard. — Oh 
 how my heart aches ! for what are not such wretches cap- 
 able of! Can you blame me for endeavouring, through any 
 danger, to get out of such clutches ? 
 
 Past eleven o'clock. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes is come up, and gone to bed ; and bids me 
 not stay long in my closet, but come to bed. Oh for a dead 
 sleep for the treacherous brute ! I never saw her so tipsy, 
 and that gives me hopes. I have tried again, and find I can 
 get my head through the iron bars. I am now all prepared, 
 as soon as I hear her fast ; and now I'll seal up these, and 
 my other papers, my last work : and to thy providence, O 
 my gracious God ! commit the rest. — Once more, God bless 
 you both ! and send us a happy meeting ; if not here, in 
 His heavenly kingdom. Amen. 
 
 Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, the 28th, 29th, 30ih, and 
 31st days of my distress. 
 
 And distress indeed ! For here I am still ; and everything 
 has been worse and worse ! Oh ! the poor unhappy Pamela ! 
 ^-Without any hope left, and ruined in all my contrivances. 
 But, oh ! my dear parents, rejoice with me, even in this low 
 plunge of my distress ; for your poor Pamela has escaped 
 from an enemy worse than any she ever met with ; an enemy 
 she never thought of before, and was hardly able to stand 
 •against: I mean, the weakness and presumption, both in 
 one, of her own mindj which had well nigh, had not the 
 divine grace interposed, sunk her into the lowest, last abyss 
 of misery and perdition ! 
 
 I will proceed, as I have opportunity, with my sad 
 
I90 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 relation : for my pen and ink (in my now doubly-secured 
 closet) are all I have to employ myself with : and indeed I 
 have been so weak, that, till yesterday evening, I have not 
 been able to hold a pen. 
 
 I took with me but one shift, besides what I had on, and 
 two handkerchiefs, and two caps, which my pocket held (for 
 it was not for me to encumber myself), and all my stock of 
 money, which was but five or six shillings, to set out for I 
 knew not where ; and got out of the window, not without 
 some difficulty, sticking a little at my shoulders and hips ; 
 but I was resolved to get out, if possible. And it was 
 farther from the leads than I thought, and I was afraid I 
 had sprained my ankle; and when I had dropt from the 
 leads to the ground, it was still farther off; but I did pretty 
 well there, at least. I got no hurt to hinder me from pur- 
 suing my intentions. So being now on the ground, I hid 
 my papers under a rose-bush, and covered them with mould, 
 and there they still lie, as I hope. Then I hied away to the 
 pond : The clock struck twelve, just as I got out ; and it was 
 a dark misty night, and very cold j but I felt it not then. 
 
 When I came to the pond side, I flung in my upper coat, 
 as I had designed, and my neckhandkerchief, and a round- 
 eared cap, with a knot ; and then with great speed ran to 
 the door, and took the key out of my pocket, my poor heart 
 beating all the time against my bosom, as if it would have 
 forced its way through it : and beat it well might ! for I 
 then, too late, found, that I was most miserably disappointed ; 
 for the wicked woman had taken off that lock, and put 
 another on; so that my key would not open it. I tried, 
 and tried, and feeling about, I found a padlock besides, on 
 another part of the door. Oh then how my heart sunk! 
 — I dropt down with grief and confusion, unable td stir or 
 support myself, for a while. But my fears awakening my 
 resolution, and knowing that my attempt would be as 
 terrible for me as any other danger I could then encounter 
 I clambered up upon the ledges of the door, and upon the 
 lock, which was a great wooden one ; and reached the top 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 191 
 
 of the door with my hands ; then^ little thinking I could 
 climb so well, I made shift to lay hold on the top of the wall 
 with my hands ; but, alas for me ! nothing but ill luck ! — 
 no escape for poor Pamela ! The wall being old, the bricks 
 I held by gave way, just as I was taking a spring to get up ; 
 and down came I, and received such a blow upon my head, 
 with one of the bricks, that it quite stunned me ; and I 
 broke my shins and my ankle besides, and beat off the heel 
 of one of my shoes. 
 
 In this dreadful way, flat upon the ground, lay poor I, 
 for I believe five or six minutes ; and then trying to get up, 
 I sunk down again two or three times ; and my left hip and 
 shoulder were very stiff, and full of pain, with bruises ; and, 
 besides, my head bled, and ached grievously with the blow I 
 had with the brick. Yet these hurts I valued not; but 
 crept a good way upon my feet and hands, in search of a 
 ladder, I just recollected to have seen against the wall two 
 days before, on which the gardener was nailing a nectarine 
 branch that was loosened from the wall : but no ladder 
 could I find, and the wall was very high. What now, 
 thought I, must become of the miserable Pamela! — Then I 
 began to wish myself most heartily again in my closet, and 
 to repent of my attempt, which I now censured as rash, 
 because it did not succeed. 
 
 God forgive me! but a sad thought came just then into 
 my head ! — I tremble to think of it ! Indeed my appre- 
 hensions of the usage I should meet with, had like to have 
 made me miserable for ever ! Oh my dear, dear parents, for- 
 give your poor child ; but being then quite desperate, I 
 crept along, till I could raise myself on my staggering feet j 
 and away limped I ! — What to do, but to throw myself into 
 the pond, and so put a period to all my griefs in this world ! 
 — But, oh ! to find them infinitely aggravated (had I not, by 
 the Divine grace, been withheld) in a miserable eternity ! 
 As I have escaped this temptation (blessed be God for it !) 
 I will tell you my conflicts on this dreadful occasion, that 
 the Divine mercies^may be magnified in my deliverance, that 
 
igz PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I am yet on this side the dreadful gulfj from which there 
 could have been no return. 
 
 It was well for me, as I have since thought, that I was 
 so maimed, as made me the longer before I got to the 
 water ; for this gave me time to consider, and abated the 
 impetuousness of my passions, which possibly might other- 
 wise have hurried me, in my first transport of grief (on my 
 seeing no way to escape, and the hard usage I had reason to 
 ■ expect from my dreadful keepers), to throw myself in. But 
 my weakness of body made me move so slowly, that it gave 
 time, as I said, for a little reflection, a ray of grace, to dart 
 in upon my benighted mind ; and so, when I came to the 
 pond-side, I sat myself down on the sloping bank, and began 
 to ponder my wretched condition; and thus I reasoned 
 with myself. 
 
 Pause here a little, Pamela, on what thou art about, 
 before thou takest the dreadful leap ; and consider whether 
 there be no way yet left, no hope, if not to escape from this 
 wicked house, yet from the mischiefs threatened thee in it. 
 
 I then considered ; and, after I had cast about in my 
 mind everything that could make me hope, and saw no 
 probability ; a wicked woman, devoid of all compassion ! a 
 horrid helper, just arrived, in this dreadful Colbrand ! an 
 angry and resenting master, who now hated me, and 
 threatened the most afflicting evils ! and that I should,- in all 
 probability, be deprived even of the opportunity I now had 
 before me, to free myself from all their persecutions' — 
 What hast thou to do, distressed creature, said I to myself, 
 but throw thyself upon a merciful God (who knows how 
 innocently I suffer), to avoid the merciless wickedness of 
 those who are determined on my ruin ? 
 
 And then, thought I (and oh ! that thought was surely 
 of the devil's instigation; for it was very soothing, and 
 powerful with me), these wicked wretches, who now have 
 no remorse, no pity on me, will then be moved to lament 
 their misdoings ; and when they see the dead corpse of the 
 unhappy Pamela dragged out to these dewy banks, and lying 
 ' breathless at their feet, they will find that remorse to soften 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 193 
 
 their obdurate hearty whichj noWj has no place there ! — And 
 my master^ my angry master^ will then forget his resent- 
 ments^ and say, Oh, this is the unhappy Pamela ! that I have 
 so causelessly persecuted and destroyed ! Now do I see she 
 preferred her honesty to her life, will he say, and is no hypo- 
 crite^ nor deceiver ; but really was the innocent creature 
 she pretended to be ! Then, thought I, will he, perhaps, 
 shed a few tears over the poor corpse of his persecuted 
 servant; and though he may give out, it was love and 
 disappointment ; and that, perhaps (in order to hide his 
 own guilt), for the unfortunate Mr, Williams, yet will he be 
 inwardly grieved^ and order me a decent funeral, and save me, 
 or rather this part of me, from the dreadful stake, and the 
 highway interment; and the young men and maidens all 
 around my dear father's will pity poor Pamela ! But, oh ! I 
 hope I shall not be the subject of their ballads and elegies ; 
 but that my memory, for the sake of my dear father and 
 mother, may quickly slide into oblivion. 
 
 I was once rising, so indulgent was I to this sad way of 
 thinking, to throw myself in : but, again, my bruises made 
 me slow ; and I thought. What art thou about to do, 
 wretched Pamela? How knowest thou, though the pro- 
 spect be all dark to thy short-sighted eye, what God may 
 do for thee, even when all human means fail ? God Al- 
 mighty would not lay me under these sore afflictions, if He 
 had not given me strength to grapple with them, if I will 
 exert it as I ought : And who knows, but that the very 
 presence I so much dread of my angry and designing 
 master (for he has had me in his power before, and yet I 
 have escaped), may be better for me, than these persecuting 
 emissaries of his, who, for his money, are true to their 
 wicked trust, and are hardened by that, and a long habit 
 of wickedness, against compunction of heart ? God can 
 touch his heart in an instant ; and if this should not be 
 done, I can then but put an end to my life by some other 
 means, if I am so resolved. 
 X Strang do I know, thought I, that even these bruises 
 /much- iithat I have gotten, while I pursued only the 
 / \ 
 
194 PAMELJ; OR, 
 
 laudable escape I had meditated, may not kindly have 
 furnished me with the opportunity I am now tempted 
 with to precipitate myself, and of surrendering up my life, 
 spotless and unguilty, to that merciful Being who gave it ! 
 
 Then, thought I, who gave thee, presumptuous as thou 
 art, a power over thy life ? Who authorised thee to put an 
 end to it, when the weakness of thy mind suggests not to 
 thee a way to preserve it with honour ? How knowest thou 
 what purposes God may have to serve, by the trials with 
 which thou art now exercised ? Art thou to put a bound 
 to the divine will, and to say. Thus much will I bear, and 
 no more? And wilt thou dare to say. That if the trial 
 be augmented and continued, thou wilt sooner die than 
 bear it ? 
 
 This act of despondency, thought I, is a sin, that, if I 
 pursue it, admits of no repentance, and can therefore hope 
 no forgiveness. — And wilt thou, to shorten thy transitory 
 griefs, heavy as they are, and weak as thou fanciest thyself, 
 plunge both body and soul into everlasting misery ! 
 Hitherto, Pamela, thought I, thou art the innocent, the 
 suffering Pamela ; and wilt thou, to avoid thy sufferings, 
 be the guilty aggressor ? And, because wicked men perse- 
 cute thee, wilt thou fly in the face of the Almighty, and 
 distrust His grace and goodness, who can still turn all these 
 sufferings to benefits ? And how do I know, but that God, 
 who sees all the lurking vileness of my heart, may have 
 permitted these sufferings on that very score, and to make 
 me rely solely on His grace and assistance, who, perhaps, 
 have too much prided myself in a vain dependence on my 
 own foolish contrivances ? 
 
 Then, again, thought I, wilt thou suffer in one moment 
 all the good lessons of thy poor honest parents, and the 
 benefit of their example (who have persisted in doing their 
 duty with resignation to the divine will, amidst the ex- 
 treme degrees of disappointment, poverty, and distress, 
 and the persecutions of an ungrateful world, and rcprciless 
 creditors), to be thrown away upon thee ; and bj/and lyu'n, 
 as in all probability this thy rashness will, tharse to soften 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 195 
 
 with sorrow to the grave, when they shall understand, that 
 their beloved daughter, slighting the tenders of divine 
 grace, despairing of the mercies of a protecting God, has 
 blemished, in this last act, a whole life, which they had 
 hitherto approved and delighted in ? 
 
 What then, presumptuous Pamela, dost thou here ? 
 thought I : Quit with speed these perilous banks, and fly 
 from these curling waters, that seem, in their meaning 
 murmurs, this still night, to reproach thy rashness J. Tempt 
 not God's goodness on the mossy banks, that have been 
 witnesses of thy guilty purpose; and while thou hast power 
 left thee, avoid the tempting evil, lest thy grand enemy, 
 now repulsed by divine grace, and due reflection, return 
 to the assault with a force that thy weakness may not be 
 able to resist ! and let one rash moment destroy all the 
 convictions, which now have awed thy rebellious mind into 
 duty and resignation to the divine will ! 
 
 And so saying, I arose ; but was so stiff with my hurts, 
 so cold with the moist dew of the night, and the wet grass 
 on which I had sat, as also with the damps arising from so 
 large a piece of water, that with great pain I got from this 
 pond, which now I think of with terror ; and bending my 
 limping steps towards the house, took refuge in the corner 
 of an outhouse, where wood and coals are laid up for 
 family use, till I should be found by my cruel keepers, and 
 consigned to a more wretched confinement, and worse 
 usage than I had hitherto experienced ; and there behind a 
 pile of firewood I crept, and lay down, as you may ima- 
 gine, with a mind just broken, and a heart sensible to 
 nothing but the extremest woe and dejection. 
 
 This, my dear father and mother, is the issue of your 
 poor Pamela's fruitless enterprise; and who knows, if I 
 had got out at the back-door, whether I had been at all 
 in a better case, moneyless, friendless, as I am, and in 
 ay strange place !— But blame not your poor daughter too 
 ;touch: Nay, if ever you see this miserable scribble, all 
 
196 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 bathed and blotted with my tears, let your pity get the 
 better of your reprehension ! But I know it will. — And I 
 must leave ofF for the present. — For, oh ! my strength and 
 my will are at this time very far unequal to one another. — 
 But yet I will add, that though I should have praised God 
 for my deliverance, had I been freed from my wicked 
 keepers, and my designing master; yet I have more abun- 
 dant reason to praise Him, that I have been delivered from 
 a worse enemy, myself ! 
 
 I will conclude my sad relation. 
 
 It seems Mrs. Jewkes awaked not till daybreak ; and 
 not finding me in bed, she called me; and, no answer 
 being returned, she relates, that she got out of bed, and 
 ran to my closet ; and, missing me, searched under the 
 bed, and in another closet, finding the chamber-door as she 
 had left it, quite fast, and the key, as usual, about her 
 wrist. For if I could have got out of the chamber-door, 
 there were two or three passages, and doors to them all, 
 double-locked and barred, to go through into the great 
 garden; so that, to escape, there was no way, but out of 
 the window ; and of that window, because of the summer- 
 parlour under it : for the other windows are a great way 
 from the ground. 
 
 She says she was excessively frightened; and instantly 
 raised the Swiss, and the two maids, who lay not far off; 
 and finding every door fast, she said, I must be carried 
 away, as St. Peter was out of prison, by some angel. It is 
 a wonder she had not a worse thought ! 
 
 She says, she wept, and wrung her hands, and took on 
 sadly, running about like a mad woman, little thinking I 
 could have got out of the closet window, between the iron 
 bars; and, indeed, I don't know whether I could do so 
 again. But at last finding that casement open, they con- 
 cluded it must be so ; and ran out into the garden,-, and 
 found my footsteps in the mould of the bed which I dropt 
 4own upon from the leads : And so speeded away all of 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 197 
 
 them; that is to say, Mrs. Jewk.es, Colbrand, and Nan, 
 towards the back-door, to see if that was fast ; while the 
 cook was sent to the out-offices to raise the men, and 
 make them get horses ready, to take each a several way to 
 pursue me. 
 
 But, it seems, finding that door double-locked and pad- 
 locked, and the heel of my shoe, and the broken bricks, 
 they verily concluded I was got away by some means over 
 the wall; and then, they say, Mrs. Jewkes seemed like a 
 distracted woman : Till, at last. Nan had the thought to 
 go towards the pond : and there seeing my coat, and cap, 
 and handkerchief, in the water, cast almost to the banks 
 by the agitation of the waves, she thought it was me ; and, 
 screaming out, ran to Mrs. Jewkes, and said, O madam, 
 madam ! here's a piteous thing ! — Mrs. Pamela lies drowned 
 in the pond. Thither they all ran; and finding my clothes, 
 doubted not I was at the bottom ; and they all, Swiss 
 among the rest, beat their breasts, and made most dismal 
 lamentations ; and Mrs. Jewkes sent Nan to the men, to 
 bid them get the drag-net ready, and leave the horses, and 
 come to try to find the poor innocent ! as she, it seems, 
 then called me, beating her breast, and lamenting my hard 
 hap ; but most what would become of them, and what 
 account they should give to my master. 
 
 "While every one was thus differently employed, some 
 weeping and wailing, some running here and there. Nan 
 came into the wood-house ; and there lay poor I ; so weak, 
 so low, and dejected, and withal so stiff with my bruises, 
 that I could not stir, nor help myself to get \ipon my feet. 
 And I said, with a low voice (for I could hardly speak), 
 Mrs. Ann ! Mrs. Ann ! — The creature was sadly frightened, 
 but was taking up a billet to knock me on the head, believ- 
 ing I was some thief, as she said ; but I cried out, O Mrs. 
 Ann, Mrs. Ann, help me, for pity's sake, to Mrs. Jewkes ! 
 for I cannot get up ! — Bless me, said she, what ! you, 
 madam ! — Why, our hearts are almost broken, and we were 
 going to drag the pond for you, believing you had drowned 
 yourself. Now, said she, you'll make us all alive again ! ^ 
 
198 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 And, without helping me, she ran away to the pond, 
 and brought all the crew to the wood-house. — The wicked 
 woman, as she entered, said, Where is she ? — Plague of 
 her spells, and her witchcrafts ! She shall dearly repent of 
 this trick, if my name be Jewkes ; and, coming to me, took 
 hold of my arm so roughly, and gave me such a pull, as 
 made me squeal out (my shoulder being bruised on that 
 side), and drew me on my face. Oh cruel creature ! said I, 
 if you knew what I have suffered, it would move you to 
 pity me ! 
 
 Even Colbrand seemed to be concerned, and said. Fie, 
 madam, fie ! you see she is almost dead ! You must not 
 be so rough with her. The coachman Robin seemed to 
 be sorry for me too, and said, with sobs. What a scene is 
 here ! Don't you see she is all bloody in her head, and 
 cannot stir ? — Curse of her contrivances ! said the horrid 
 creature ; she has frightened me out of my wits, I'm sure. 
 How the d — 1 came you here ? — Oh ! said I, ask me now 
 no questions, but let the maids carry me up to my prison ; 
 and there let me die decently, and in peace ! For, indeed, I 
 thought I could not live two hours. 
 
 The still more inhuman tigress said, I suppose you want 
 Mr. Williams to pray by you, don't you ? Well, I'll fend 
 for my master this minute : let him come and watch you 
 himself, for me ; for there's lao such thing as holding you, 
 I'm sure. 
 
 So the maids took me up between them, and carried me 
 to my chamber ; and when the wretch saw how bad I was, 
 she began a little to relent — while every one wondered (at 
 .which I had neither strength nor inclination to tell them) 
 how all this came to pass, which they imputed to sorcery 
 and witchcraft. 
 
 I was so weak, when I had got up stairs, that I fainted 
 away, with dejection, pain, and fatigue ; and they undressed 
 me, and got me to bed ; and Mrs. Jewkes ordered Nan to 
 bathe my shoulder, and arm, and ancle, with some old rum 
 warmed ; and they cut the hair a little from the back part 
 of my head, and washed that ; for it was clotted with blood 
 
 > \ 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 199 
 
 from a pretty long, but not a deep gash ; and put a family 
 plaister upon it ; for, if this woman has any good quality, 
 it is, it seems, in a readiness and skill to manage in cases 
 where sudden misfortunes happen in a family. 
 
 After this, I fell into a pretty sound and refreshing sleep, 
 and lay till twelve o'clock, tolerably easy, considering I was 
 very feverish, and aguishly inclined ; and she took a deal 
 of care to fit me to undergo more trials, which I had hoped 
 would have been happily ended : but Providence did not 
 see fit. 
 
 She would make me rise about twelve : but I was so 
 weak, I could only sit up till the bed was made, and went 
 into it again ; and was, as they said, delirious some part of 
 the afternoon. But having a tolerable night on Thursday, 
 I was a good deal better on Friday, and on Saturday got 
 up, and ate a little spoon-meat, and my feverishness seemed 
 to be gone ; and I was so mended by evening, that I begged 
 her indulgence in my closet, to be left to myself; which 
 she consented to, it being double-barred the day before, and 
 I assuring her, that all my contrivances, as she called them, 
 were at an end. But first she made me tell the whole story 
 of my enterprise ; which I did very faithfully, knowing now 
 that nothing could stand me in any stead, or contribute to 
 my safety and escape : And she seemed full of wonder at 
 my resolution ; but told me frankly, that I should have 
 found it a hard matter to get quite off; for that she was 
 provided with a warrant from my master (who is a justice 
 of peace in this county as well as in the other) to get 
 me apprehended, if I had got away, on suspicion of wrong- 
 ing him, let me have been where I would. 
 
 Oh how deep-laid are the mischiefs designed to fall on 
 my devoted head ! — Surely, surely, I cannot be worthy of 
 all this contrivance ! — This too well shows me the truth of 
 what was hinted to me formerly at the other house, that 
 my master swore he would have me! Oh preserve me, 
 Heaven ! from being his, in his own wicked sense of the 
 adjuration ! 
 
 I must add, that now the woman sees me pick up io fast, 
 
200 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 she uses me worse^ and has abridged me of paper, all but 
 one sheetj which T am to show her, written or unwritten, 
 on demand : and has reduced me to one pen : yet my hidden 
 stores stand me in stead. But she is more and more snappish 
 and cross ; and tauntingly calls me Mrs. Williams, and any- 
 thing she thinks will vex me. 
 
 Sunday afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes has thought fit to give me an airing, for 
 three or four hours, this afternoon ; and I am a good deal 
 better : and should be much more so, if I knew for what I 
 am reserved. But health is a blessing hardly to be coveted 
 in my circumstances, since that but exposes me to the 
 calamity I am in- continual apprehensions of; whereas a 
 weak and sickly state might possibly move compassion for 
 me. Oh how I dread the coming of this angry and incensed 
 master ; though I am sure I have done him no harm ! 
 
 Just now we heard, that he had like to have been drowned 
 in crossing the stream, a few days ago, in pursuing his game. 
 What is the matter, that with all his ill usage of me, I 
 cannot hate him ? To be sure, I am not like other people ! 
 He has certainly done enough to make me hate him; but 
 yet, when I heard his danger, which was very great, I could 
 not in my heart forbear rejoicing for his safety ; though his 
 death would have ended my afflictions. Ungenerous master ! 
 if you knew this, you surely would not be so much my per- 
 secutor ! But, for my late good lady's sake, I must wish 
 him well ; and oh, what an angel would he be in my eyes 
 yet, if he would cease his attempts, and reform ! 
 
 Well, I hear by Mrs. Jewkes, that John Arnold is turned 
 away, being detected in writing to Mr. Williams ; and that 
 Mr. Longman, and Mr. Jonathan the butler, have incurred 
 his displeasure, for offering to speak in my behalf. Mrs. 
 Jervis too is in danger ; for all these three, probably, went 
 •together to beg in my favour; for now it is kno-Cvn where I 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 201 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes has, with the news about my master, received 
 a letter ; but she says the contents are too bad for me to 
 know. They must be bad indeed, if they be worse than 
 what I have already known. 
 
 Just now the horrid creature tells me, as a secret, that she 
 has reason to think he has found out a way to satisfy my 
 scruples : It is, by marrying me to this dreadful Colbrand, 
 and buying me of him on the wedding-day, for a sum of 
 money ! — Was ever the like heard ? — She says it will be my 
 duty to obey my husband ; and that Mr. Williams will be 
 forced, as a punishment, to marry us ; and that, when my 
 master has paid for me, and I am surrendered up, the Swiss 
 is to go home again, with the money, to his former wife 
 and children ; for, she says, it is the custom of those people 
 to have a wife in every nation. 
 
 But this, to be sure, is horrid romancing! Yet, abomin- 
 able as it is, it may possibly serve to introduce some plot 
 now hatching ! — With what strange perplexities is my poor 
 mind agitated ! Perchance, some sham-marriage may- be 
 designed, on purpose to ruin me : But can a husband sell 
 his wife against her own consent ? — And will such a bar- 
 gain stand good in law ? 
 
 Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, the 32d, 33d, 
 and 34th days of my imprisonment. 
 
 Nothing offers these days but squabblings between Mrs. 
 Jewkes and me. She grows worse and worse to me. I 
 vexed her yesterday, because she talked nastily; and told 
 her she talked more like a vile London prostitute, than a 
 gentleman's housekeeper; and she thinks she cannot use me 
 bad enough for it. Bless me ! she curses and storms at me 
 like a trooper, and can hardly keep her hands off me. You 
 may beUeve she must talk sadly, to make me say such harsh 
 words : indeed it cannot be repeated ; as she is a disgrace to 
 her sex. And then she ridicules me, and laughs at my 
 notions of honesty ; and tells me, impudent creature as she 
 
203 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 is ! what a fine bed-fellow I shall make for my master (and 
 such-like), with such whimsical notions about me ! — Do you 
 think this is to be borne ? And yet she talks worse than 
 this, if possible ! quite filthily ! Oh what vile hands am I put 
 into ! 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 I HAVE now all the reason that can be, to apprehend my 
 master will be here soon ; for the servants are busy in set- 
 ting the house to rights ; and a stable and coach-house are 
 cleaning out, that have not been used some time. I asked 
 Mrs. Jewkes; but she tells me nothing, nor will hardly 
 answer me when I ask her a question. Sometimes I think 
 she puts on these strange wicked airs to me, purposely to 
 make me wish for, what I dread most of all things, my 
 master's coming down. He talk of love 1 — If he had any 
 the least notion of regard for me, to be sure he would not 
 give this naughty body such power over me : — And if he 
 does come, where is his promise of not seeing me without I 
 consent to it? But, it seems, his honour owes me nothing ! 
 So he tells me in his letter. And why ? Because I ain will- 
 ing to keep mine. But, indeed, he says, he "hates me per- 
 fectly : But it is plain he does, or I should not be left to 
 the mercy of this womaji : and, what is worse, to my woful 
 apprehensions. 
 
 Friday, the 36th day of my imprisonment. 
 I TOOK the liberty yesferday afternoon, finding the gates 
 open, to walk out before the house ; and, ere I was aware, 
 had got to the bottom of the long row of elms ; and there I 
 sat myself down upon the steps of a sort of broad stile, 
 which leads into the road, and goes towards the town. 
 And as I sat musing upon what always busies my mind, I 
 saw a whole body of folks running towards me from the 
 
VIRTUE REJVABDED. 203 
 
 house, men and women, as in a fright. At first I wondered 
 what was the matter, till they came nearer; and I found 
 they were all alarmed, thinking I had attempted to get off. 
 There was first the horrible Colbrand, running with his long 
 legs, well nigh two yards at a stride; then there was one of 
 the grooms, poor Mr. Williams's robber; then I spied Nan, 
 half out of breath, and the cook-maid after her ! and lastly, 
 came waddling, as fast as she could, Mrs, Jewkes, exclaim- 
 ing most bitterly, as I found, against me. Colbrand said, 
 Oh how have you frighted us all ! — And went behind me, 
 lest I should run away, as I suppose. 
 
 I sat still, to let them see I had no view to get away ; 
 for, besides the improbability of succeeding, my last sad 
 attempt has cured me of enterprising again. And when 
 Mrs. Jewkes came within hearing, I found her terribly in- 
 censed, and raving about my contrivances. Why, said I, 
 should you* be so concerned ? Here I have sat a few 
 minutes, and had not the least thought of getting away, or 
 going farther ; but to return as soon as it was duskish. She 
 would not believe me ; and the barbarous creature struck 
 at me with her horrid fist, and, I believe, would have felled 
 me, had not Colbrand interposed, and said, He saw me 
 sitting still, looking about me, and not seeming to have 
 the least inclination to stir. But this would not serve : 
 She ordered the two maids to take me each by an arm, and 
 lead me back into the house, and up stairs ; and there have 
 I been locked up ever since, without shoes. In vain have 
 I pleaded, that I had no design, as indeed I had not the 
 least ; and last night I was forced to lie between her and 
 Nan ; and I find she is resolved to make a handle of this 
 against me, and in her own behalf. — Indeed, what with her 
 usage, and my own apprehensions of still worse, I am quite 
 weary of my life. 
 
 Just now she has been with me, and given me my shoes, 
 and has laid her imperious commands upon me, to dress 
 myself in a suit of clothes out of the portmanteau, which I 
 have not seen lately, against three or four o'clock; for she 
 
304 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 saySj she is to have a visit from Lady Darnford's two 
 daughters, who come purposely to see me ; and so she gave 
 me the key of the portmanteau. But I will not obey her ; 
 and I told her I would not be made a show of, nor see the 
 ladies. She left me, saying, it would be worse for me, if I 
 did not. But how can that be ? 
 
 Five o'clock is come, 
 And no young ladies ! — So that I fancy — But hold ! I 
 
 hear their coach, I believe. I'll step to the window. — I 
 
 won't go down to them, I am resolved — 
 
 Good sirs ! good sirs I What will become of me ! tltve. 
 
 is my master come in his fine chariot ! — Indeed he is ! 
 
 What shall I do? Where shall I hide myself? — Oh! what 
 
 shall I do? Pray for me! But oh! you'll not see this! — 
 
 Now, good God of heaven, preserve me; if it be Thy 
 
 blessed will ! 
 
 Seven o'clock. 
 Though I dread to see him, yet do I wonder I have not. 
 To be sure something is resolved against me, and he stays 
 to hear all her stories. I can hardly write; yet, as I can 
 do nothing else, I know not how to forbear ! — Yet I cannot 
 hold my pen — How crooked and trembling the lines 1 — I 
 must leave off, till I can get quieter fingers ! — Why should 
 the guiltless tremble so, when the guilty can possess their 
 minds in peace ? 
 
 Saturday morning. 
 
 Now let me give you an account of what passed last 
 night; for I had no power to write, nor yet opportunity 
 till now. 
 
VIRTUE BEWARDED. 205 
 
 This vile woman held my master till half an hour after 
 seven ; and he came hither about five in the afternoon. 
 And then I heard his voice on the stairs, as he was coming 
 up to me. It was about his supper; for he said, I shall 
 choose a boiled chicken with butter and parsley. — And up 
 he came ! 
 
 He put on a stern and majestic air; and he can look 
 very majestic when he pleases. Well, perverse Pamela, un- 
 grateful runaway, said he, for my first salutation ! — You 
 do well, don't you, to give me all this trouble and vexa- 
 tion ! I could not speak ; but throwing myself on the floor, 
 hid my face, and was ready to die with grief and appre- 
 hension.— He said. Well may you hide your face! well 
 may you be ashamed to see me, vile forward one, as you 
 are ! — I sobbed and wept, but could not speak. And he 
 let me lie, and went to the door, and called Mrs. Jewkes. 
 — There, said he, take up that fallen angel ! — Once I 
 thought her as innocent as an angel of light : but I have 
 now no patience with her. The little hypocrite prostrates 
 herself thus, in hopes to move my weakness in her favour, 
 and that I'll raise her from the floor myself. But I shall 
 not touch her : No, said he, cruel gentleman as he was ! 
 let such fellows as Williams be taken in by her artful wiles ! 
 I know her now, and see she Is for any fool's turn, that 
 will be caught by her. 
 
 I sighed, as if my heart would break ! — And Mrs. Jewkes 
 lifted me up upon my knees ; for I trembled so, I could 
 not stand. Come, said she, Mrs. Pamela, learn to know 
 your best friend ; confess your unworthy behaviour, and 
 beg his honour's forgiveness of all your faults. I was ready 
 to faint : And he said. She is mistress of arts, I'll assure 
 you ; and will mimic a fit, ten to one, in a minute. 
 
 I was struck to the heart at this ; but could not speak 
 presently ; only lifted up my eyes to heaven ! — And at last 
 made shift to say — God forgive you, sir ! — He seemed in a 
 great passion, and walked up and down the room, casting 
 sometimes an eye upon me, and seeming as if he would 
 have spoken, but checked himself— And at last he said. 
 
2o6 PAMELA J OR, 
 
 When she has acted this her ^rst part over, perhaps I 
 will see her again, and she shall soon know what she has to 
 trust to. 
 
 And so he went out of the room : And I was quite sick 
 at heart ! — Surely, said I, I am the wickedest creature that 
 ever breathed ! Well, said the impertinent, not so wicked 
 as that neither; but I am glad you begin to see your faults. 
 Nothing like being humble ! — Come, I'll stand your friend, 
 and plead for you, if you'll promise to be more dutiful for 
 the future : Comcj come, added the wretch, this may be 
 all made up by to-morrow morning, if you are not a fool. 
 — Begone, hideous woman ! said I, and let not my afflic- 
 tions be added to by thy inexorable cruelty, and unwomanly 
 wickedness. 
 
 She gave me a push, and went away in a violent passion : 
 And it seems, she made a story of this ; and said, I had 
 such a spirit, there was no bearing it. 
 
 I laid me down on the floor, and had no power to stir, 
 till the clock struck nine ; and then the wicked woman 
 came up again. You must come down stairs, said she, to 
 my master ; that is, if you please, spirit ! — Said I, I believe 
 I cannot stand. Then, said she, I'll send Mons. Colbrand 
 to carry you down. 
 
 I got up as well as I could, and trembled all the way 
 down stairs : And she went before me into the parlour ; 
 and a new servant that he had waiting on him, instead of 
 John, withdrew as soon as I came in : And, by the way, 
 he had a new coachman too, which looked as if Bedford- 
 shire Robin was turned away. 
 
 I thought, said he, when I came down, you should have 
 sat at table with me, when I had not company ; but when 
 I find you cannot forget your original, but must prefer my 
 menials to me, I call you down to wait on me while I sup, 
 that I may have some talk with you, and throw away as 
 little time as possible upon you. 
 
 Sir, said I, you do me honour to wait upon you: — And 
 I never shall, I hope, forget my original. But I was forced 
 to stand behind his chair, that I might hold by it. Fill 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 207 
 
 me^ said he, a glass of that Burgundy. I went to do it; 
 but my hand shook so, that I could not hold the plate with 
 the glass in it, and spilt some of the wine. So Mrs. Jewkes 
 poured it for me, and I carried it as well as I could; and 
 made a low courtesy. He took it, and said, Stand behind 
 me, 'out of my sight ! 
 
 Why, Mrs. Jewkes, said he, you tell me she remains very 
 sullen still, and eats nothing. No, said she, not so much 
 as will keep life and soul together. — And is always crying, 
 you say, too ? Yes, sir, answered she, I think she is, for 
 one thing or another. Ay, said he, your young wenches 
 will feed upon their tears ; and their obstinacy will serve 
 them for meat and drink. I think I never saw her look 
 better though, in my life! — But, I suppose, she lives upon 
 love. This sweet Mr. Williams, and her little villanous 
 plots together, have kept her alive and well, to be sure : 
 For mischief, love, and contradiction, are the natural 
 aliments of a woman. 
 
 Poor I was forced to hear all this, and be silent ; and 
 indeed my heart was too full to speak. 
 
 And so you say, said he, that she had another project, but 
 yesterday, to get away ? She denies it herself, said she ; 
 but it had all the appearance of one. I'm sure she made 
 me in a fearful pucker about it: And I am glad your 
 honour is come, with all my heart ; and I hope, whatever 
 be your honour's intention concerning her, you will not 
 be long about it ; for you'll find her as slippery as an eel, 
 I'll assure you. 
 
 Sir, said I, and clasped his knees with my arms, not 
 knowing what I did, and falling on my knees. Have mercy 
 on me, and hear me, concerning that wicked woman's 
 usage of me 
 
 He cruelly interrupted me, and said, I am satisfied she 
 has done her duty : it signifies nothing what you say against 
 Mrs. Jewkes. That you are here, little hypocrite as you 
 are, pleading your cause before me, is owing to her care 
 of you ; else you had been with the parson. — Wicked girl ! 
 said he, to tempt a man to undo himself, as you have done 
 
ao8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 him, at a time I was on the point of making him happy 
 for his life ! 
 
 I arose ; but said with a deep sigh, I have done, sir ! — I 
 have done ! — I have a strange tribunal to plead before. 
 The poor sheep in the fable had such an one : when it was 
 tried before the vulture, on the accusation of the wolf ! • 
 
 So, Mrs. Jewkes, said he, you are the wolf, I the vulture, 
 and this the poor innocent lamb on her trial before us. — 
 Oh ! you don't know how well this innocent is read in 
 reflection. She has wit at will, when she has a mind to 
 display her own romantic innocence, at the price of other 
 people's characters. 
 
 Well, said the aggravating creature, this is nothing to 
 what she has called me: I have been a Jezebel, a London 
 prostitute, and what not? — But I am contented with her 
 ill names, now I see it is her fashion, and she can call your 
 honour a vulture. 
 
 Said I, I had no thought of comparing my master — and 
 was going to say on : but he said, Don't prate, ^irl ! — No, 
 said she, it don't become you, I am sure. 
 
 Well, said I, since I must not speak, I will hold my 
 peace ; but there is a righteous Judge, who knows the 
 secrets of all hearts ; and to Him I appeal. 
 
 See there ! said he : now this meek, good creature is 
 praying for fire from heaven upon us ! Oh she can curse 
 most heartily, in the spirit of Christian meekness, I'll 
 assure you ! — Come, saucy-face, give me another glass of 
 wine. 
 
 So I did, as well as I could ; but wept so, that he said, 
 I suppose I shall have some of your tears in my wine 1 
 
 When he had supped, he stood up, and said, Oh how 
 happy for you it is, that you can, at will, thus make your 
 speaking eyes overflow in this manner, without losing any 
 of their brilliancy ! You have been told, I suppose, that 
 you are most beautiful in your tears ! — Did you ever, said 
 he to her (who all this while was standing in one corner of 
 the parlour), see a more charming creature than this ? Is 
 it to be wondered at, that I demean myself thus to take 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 209 
 
 notice of her? — See, said he^ and took the glass with one 
 hand, and turned me round with the other, what a shape ! 
 what a neck ! what a hand ! and what a bloom on that 
 lovely face ! — But who can describe the tricks and artifices, 
 that lie lurking in her little, plotting, guileful heart ! ^Tis 
 no wonder the poor parson was infatuated with her. — I 
 blame him less than I do her ; for who could expect such 
 artifice in so young a sorceress ? 
 
 I went to the farther part of the room, and held my 
 face against the wainscot ; and in spite of all I could 
 do to refrain crying, sobbed as if my heart would break. 
 He said, I am surprised, Mrs. Jewkes, at the mistake 
 of the letters you tell me of! But, you see, I am not 
 afraid anybody should read what I write. I don't carry 
 on private correspondences, and reveal every secret that 
 comes to my knowledge, and then corrupt people to 
 carry my letters against their duty, and all good con- 
 science. 
 
 Come hither, hussy ! said he : You and I have a dreadful 
 reckoning to make. Why don't you come, when I bid 
 you ? — Fie upon it, Mrs. Pamela, said she. What ! not stir, 
 when his honour commands you to come to him ! — Who 
 knows but his goodness will forgive you ? 
 
 He came to me (for I had no power to stir), and put 
 his arms about my neck, and would kiss me; and said. 
 Well, Mrs. Jewkes, if it were not for the thought of this 
 cursed parson, I believe in my heart, so great is my weak- 
 ness, that I could yet forgive this intriguing little slut, and 
 take her to my bosom. 
 
 Oh, said the sycophant, you are very good, sir, very for- 
 giving, indeed ! — But come, added the profligate wretch, I 
 hope you will be so good, as to take her to your bosom ; 
 and that, by to-morrow morning, you'll bring her to a 
 better sense of her duty ! ^^^^^ 
 
 Could anything in womanhood be so vile? I had no 
 patience : but yet grief and indignation choked up the 
 passage of my words; and I could only stammer out a 
 passionate exclamation to Heaven, to protect my inno- 
 
 VOL. I. ° 
 
210 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 cence. But the word was the subject of their ridicule. 
 Was ever poor creature worse beset ! 
 
 He said, as if he had been considering whether he could 
 forgive me or not. No, I cannot yet forgive her neither. — 
 She has given me great disturbance; has brought great 
 discredit upon me, both abroad and at home ; has corrupted 
 all my servants at the other house ; has despised my honour- 
 able views and intentions to her, and sought to run away 
 with this ungrateful parson. — And surely I ought not to 
 forgive all this ! — Yet, with all this wretched grimace, he 
 kissed me again, and would have put his hand into my 
 bosom; but I struggled, and said, I would die before I 
 would be used thus. — Consider, Pamela, said he, in a 
 threatening tone, consider where you are ! and don't play 
 the fool : If you do, a more dreadful fate awaits you than 
 you expect. But take her upstairs, Mrs. Jewkes, and I'll 
 send a few lines to her to consider of; and let me have 
 your answer, Pamela, in the morning. Till then you have 
 to resolve : and after that your doom is fixed. — So I went 
 upstairs, and gave myself up to grief, and expectation of 
 what he would send : but yet I was glad of this night's 
 reprieve ! 
 
 He sent me, however, nothing at all. And about twelve 
 o'clock, Mrs. Jewkes and Nan came up, as the night before, 
 to be my bed-fellows ; and I would go to bed with some of 
 my clothes on: which they muttered at sadly; and Mrs. 
 Jewkes railed at me particularly. Indeed I would have sat 
 up all night, for fear, if she would have let me. For I had 
 but very little rest that night, apprehending this woman 
 would let my master in. She did nothing but praise him, 
 and blame me : but I answered her as little as I could. 
 
 He has Sir Simon Tell-tale, alias Darnford, to dine with 
 him to-day, whose family sent to welcome him into the 
 country ; and it seems the old knight wants to see me ; so 
 I suppose I shall be sent for, as Samson was, to make sport 
 for him. — Here I am, and must bear it all ! 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. an 
 
 Twelve o'clock, Saturday noon. 
 
 Just now he has sent me up^ by Mrs. Jewkes, the follow- 
 ing proposals. So here are the honourable intentions all at 
 once laid open. They are^ my dear parents, to make me a 
 vile kept mistress : which, I hope, I shall always detest the 
 thoughts of. But you'll see how they are accommodated 
 to what I should have most desired, could I have honestly 
 promoted it, your welfare and happiness. I have answered 
 them, as I am sure you'll approve; and I am prepared for 
 the worst : For though I fear there will be nothing omitted 
 to ruin me, and though my poor strength will not be able 
 to defend me, yet I will be innocent of crime in my inten- 
 tion, and in the sight of God ; and to Him leave the aveng- 
 ing of all my wrongs, in His own good time and manner. 
 I shall write to you my answer against his articles; and 
 hope the best, though I fear the worst. But if I should 
 come home to you ruined and undone, and may not be able 
 to look you in the face; yet pity and inspirit the poor 
 Pamela, to make her little remnant of life easy ; for long I 
 shall not survive my disgrace : and you may be assured it 
 shall not be my fault, if it be my misfortune. 
 
 ' To Mrs. Pamela Andrews. This is my Answer. 
 
 ' The foUmiing Articles are pro- Forgive, sir, the spirit your poor ser- 
 
 •posed to your serious considera- vant is about to show in her answer 
 
 ^ tion ; and let me have an answer, toyour ks.T:\ClSi.i. Not to be warm, 
 
 ' in writing, to them, that I may andin earnest, on such an occasion 
 
 ' take my resolutions accordingly. as the present, would show u. degree 
 
 ' Only remember, that I will not be of guilt, that, I hope, my soul abhors. 
 
 ' trifled with ; and what you give I will not trifle with you, nor act 
 
 'for answer will absolutely decide like a person doubtful of her own 
 
 • your fate, without expostulation, or mind; for it wants not one moment's 
 
 ' further trouble. consideration with me ; and I there- 
 fore return the Answer folloioin^, 
 let what will be the consequence. 
 
2T3 
 
 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' I. If you can convince me that 
 ' the hated parson has had no encour- 
 ' agement from you in his addresses ; 
 ' and that you have no inclination for 
 ' him, in preference to me ; then I 
 ' will offer the following proposals to 
 ' you, which I will punctually make 
 ' good. 
 
 I. As to the first article, sir, it may 
 behove me (that I may not deserve, 
 in your opinion, the opprobrious terms 
 oi forward and artful, and such like) 
 to declare solemnly, that Mr. Williams 
 never had the least encouragement 
 from me, as to what you hint ; and I 
 believe his principal motive was the 
 apprehended duty of his function, 
 quite contrary to his apparent interest, 
 to assist a person he thought in dis- 
 tress. You may, sir, the rather believe 
 me, when I declare, that I know not 
 the man breathing I would wish to 
 marry ; and that the only one I could 
 i honour more than another, is the 
 I gentleman, who, of all others, seeks 
 % my everlasting dishonour. 
 
 ' II. I will directly make you a 
 ' present of 500 guineas, for your own 
 ' use, which you may dispose of to any 
 ' purpose you please : and will give 
 ' it absolutely into the hands of any 
 ' person you shall appoint to receive 
 ' it ; and expect no favour in return, 
 ' till you are satisfied in the posses- 
 ' sion of it. 
 
 II. As to your second proposal, let 
 the consequence be what it will, I 
 reject it with all my soul. Money, sir, 
 is not my chief good : May God Al- 
 mighty desert me, whenever it is ! and 
 whenever, for the sake of that, I can 
 give up my title to that blessed hope 
 which will stand me in stead, at a time 
 when millions of gold^will not purchase 
 one happy moment of reflection on a 
 past misspent life ! 
 
 ' III. I will likewise directly make 
 ' over to you a purchase I lately made 
 ' in Kent, which brings in 250/. per 
 ' annum, clear of all deductions. This 
 ' shall be made over to you in full 
 ' property for your life, and for the 
 ' lives of any children to perpetuity, 
 ' that you may happen to have : And 
 ' your father shall be immediately put 
 ' into possession of it in trust for these 
 ' purposes : and the management of it 
 ' will yield a comfortable subsistence 
 ' to him, and your mother, for life ; 
 ' and I will make up any deficiencies, 
 ' if such should happen, to that clear 
 ' sum, and allow him 50/. per annum, 
 
 III. Your third proposal, sir, I re- 
 ject for the same reason ; and am sorry 
 you could think my poor honest 
 parents would enter into their part of 
 it, and be concerned for the manage- 
 ment of an estate, which would be 
 owing to the prostitution of their poor 
 daughter. Forgive, sir, my warmth 
 on tliis occasion ; but you know not 
 the poor man, and the poor woman, 
 my ever dear father and mother, if you 
 think, that they would not much rather 
 choose to starve in a ditch, or rot in a 
 noisome dungeon, than accept of the 
 fortune of a monarch, upon such wicked 
 terms. I dare not say all that my full 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 ai3 
 
 ' besides, for his life, and that of your mind suggests to me on this grievous 
 ' mother, for his care and management occasion — But, indeed, sir, you know 
 • of this your estate. them not; nor shall the terrors of 
 
 death, in its most frightful form, I 
 hope, through God's assisting grace, 
 ever make me act unworthy of such 
 poor honest parents ! 
 
 ' IV. I will, moreover, extend my 
 ' favour to any other of your relations, 
 ' that you may think worthy of it, or 
 ' that are valued by you. 
 
 IV. Your fourth proposal, I take 
 upon me, sir, to answer as the third. 
 If I have any friends that want the 
 favour of the great, may they ever want 
 it, if they are capable of desiring it on 
 unworthy terms ! 
 
 ' V. I will, besides, order patterns 
 ' to be sent you for choosing four com- 
 ' plete suits of rich clothes, that you 
 ' may appear with reputation, as if 
 ' you were my wife. And I will give 
 ' you the two diamond rings, and two 
 ' pair of ear-rings, and diamond neck- 
 ' lace, that were bought by my mother, 
 ' to present to Miss Tomlins, if the 
 ' match that was proposed between 
 ' her and me had been brought to 
 ' effect : and I will confer upon you 
 ' still other gratuities, as I shall find 
 ' myself obliged, by your good beha- 
 ' viour and affection. 
 
 V. Fine clothes, sir, become not 
 me ; nor have I any ambition to wear 
 them. I have greater pride in my 
 poverty and meanness, than I should 
 have in dress and finery. Believe me, 
 sir, I think such things less become 
 the humble-born Pamela, than the 
 rags your good mother raised me from. 
 Your rings, sir, your necklace, and 
 your ear-rings, will better befit ladies 
 of degree, than me : and to lose the 
 best jewel, my virtue, would be poorly 
 recompensed by those you propose to 
 give me. What should I think, when 
 I looked upon my finger, or saw in the 
 glass those diamonds on my neck, and 
 in my ears, but that they were the 
 price of my honesty ; and that I wore 
 those jewels outwardly, because I had 
 none inwardly. 
 
 ' VI. Now, Pamela, will you see 
 ' by this, what a value I set upon tlie 
 ' free-will of a person already in my 
 ' power ; and who, if these proposals 
 ' are not accepted, shall find, that I 
 ' have not taken all these pains, and 
 ' risked my reputation, as I have done, 
 ' without resolving to gratify my pas- 
 ' sion for you, at all adventures ; and 
 ' if you refuse, without making any 
 ' terms at all. 
 
 VI. I know, sir, by woful experi- 
 ence, that I am in your power : I know 
 all the resistance I can make will be 
 poor and weak, and, perhaps, stand 
 me in little stead : I dread your will 
 to ruin me is as great as your power : 
 yet, sir, will I dare to tell you, that I 
 will make no free-will offering of my 
 virtue. All that X can do, poor as it 
 is, I will do, to convince you, that 
 your offers shall have no part in my 
 
214 
 
 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 choice ; and if I cannot escape the 
 violence of man, I hope, by God's 
 grace, I shall have nothing to reproach 
 myself, for not doing all in my power 
 to avoid my disgrace ; and then I can 
 safely appeal to the great God, my 
 only refuge and protector, with this 
 consolation, That my will bore no 
 part in my violation. 
 
 ' VII. You shall be mistress of my 
 ' person and fortune, as much as if the 
 ' foolish ceremony had passed. All 
 ' my servants shall be yours ; and you 
 ' shall choose any two persons to 
 
 • attend yourself, either male or female, 
 ' without any control of mine : and if 
 ' your conduct be such, that I have 
 ' reason to be satisfied with it, I know 
 ' not (but will not engage for this) that 
 ' I may, after a twelvemonth's cohabi- 
 ' tation, marry you ; for, if my love 
 ' increases for you, as it has done for 
 
 • many months past, it will be impos- 
 ' sible for me to deny you anything. 
 
 ' And now, Pamela, consider well, it 
 ' is in your power to oblige me on 
 ' such terms, as will make yourself, 
 
 ■ and all your friends, happy : but 
 ' this will be over this very day, 
 ' irrevocably over ; and you shall 
 ' find all you would be thought to 
 ' fear, without the least benefit aris- 
 ' ing from it to yourself. 
 
 ' And I beg you'll well weigh the 
 ' matter, and comply with my pro- 
 ' posals ; anl I will instantly set 
 
 ■ about securing to you the full efifect 
 ' of them : And let me, if you value 
 ' yourself, experience a grateful re- 
 ' turn on this occasion, and I'll for- 
 • give all that's past.' 
 
 VII. I have not once dared to look 
 so high, as to such a proposal as your 
 seventh article contains. Hence have 
 proceeded all my little abortive arti- 
 fices to escape from the confinement 
 you have put me in ; although you 
 promised to be honourable to me. 
 Your honour, well I know, would not 
 let you stoop to so mean and so un- 
 worthy a slave, as the poor Pamela : 
 All I desire is, to be permitted to re- 
 turn to my native meanness unviolated. 
 What have I done, sir, to deserve it 
 should be otherwise ? For the obtain- 
 ing of this, though I would not have 
 married your chaplain, yet would I 
 have run away with your meanest 
 servant, if I had thought I could have 
 got safe to my beloved poverty. I 
 heard you once say, sir. That a certain 
 great commander, who could live upon 
 lentils, might well refuse the bribes 
 of the greatest monarch : And I hope, 
 as I can contentedly live at the meanest 
 rate, and think not myself above the 
 lowest condition, that I am also above 
 making an exchange of my honesty 
 for all the riches of the Indies. When 
 I come to be proud and vain of gaudy 
 apparel, and outside finery, then (which 
 I hope will never be) may I rest my 
 principal good in such vain trinkets 
 and despise for them the more solid 
 ornaments of a good fame, and a chas- 
 tity inviolate ! 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 215 
 
 Give me leave to say^ sir, in answer to what you hint, 
 That you may in a twelvemonth's time marry me, on the 
 continuance of my good behaviour ; that this weighs less 
 with me, if possible, than anything else you have said : for, 
 in the first place, there is an end of all merit, and all good 
 behaviour, on my side, if I have now any, the moment I 
 consent to your proposals : And I should be so far from 
 expecting such an honour, that I will pronounce, that I 
 should be most unworthy of it. What, sir, would the world 
 say, were you to marry your harlot ? — That a gentleman of 
 your rank in life should stoop, not only to the base-born 
 Pamela, but to a base-born prostitute ? — Little, sir, as I 
 know of the world, I am not to be caught by a bait so 
 poorly covered as this ! . 
 
 Yet, after all, dreadful is the thought, that I, a poor, weak, 
 friendless, unhappy creature, am too full in your power ! 
 But permit me, sir, to pray, as I now write on my bended 
 knees, That before you resolve upon my ruin, you will weigh 
 well the matter. Hitherto, sir, though you have taken large 
 strides to this crying sin, yet are you on this side the 
 commission of it. — ^When once it is done, nothing can recall 
 it ! And where will be your triumph ? — What glory will 
 the spoils of such a weak enemy yield you? Let me but 
 enjoy my poverty with honesty, is all my prayer; and I 
 will Hess you, and pray for you, every moment of my life ! 
 Think, oh think ! before it is yet too late ! what stings, what 
 remorse will attend your dying hour, when you come to 
 reflect, that you have ruined, perhaps soul and body, a 
 wretched creature, whose only pride was her virtue ! And 
 how pleased you will be, on the contrary, if in that tre- 
 mendous moment you shall be able to acquit yourself of 
 this foul crime, and to plead in your own behalf, that you 
 suffered the earnest supplications of an unhappy wretch to 
 prevail with you to be innocent yourself, and let her remain 
 so ! — May God Almighty, whose mercy so lately saved you 
 from the peril of perishing in deep waters (on which, I hope, 
 you will give me cause to congratulate you !) touch your 
 heart in my favour, and save you from this sin, and me from 
 
3i6 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 this nu7i ! — And to Him do I commit my cause ; and to Him 
 will I give the glory, and night and day pray for you, if I 
 
 may be permitted to escape this great evil ! 
 
 Your poor oppressed, broken spirited servant. 
 
 I TOOK a copy of this for, your perusal, my dear parents, 
 if I shall ever be so happy to see you again (for I hope my 
 conduct will be approved of by you) ; and at night, when 
 Sir Simon was gone, he sent for me down. Well, said he, 
 have you considered my proposals ? Yes, sir, said I, I have : 
 and there is my answer : But pray let me not see you read 
 it. Is it your bashfulness, said he, or your obstinacy, that 
 makes you not choose I should read it before you ? 
 
 I offered to go away ; and he said. Don't run from me ; 
 I won't read it till you are gone. But, said he, tell me, 
 Pamela, whether you comply with my proposals, or not? 
 Sir, said I, you will see presently ; pray don't hold me ; 
 for he took my hand. Said he. Did you well consider 
 before you answered? — I did, sir, said I. If it be not 
 what you think will please me, said he, dear girl, take it 
 back again, and reconsider it; for if I have this as your 
 absolute answer, and I don't like it, you are undone; for 
 I will not sue meanly, where I can command. I fear, said 
 he, it is not what I like, by your manner : and let me tell 
 you, that. I cannot bear denial. If the terms I have 
 offered are not sufficient, I will augment them to two- 
 thirds of my ■ estate ; for, said he, and swore a dreadful 
 oath, I cannot live without you: and, since the thing is 
 gone so far, I will not ! And so he clasped me in his 
 arms in such a manner as quite frightened me ; and kissed 
 me two or three times. 
 
 I got from him, and run upstairs, and went to the 
 closet, and was quite uneasy and fearful. 
 
 In an hour's time he called Mrs. Jewkes down to him ! 
 And I heard him very high in passion : and all about me '• 
 And I heard her say. It was his own fault ; there would 
 be an end of all my complaining and perverseness, if he 
 was once resolved ; and other most impudent aggravations. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. a.i'j 
 
 I am resolved not to go to bed this night, if I can help it ! 
 — Lie still, lie still, my poor fluttering heart ! — What will 
 become of me ! 
 
 Almost twelve o'clock, Saturday night. 
 
 He sent Mrs. Jewkes, about ten o'clock, to tell me to 
 come to him. Where ? said I. I'll show you, said she. 
 I went down three or four steps, and saw her making to 
 his chamber, the door of which was open: So I said, I 
 cannot go there ! — Don't be foolish, said she ; but come ; 
 no harm will be done to you ! — Well, said I, if I die, I 
 cannot go there. I heard him say, Let her come, or it 
 shall be worse for her. I can't bear, said he, to speak to 
 her myself! — ^Well, said I, I cannot come, indeed I cannot; 
 and so I went up again into my closet, expecting to be 
 fetched by force. 
 
 But she came up soon after, and bid me make haste to 
 bed : Said I, I will not go to bed this night, that's 'certain ! 
 — Then, said she, you shall be made to come to bed ; and 
 Nan and I will undress you. I knew neither prayers nor 
 tears would move this wicked woman : So I said, I am sure 
 you will let master in, and I shall be undone ! Mighty 
 piece of undone ! she said : but he was too much exaspe- 
 rated against me, to be so familiar with me, she would 
 assure me! — Ay, said she, you'll be disposed of another 
 way soon, I can tell you for your comfort : and I hope 
 your husband will have your obedience, though nobody 
 else can have it. No husband in the world, said I, shall 
 make me do an unjust or base thing. — She said, That 
 would be soon tried ; and Nan coming in. What ! said I, 
 am I to have two bed-fellows again, these warm nights? 
 Yes, said she, slippery one, you are, till you can have one 
 good one instead of us. Said I, Mrs. Jewkes, don't talk 
 nastily to me : I see you are beginning again ; and I shall 
 affront you, maybe; for next to bad actions, are bad 
 words ; for they could not be spoken, if they were not in 
 
21 8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 the heart. — Come to bed, purity! said she. You are a 
 nonsuch, I suppose. Indeed, said I, I can't come to bed ; 
 and it will do you no harm to let me stay all night in the 
 great chair. Nan, said she, undress my young lady. If 
 she won't let you, I'll help you ; and, if neither of us can 
 do it quietly, we'll call my master to do it for us ; though, 
 said she, I think it an office worthier of Monsieur Col- 
 brand ! — You are very wicked, said I. I know it, said 
 she ; I am a Jezebel, and a London prostitute, you know. 
 You did great feats, said I, to tell my master all this poor 
 stuff; but you did not tell him how you beat me. No, 
 lambkin, said she (a word I had not heard a good while), 
 that I left for you to tell ; and you was going to do it if 
 the vulture had not taken the wolf's part, and bid the 
 poor innocent lamb be silent ! — Ay, said I, no matter for 
 your fleers, Mrs. Jewkes; though I can have neither jus- 
 tice nor mercy here, and cannot be heard in my defence, 
 yet a time will come, maybe, when I shall be heard, and 
 when your own guilt will strike you dumb. — Ay! spirit, 
 said she; and the vulture too! Must we both be dumb? 
 Why that, lambkin, will be pretty 1 — Then, said the 
 wicked one, you'll have all the talk to yourself? — Then 
 how will the tongue of the . pretty lambkin bleat out inno- 
 cence, and virtue, and honesty, till the whole trial be at an 
 end ! — You're a wicked woman, that's certain, said I ; and 
 if you thought anything of another world, could not talk 
 thus. But no wonder ! — It shows what hands I'm got 
 into ! — Ay, so it does, said she ; but I beg you'll undress, 
 and come to bed, or I believe your innocence won't keep 
 you from still worse hands. I will come to bed, said I, if 
 you will let me have the keys in my own hand; not else, 
 if I can help it. Yes, said she, and then, hey for another 
 contrivance, another escape ! — No, no, said I, all my con- 
 trivances are over, I'll assure you ! Pray let me have the 
 keys, and I will come to bed. She came to me, and took 
 me in her huge arms, as if I was a feather : Said she I do 
 this to show you what a poor resistance you can make 
 against me, if I please to exert myself; and so, lambkin. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 219 
 
 don't say to your wolf^ I won't come to bed ! — And set me 
 down, and tapped me on the neck : Ah ! said she, thou art 
 a pretty creature, 'tis true ; but so obstinate ! so full of 
 spirit ! if thy strength was but answerable to that, thou 
 would'st run away with us all, and this great house too on 
 thy back ! — But, undress, undress, I tell you. 
 
 Well, said I, I see my misfortunes make you very merry, 
 and very witty too : but I will love you, if you will humour 
 me with the keys of the chamber-doors. — Are you sure 
 you will love me? said she: Now speak your conscience! 
 — Why, said I, you must not put it so close; neither 
 would you, if you thought you had not given reason to 
 doubt it ! — But I will love you as well as I can ! — I would 
 not tell a wilful lie : and if I did, you would not believe 
 me, after your hard usage of me. Well, said she, that's all 
 fair, I own ! — But, Nan, pray pull off my young lady's 
 shoes and stockings. — No, pray don't, said I ; I will come 
 to bed presently, since I must. 
 
 And so I went to the closet, and scribbled a little about 
 this idle chit-chat. And she being importunate, I was 
 forced to go to bed ; but with some of my clothes on, as 
 the former night ; and she let me hold the two keys ; for 
 there are two locks, there being a double door; and so I 
 got a little sleep that night, having had none for two or 
 three nights before. 
 
 I can't imagine what she means ; but Nan offered to talk 
 a little once or twice; and she snubbed her, and said, I 
 charge you, wench, don't open your lips before me ; and 
 if. you are asked any questions by Mrs. Pamela, don't an- 
 swer her one word, while I am here !— But she is a lordly 
 woman to the maid-servants; and that has always been 
 her character: oh how unlike good Mrs. Jervis in every- 
 thing ! 
 
220 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Sunday morning. 
 
 A THOUGHT came into my head ; I meant no harm ; but 
 it was a little bold. For, seeing my master dressing to go 
 to church; and his chariot getting ready, I went to my 
 closet, and I writ. 
 
 The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired for a gentleman of 
 great worth and honour, who labours under a temptation to exert his 
 great power to ruin a poor, distressed, worthless maiden : 
 
 And also. 
 
 The prayers of this congregation are earnestly desired by a poor distressed 
 creature, for the preservation of her virtue and innocence. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes came up : Always writing I said she ; and 
 would see it : And strait, all that ever I could say, carried 
 it down to my master. — He looked upon it, and said, Tell 
 her, she shall soon see how her prayers are answered ; she 
 is very bold : but as she has rejected all my favours, her 
 reckoning for all is not far off. I looked after him out of 
 the window ; and he was charmingly dressed :, To be sure 
 he is a handsome fine gentleman ! — ^What pity his heart is 
 not as good as his appearance ! Why can't I hate him ? — 
 But don't be uneasy, if you should see this ; for it is im- 
 possible I should love him ; for his vices all ugly him over, 
 as I may say. 
 
 My master sends word, that he shall not come home to 
 dinner : I suppose he dines with this Sir Simon Darnford. 
 I am much concerned for poor Mr. Williams. Mrs. Jewkes 
 says, he is confined still, and takes on much. All his 
 trouble is brought upon him for my sake : This grieves me 
 much. My master, it seems, will have his money from him. 
 This is very hard ; for it is three fifty pounds, he gave him, 
 as he thought, as a salary for three years that he has been 
 with him : but there was no agreement between them ; and 
 he absolutely depended on my master's favour. To be sure, 
 it was the more generous of him to run these risks for the 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 221 
 
 sake of oppressed innocence : and I hope he will meet with 
 his reward in due time, Alas for me ! I dare not plead for 
 him ; that would raise my oppressor's jealousy more. And 
 1 have not interest to save myself 1 
 
 Sunday evening. 
 Mrs. Jewkes has received a line from my master : I 
 wonder what it is ; for his chariot has come home without 
 him. But she will tell me nothing; so it is in vain to ask 
 her. I am so fearful of plots and tricks, I know not what 
 to do ! — Everything I suspect; for^ now my disgrace is 
 avowed, what can I think ! — To be sure, the worst will be 
 attempted 1 I can only pour out my soul in prayer to God, 
 for His blessed protection. But, if I must suffer, let me not 
 be long a mournful survivor ! — Only let me not shorten my 
 
 own time sinfully ! 
 
 This woman left upon the table, in the chamber, this 
 letter of my master's to her ; and I bolted myself in, till I 
 had transcribed it. You'll see how tremblingly, by the 
 lines. I wish poor Mr. Williams's release at any rate ; but 
 this letter makes my heart ache. Yet I have another day's 
 reprieve, thank God ! 
 
 ' Mrs. Jewkes, — I have been so pressed on Williams's 
 
 ' affair, that I shall set out this afternoon, in Sir Simon's 
 
 ' chariot, and with Parson Peters', who is his intercessor, 
 
 ' for Stamford ; and shall not be back till to-morrow even- 
 
 ' ing, if then. As to your ward, I am thoroughly incensed 
 
 ' against her : She has withstood her time ; and now, would 
 
 ' she sign and seal to my articles, it is too late. I shall 
 
 ' discover something, perhaps, by him ; and will, on my 
 
 ■ return, let her know, that all her ensnaring loveliness shall 
 
 ' not save her from the fate that awaits her. But let her 
 
 ' know nothtng of this, lest it put her fruitful mind upon 
 
 ' plots and /rtifices. Be sure trust he.-not without another 
 
 / 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
 / 
 
aaa PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' with you at night, lest she venture the window in her 
 ' foolish rashness : for I shall require her at your hands. 
 
 ' Yours, &c.' 
 
 I had but just finished taking a copy of this, and laid 
 the letter where I had it, and unbolted the door, when she 
 came up in a great fright, for fear I should have seen it ; 
 but I being in my closet, and that lying as she left it, 
 she did not mistrust. Oh, said she, I was afraid you had 
 seen my master's letter here, which I carelessly left on the 
 table. I wish, said I, I had known that. Why sure^ said 
 she, if you had, you would not have offered to read my 
 letters ! Indeed, said I, I should, at this time, if it had 
 been in my way : — Do let me see it. — Well, said she, I 
 wish poor Mr. Williams well off: I understand my master 
 is gone to make up matters with him ; which is very good. 
 To be sure, added she, he is a very good gentleman, and 
 very forgiving! — Why, said I, as if I had known nothing 
 of the matter, how can he make up matters with him ? Is 
 not Mr. Williams at Stamford ? Yes, said she, I believe so ; 
 but Parson Peters pleads for him, and he is gone with him 
 to Stamford, and will not be back to-night: so we have 
 nothing to do, but to eat our suppers betimes, and go to 
 bed. Ay, that's pure, said I ; and I shall have good rest 
 this night, I hope. So, said she, you might every night, 
 but for your own idle fears. You are afraid of your friends, 
 when none are near you. Ay, that's true, said I ; for I 
 have not one near me. 
 
 So I have one more good honest night before me : 
 What the next may be I know not, and so I'll try to 
 take in a good deal of sleep, while I can be a little easy. 
 Therefore, here I say. Good night, my dear parents ; for I 
 have no more to write about this night: and though his 
 letter shocks me, yet I will be as brisk as I can, that she 
 mayn't suspect I have seen it. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 333 
 
 Tuesday night. 
 
 For the future, I will always mistrust most when appear- 
 ances look fairest. Oh your poor daughter ! what has she 
 not suffered since what I wrote on Sunday night ! — My 
 worst trial, and my fearfullest danger ! Oh how I sLudder 
 to write you an account of this wicked interval of time ! 
 For, my dear parents, will you not be too much frightened 
 and affected with my distress, when I tell you, that his 
 journey to Stamford was all abominable pretence ! for he 
 came home privately, and had well nigh effected all his 
 vile purposes, and the ruin of your poor daughter ! and 
 that by such a plot as I was not in the least apprehensive 
 of : And, oh ! you'll hear what a vile and unwomanly part 
 that wicked wretch, Mrs. Jewkes, acted in it ! 
 
 I left off with letting you know how much I was pleased 
 that I had one night's reprieve added to my honesty. But 
 I had less occasion to rejoice than ever, as you will judge by 
 what I have said already. Take, then, the dreadful story, 
 as well as I can relate it. 
 
 The maid Nan is a little apt to drink, if she can get at 
 liquor j and Mrs. Jewkes happened, or designed, as is too 
 probable, to leave a bottle of cherry-brandy in her way, and 
 the wench drank some of it more than she should; and 
 when she came in to lay the cloth, Mrs. Jewkes. perceived 
 it, and fell a rating at her most sadly ; for she has too 
 many faults of her own, to suffer any of the like sort in any- 
 body else, if she can help it ; and she bid her get out of her 
 sight, when we had supped, and go to bed, to sleep off her 
 liquor, before we came to bed. And so the poor maid went 
 muttering upstairs. 
 
 About two hours after, which was near eleven o'clock, 
 Mrs. Jewkes and I went up to go to bed ; I pleasing myself 
 with what a charming night I should have. We locked 
 both doors, and saw poor Nan, as I thought (but, oh ! 'twas 
 my abominable master, as you shall hear by and by), sittmg 
 fast asleep, in an elbow-chair, in a dark corner of the room, 
 with her apron thrown over her head and neck. And Mrs. 
 
224 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Jewkes said. There is that beast of a wench fast asleep, 
 instead of being a-bed ! I knew, said she, she had taken a 
 fine dose. I'll wake her, said I. No, don't, said she ; let 
 her sleep on ; we shall lie better without her. Ay, said I, 
 so we shall ; but won't she get cold ? 
 
 Said she, I hope you have no writing to-night. No, 
 replied I, I will go to bed with you, Mrs. Jewkes. Said she, 
 I wonder, what you can find to write about so much ! and 
 am sure you have better conveniencies of that kind, and 
 more paper than I am aware of: and I had intended to 
 rummage you, if my master had not come down ; for I 
 spied a broken tea-cup with ink, which gave me suspicion : 
 but as he is come, let him look after you, if he will; and if 
 you deceive him, it will be his own fault. 
 
 All this time we were undressing ourselves : And I fetched 
 a deep sigh ! What do you sigh for ? said she. I am 
 thinking, Mrs. Jewkes, answered I, what a sad life I live, 
 and how hard is my lot. I am sure, the thief that has 
 robbed is much better off than I, 'bating the guilt ; and I 
 should, I think, take it for a mercy, to be hanged out of 
 the way, rather than live in these cruel apprehensions. So, 
 being not sleepy, and in a prattling vein, I began to give a 
 little history of myself, as I did, once before, to Mrs. Jervis; 
 in this manner : 
 
 Here, said I, were my poor honest parents ; they took 
 care to instil good principles into my mind, till I was 
 almost twelve years of age ; and taught me to prefer good- 
 ness and poverty to the highest condition of life ; and they 
 confirmed their lessons by their own practice ; for they 
 ■^were, of late years, remarkably poor, and always as remark- 
 ably honest, even to a proverb : for, As honest as goodman 
 Andrews, was a byeword. 
 
 Well then, said I, comes my late dear good lady, and 
 takes a fancy to me, and said, she would be the making of 
 me, if I was a good girl ; and she put me to sing, to dance, 
 to play on the spinnet, in order to divert her melancholy 
 hours ; and also taught me all manner of fine needle-work • 
 but still this was her lesson, My good Pamela, he virtuous 
 
VIRTUE REWjIRDED. 225 
 
 and keep the men at a distance. Well, so I was, I hope, 
 and so I did ; and yet, though I say it, they all loved me 
 and respected me ; and would do anything for me, as if I 
 was a gentlewoman. 
 
 But, then, what comes next ? — Why, it pleased God to 
 take my good lady ; and then comes my master : and 
 what says he? — Why in effect, it is, Be not virtuous, 
 Pamela. 
 
 So here I have lived about sixteen years in virtue and 
 reputation ; and all at once, when I come to know what is 
 good, and what is evil, I must renounce all the good, all 
 the whole sixteen years' innocence, which, next to God's 
 grace, I owed chiefly to my parents, and my lady's good 
 lessons and examples, and choose the evil ; and so, in a 
 moment's time, become the vilest of creatures ! And all 
 this, for what, I pray ? Why, truly, for a pair of diamond 
 earrings, a necklace, and a diamond ring for my finger; 
 which would not become me : for a few paltry fine 
 clothes, which, when I wore them, would make but my 
 former poverty more ridiculous to everybody that saw me ; 
 especially when they knew the base terms I wore them 
 upon. But, indeed, I was to have a great parcel of guineas 
 besides ; I forget how many ; for had there been ten times 
 more, they would have been not so much to me, as the 
 honest six guineas you tricked me out of, Mrs. Jewkes. 
 
 Well, forsooth ! but then I was to have I know not how 
 many pounds a year for my life ; and my poor father (there 
 was the jest of it !) was to be the manager for the aban- 
 doned prostitute his daughter: and then (there was the 
 jest again!) my kind, forgiving, virtuous master, would 
 pardon me all my misdeeds ! 
 
 Yes, thank him for nothing, truly. And what, pray, are 
 all these violent misdeeds ?— Why, they are for daring to 
 adhere to the good lessons that were taught mej and not 
 learning a new one, that would have reversed all my former : 
 for not being contented when I was run away with, in 
 order to be ruined ; but contriving, if my poor wits had 
 been able, to get out of dainger, and preserve myself honest. 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
326 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Then was he once jealous of poor John, though he knew 
 John was his own creature, and helped to deceive me. 
 
 Then was he outrageous against poor Parson Williams ! 
 and him has his good, merciful master thrown into gaol ; 
 and for what ? Why, truly, for that, being a divine^ and a 
 good man, he had the fear of God before his eyes, and was 
 willing to forego all his expectations of interest, and assist 
 an oppressed poor creature. 
 
 But, to be sure, I must be forward, bold, saucy, and what 
 not ! to dare to run away from certain ruin, and to strive to 
 escape from an unjust confinement; and I must be married 
 to the parson, nothing so sure ! 
 
 He would have had but a poor catch of me, had I 
 consented : but he, and you too, know I did not want to 
 marry anybody. I only wanted to go to my poor parents, 
 and to have my own liberty, and not to be confined by such 
 an unlawful restraint ; and which would not have been 
 inflicted upon me, but only that I am a poor, destitute 
 young body, and have no friend that is able to right me. 
 
 So, Mrs. Jewkes, said I, here is my history in brief. And 
 I am a very unhappy young creature, to be sure ! — And 
 why am I so ? — ^Why, because my master sees something in 
 my person that takes his present fancy; and because I 
 would not be undone. — Why, therefore to choose, I must, 
 and I shall be undone ! — And this is all the reason that can 
 ..^e given ! 
 
 She heard me run on all this time, while I was undressing, 
 without any interruption ; and I said. Well, I must go to 
 the two closets, ever since an affair of the closet at the other 
 house, though he is so far off. And I have a good mind to 
 wake this poor maid. No, don't, said she, I charge you. I 
 am very angry with her, and she'll get no harm there ; and 
 if she wakes, she may come to bed well enough, as long as 
 there is a candle in the chimney. 
 
 So I looked into the closet, and kneeled down in my own, 
 as I used to do, to say my prayers, and this with my under- 
 clothes in my hand, all undressed ; and passed by the poor 
 sleeping wench, as I thought, in my return. But, oh ! little 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 227 
 
 did I think it was my wicked^ wicked master, in a gown 
 and petticoat of hers, and her apron over his face and 
 shoulders. What meanness will not Lucifer make his 
 v^aries stoop to, to gain their abominable ends ! 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes, by this time, was got to bed, on the farther 
 side, as she used to be ; and, to make room for the maid, 
 when she should awake^ I got into bed, and lay close to her. 
 And I said. Where are the keys ? though, said I, I am not 
 so much afraid to-night. Here, said the wicked woman^ 
 put your arm under mine, and you shall find them about 
 my wrist, as they used to be. So I did, and the abominable 
 designer held my hand with her right hand, as my right arm 
 was under her left. 
 
 In less than a quarter of an hour, I said. There's poor 
 Nan awake ; I hear her stir. Let us go to sleep, said she, 
 and not mind her: she'll come to bed, when she's quite 
 awake. Poor soul ! said I, I'll warrant she will have the 
 head-ache finely to-morrow for this ! Be silent, said she, and 
 go to sleep ; you keep me awake ; and I never found you in 
 so talkative a humour in my life. Don't chide me, said I ; 
 I will but say one thing more : Do you think Nan could 
 hear me talk of my master's offers? No, no, said she; she 
 was dead asleep. I'm glad of that, said I ; because I would 
 not expose my master to his common servants ; and I knew 
 you were no stranger to his Jine articles. Said she, I think 
 they wevejine articles, and you were bewitched you did not 
 close with them : but let us go to sleep. So I was silent ? 
 and the pretended Nan (oh wicked, base, villainous designer ! 
 what a plot, what an unexpected plot was this !) seemed to 
 be awaking; and Mrs. Jewkes, abhorred creature! said. 
 Come, Nan:— what, are you awake at last ?—Pr'ythee come 
 to bed ; for Mrs. Pamela is in a talking fit, and won't go to 
 sleep one while. 
 
 At that, the pretended she came to the bedside; and, 
 sitting down in a chair, where the curtain hid her, began to 
 undress. Said I, Poor Mrs. Anne, I warrant your head 
 aches most sadly ! How do you do ?— She answered not a. 
 word. Said the superlatively wicked woman, You know I 
 
238 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 have ordered her not to answer you. And this plot, to be 
 sure, was laid when she gave her these orders the night 
 before. 
 
 I heard her, as I thought, breathe all quick and short : 
 Indeed, said I, Mrs. Jewkes, the poor maid is not well. 
 What ails you, Mrs. Anne ? And still no answer was made. 
 
 But, I tremble to relate it ! the pretended she came into 
 bed, but trembled like an aspen-leaf ; and I, poor fool that 
 I was! pitied her much — but well might the barbarous 
 deceiver tremble at his vile dissimulation, and base designs. 
 
 What words shall I find, my dear mother (for my father 
 should not see this shocking part), to describe the rest, and 
 my confusion, when the guilty wretch took my left arm, and 
 laid it under his neck, and the vile procuress held my right ; 
 and then he clasped me round the waist ! 
 
 Said I, is the wench mad ? Why, how now, confidence ! 
 thinking still it had been Nan. But he kissed me with 
 frightful vehemence ; and then his voice broke upon me 
 like a clap of thunder. Now, Pamela, said he, is the dread- 
 ful time of reckoning come, that I have threatened. — I 
 screamed out in such a manner, as never anybody heard 
 the like. But there was nobody to help me : and both my 
 hands were secured, as I said. Sure never poor soul was in 
 such agonies as I. Wicked man ! said I ; wicked abominable 
 woman ! O God ! my God ! this time ! this one time ! deliver 
 me from this distress ! or strike me dead this moment ! And 
 then I screamed again and again. 
 
 Says he. One word with you, Pamela ; one word hear me 
 but ; and hitherto you see I offer nothing to you. Is this 
 nothing, said I, to be in bed here ? to hold my hands be- 
 tween you ! I will hear, if you will instantly leave the bed, 
 and take this villainous woman from me ! 
 
 Said she (oh disgrace of womankind !), What you do, sir, 
 do ; don't stand dilly-dallying. She cannot exclaim worse 
 than she has done : and sh'e'll be quieter, when she knows 
 the worst. 
 
 Silence ! said he to her ; I must say one word to you, 
 Pamela ! it is this : You see now you are in my power ! — 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 229 
 
 You cannot get from me^ nor help yourself: yet have I not 
 offered anything amiss to you. But if you resolve not to 
 comply with my proposals, I will not lose this opportunity : 
 if you do, I will yet leave you. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, leave me, leave me but, and I will do any- 
 thing I ought to do. — Swear then to me, said he, that you 
 will accept my proposals ! and then (for this was all detest- 
 able grimace) he put his hand in my bosom. With strug- 
 gling, fright, terror, I fainted away quite, and did not come 
 to myself soon ; so that they both, from the cold sweats that 
 I was in, thought me dying. — And I remember no more, 
 than that, when with great difficulty they brought me to 
 myself, she was sitting on one side of the bed, with her 
 clothes on ; and he on the other with his, and in his gown 
 and slippers. 
 
 Your poor Pamela cannot answer for the liberties taken 
 with her in her deplorable state of death. And when I saw 
 them there, I sat up in my bed, without any regard to what 
 appearance I made, and nothing about my neck ; and he 
 soothing me, with an aspect of pity and concern, I put my 
 hand to his mouth, and said. Oh tell me, yet tell me not, 
 what have I suffered in this distress ? And I talked quite 
 wild, and knew not what; for, to be sure, I was on the 
 point of distraction. 
 
 He most solemnly, and with a bitter imprecation, vowed 
 that he had not offered the least indecency ; that he was 
 frightened at the terrible manner I was taken with the fit ; 
 that he should desist from his attempt ; and begged but to 
 see me easy and quiet, and he would leave me directly, and 
 go to his own bed. Oh then, said I, take with you this most 
 wicked woman, this vile Mrs. Jewkes, as an earnest that I 
 may believe you ! 
 
 And will you, sir, said the wicked wretch, for a fit or two, 
 give up such an opportunity as this ?— I thought you had 
 known the sex better. She is now, you see, quite well 
 
 again ! 
 
 This I heard; more she might say; but I fainted away 
 once more, at these words, and at his clasping his arms 
 
23° 
 
 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 about me again. And, when I came a little to myself, I 
 saw him sit there, and the maid Nan, holding a smelling- 
 bottle to my nose, and no Mrs. Jewkes. 
 
 He said, taking my hand. Now will I vow to you, my 
 dear Pamela, that I will leave you the moment I see you 
 better, and pacified. Here's Nan knows, and will tell you, 
 my concern for you. I vow to God, I have not offered any 
 indecency to you : and, since I found Mrs. Jewkes so 
 offensive to you, I have sent her to the maid's bed, and the 
 maid shall lie with you to-night. And but promise me that 
 you will compose yourself, and I will leave you. But, said 
 I, will not Nan also hold my hand ? And will not she let 
 you come in again to me? — He said. By heaven ! I will not 
 come in again to-night. Nan, undress yourself, go to bed, 
 and do all you can to comfort the dear creature : And now, 
 Pamela, said he, give me but your hand, and say you forgive 
 me, and I will leave you to your repose. I held out my 
 trembling hand, which he vouchsafed to kiss; and I said, 
 God forgive you, sir, as you have been just in my distress; 
 and as you will be just to what you promise ! And he 
 withdrew, with a countenance of remorse, as I hoped j and 
 she shut the doors, and, at my request, brought the keys 
 to bed. 
 
 This, oh my dear parents ! was a most dreadful trial. I 
 tremble still to think of it ; and dare not recall all the 
 horrid circumstances of it. I hope, as he assures me, he 
 was not guilty of indecency ; but have reason to bless God, 
 who, by disabling me in my faculties, empowered me to 
 preserve my innocence ; and, when all my strength would 
 have signified nothing, magnified himself in my weakness. 
 
 I was so weak all day on Monday, that I could not get 
 out of my bed. My master showed great tenderness for 
 me ; and I hope he is really sorry, and that this will be his 
 last attempt ; but he does not say so neither. 
 
 He came in the morning, as soon as he heard the door 
 open : and I began to be fearful. He stopped short of the 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 231 
 
 bed, and said, Rather than give you apprehensions, I will 
 come no farther. I said. Your honour, sir, and your mercy, 
 is all I have to beg. He sat himself on the side of the 
 bed, and asked kindly, how I did !— begged me to be com- 
 posed ; said, I still looked a little wildly. And I said. 
 Pray, good sir, let me not see this infamous Mrs. Jewkes ; 
 I doubt I cannot bear her sight. She shan't come near 
 you all this day, if you'll promise to compose yourself. 
 Then, sir, I will try. He pressed my hand very tenderly, 
 and went out. What a change does this show ! — Oh may 
 it be lasting ! — But, alas ! he seems only to have altered 
 his method of proceeding ; and retains, I doubt, his wicked 
 purpose. 
 
 On Tuesday, about ten o'clock, when my master heard 
 I was up, he sent for me down into the parlour. As soon 
 as he saw me, he said. Come nearer to me, Pamela. I did 
 so, and he took my hand, and said, You begin to look 
 well again : I am glad of it. You little slut, how did you 
 frighten me on Sunday night ! 
 
 Sir, said I, pray name not that night ; and my eyes over- 
 flowed at the remembrance, and I turned my head aside. 
 
 Said he. Place some little confidence in me : I know 
 what those charming eyes mean, and you shall not need to 
 explain yourself: for I do assure you, that as soon as I saw 
 you change, and a cold sweat bedew your pretty face, and 
 you fainted away, I quitted the bed, and Mrs. Jewkes did 
 so too. And I put on my gown, and she fetched her smell- 
 ing-bottle, and we both did all we could to restore you ; 
 and my passion for you was all swallowed up in the con- 
 cern I had for your recovery ; for I thought I never saw a 
 fit so strong and violent in my life : and feared we should 
 not bring you to life again ; for what I saw you in once 
 before was nothing to it. This, said he, might be my folly, 
 and my unacquaintedness with what passion your sex can 
 show when they are in earnest. But this I repeat to you, 
 that your mind may be entirely comforted — whatever I 
 offered to you, was before you fainted away, and that, I am 
 sure, was innocent. 
 
233 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Sir^ said I, that was very bad : and it was too plain you 
 had the worst designs. When, said he, I tell you the truth 
 in one instance, you may believe me in the other. I know 
 not, I declare, beyond this lovely bosom, your sex: but 
 that I did intend what you call the worst is most certain : 
 and though I would not too much alarm you now, I could 
 curse my weakness, and my folly, which makes me own, 
 that I love you beyond all your sex, and cannot live with- 
 out you. But if I am master of myself, and my own 
 resolution, I will not attempt to force you to anything 
 again. 
 
 Sir, said I, you may easily keep your resolution, if you'll 
 send me out of your way, to my poor parents ; that is all 
 I beg. 
 
 'Tis a folly to talk of it, said he. You must not, shall 
 not go ! And if I could be assured you would not attempt 
 it, you should have better usage, and your confinement 
 should be made easier to you. 
 
 But to what end, sir, am I to stay ? said I : You your- 
 self seem not sure you can keep your own present good 
 resolutions; and do you think, if I was to stay, when I 
 could get away, and be safe, it would not look, as if either I 
 confided too much in my own strength, or would tempt my 
 ruin ? And as if I was not in earnest to wish myself safe, 
 and out of danger ? — And then, how long am I to stay ? 
 And to what purpose ? And in what light must I appear 
 to the world ? Would not that censure me, although I 
 might be innocent ? And you will allow, sir, that, if there 
 be anything valuable or exemplary in a good name, or 
 fair reputation, one must not despise the world's censure, if 
 one can avoid it. 
 
 Well, said he, I sent not for you on this account, just 
 now ; but for two reasons. The first is. That you promise 
 me, that for a fortnight to come you will not offer to go 
 away without my express consent ; and this I expect for 
 yozir own sake, that I may give you a little more liberty. 
 And the second is, that you will see and forgive Mrs. 
 Jewkes : she takes on much, and thinks that, as all her 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 233 
 
 fault was her obedience to me, it would be very hard to 
 sacrifice her, as she calls it, to your resentment. 
 
 As to the first, sir, said I, it is a hard injunction, for the 
 reasons I have mentioned. And as to the second, consider- 
 ing her vile, unwomanly wickedness, and her endeavours 
 to instigate you more to ruin me, when your returning 
 goodness seemed to have some compassion upon me, it is 
 still harder. But, to show my obedience to your com- 
 mands (for you know, my dear parents, I might as well 
 make a merit of my compliance, when my refusal would 
 stand me in no stead), I will consent to both ; and to every- 
 thing else, that you shall be pleased to enjoin, which I can 
 do with innocence. 
 
 That^s my good girl ! said he, and kissed me : This is 
 quite prudent, and shows me, that you don't take insolent 
 advantage of my favour for you ; and will, perhaps, stand 
 you in more stead than you are aware of. 
 
 So Tie rung the bell, and said, Call down Mrs. Jewkes. 
 She came down, and he took my hand, and put it into hers ; 
 and said, Mrs. Jewkes, I am obliged to you for all your 
 diligence and fidelity to me; but Pamela, I must own, is 
 not; because the service I employed you in was not so very 
 obliging to her, as I could have wished she would have 
 thought it : and you were not to favour her, but obey me. 
 But yet I'll assure you, at the very first word, she has once 
 obliged me, by consenting to be friends with you ; and if 
 she gives me no great cause, I shall not, perhaps, put you 
 on such disagreeable service again. — Now, therefore, be you 
 once more bed-fellows and board-fellows, as I may say, 
 for some days longer ; and see that Pamela sends no letters 
 nor messages out of the house, nor keeps a correspondence 
 unknown to me, especially with that Williams; and, as 
 for the rest, show the dear girl all the respect that is due 
 to one I must love, if she will deserve it, as I hope she 
 will yet; and let her be under no unnecessary or harsh 
 restraints. But your watchful care is not, however, to 
 cease ; and remember that you are not to disoblige me, to 
 oblige her ; and that I will not, cannot, yet part with her. 
 
234 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes looked very sullen, and as if she would be 
 glad still to do me a good turn, if it lay in her power. 
 
 I took courage then to drop a word or two for poor Mr. 
 Williams; but he was angry with me for it, and said he 
 could not endure to hear his name in my mouth ; so I was 
 forced to have done for that time. 
 
 All this time, my papers, that I buried under the rosebush, 
 lay there still ; and I begged for leave to send a letter to 
 you. ■ So I should, he said, if he might read it first. But 
 this did not answer my design; and yet I would have sent 
 you such a letter as he might see, if I had been sure my 
 danger was over. But that I cannot; for he now seems 
 to take another method, and what I am more afraid of, 
 because, may be, he may watch an opportunity, and join 
 force with it, on occasion, when I am least prepared : for 
 now he seems to abound with kindness, and talks of love 
 without reserve, and makes nothing of allowing himself in 
 the liberty of kissing me, which he calls innocent; but 
 which I do not like, and especially in the manner he does 
 it : but for a master to do it at all to a servant has meaning 
 too much in it, not to alarm an honest body. 
 
 Wednesday morning. 
 I FIND I am watched and suspected still very close; and I 
 wish I was with you ; but that must not be, it seems, this 
 fortnight. I don't like this fortnight; and it will be a 
 tedious and a dangerous one to me, I doubt. 
 
 My master just now sent for me down to take a walk 
 with him in the garden : but I like him not at all, nor his 
 ways ; for he would have, all the way, his arm about my 
 waist, and said abundance of fond things to me, enough 
 to make me proud, if his design had not been apparent. 
 After walking about, he led me into a little alcove, on the 
 farther part of the garden; and really made me afraid of 
 myself, for he began to be very teasing, and made me sit on 
 his knee ; and was so often kissing me, that I said. Sir I 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 235 
 
 don't like to be here at all, I assure you. Indeed you make 
 me afraid ! — And what made me the more so, was what he 
 once said to Mrs. Jewkes, and did not think I heard him, 
 and which, though always uppermost with me, I did not 
 mention before, because I did not know how to bring it in, 
 in my writing. 
 
 She, I suppose, had been encouraging him in his wicked- 
 ness ; for it was before the last dreadful trial : and I only 
 heard what he answered. 
 
 Said he, I will try once more ; but I have begun wrong : 
 for I see terror does but add to her frost ; but she is a 
 charming girl, and may be thawed by kindness ; and I 
 should have melted her by love, instead of freezing her by 
 fear. 
 
 Is he not a wicked, sad man for this ? — To be sure, I 
 blush while I write it. But I trust that that God, who has 
 delivered me from the paw of the lion and the bear ; that is, 
 his and Mrs. Jewkes' violences, will soon deliver me from 
 this Philistine, that I may not defy the commands oj the 
 living God ! 
 
 But as I was saying, this expression coming into my 
 thoughts, I was of opinion, I could not be too much on my 
 guard, at all times : more especially when he took such 
 liberties : for he professed honour all the time with his 
 mouth, while his actions did not correspond. I begged 
 and prayed he would let me go : and had I not appeared 
 quite regardless of all he said, and resolved not to stay, if 
 I could help it, I know not how far he would have pro- 
 ceeded ; for I was forced to fall down upon my knees. 
 
 At last he walked out with me, still bragging of his honour 
 and his love. Yes, yes, sir, said I, your honour is to destroy 
 mine: and your love is to ruin mej I see it too plainly. 
 But, indeed, I will not walk with you, sir, said I, any more. 
 Do you know, said he, whom you talk to, and where 
 
 you are ? 
 
 You may believe I had reason to think him not so decent 
 as he should bej for I said. As to where I am, sir, I know 
 it too well ; and that I have no creature to befriend me : 
 
236 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 and, as to whom I talk to, sir, let me ask you, what you 
 would have me answer ? 
 
 Why, tell me, said he, what answer you would make ? 
 It will only make you angry, said I ; and so I shall fare 
 worse, if possible. I won't be angry, said he. Why then, 
 sir, said I, you cannot be my late good lady's son ; for she 
 loved me, and. taught me virtue. You cannot then be my 
 master ; for no master demeans himself so to his poor 
 servant. 
 
 He put his arm round me, and his other hand on my 
 neck, which made me more angry and bold : and he said. 
 What then am I ? Why, said I (struggling from him, and 
 in a great passion), to be sure you are Lucifer himself, in 
 the shape of my master, or you could not use me thus. 
 These are too great liberties, said he, in anger ; and I 
 desire that you will not repeat them, for your own sake : 
 For if you have no decency towards me I'll have none 
 towards you. 
 
 I was running from him, and he said. Come back, when 
 I bid you. — So, knowing every place was alike dangerous 
 to me, and I had nobody to run to, I came back, at his 
 call; and seeing him look displeased, I held my hands 
 together, and wept, and said. Pray, sir, forgive me. No, 
 said he, rather say, Pray, Lucifer, forgive me ! And, now, 
 since you take me for the devil, how can you expect any 
 good frond me? — How, rather, can you expect anything 
 but the worst treatment from me? — You have given me 
 a character, Pamela; and blame me not that I act up 
 to it. 
 
 Sir, said I, let me beg you to forgive me : I am really 
 sorry for my boldness ; but indeed you don't use me like a 
 gentleman : and how can I express my resentment, if I 
 mince the matter, while you are so indecent ? 
 
 Precise fool ! said he, what indecencies have I offered 
 you ? — I was bewitched I had not gone through my pur- 
 pose last Sunday night; and then your licentious tongue 
 had not given the worst name to little puny freedoms that 
 show my love and my folly at the same time. But, begone 
 
FIRTUE REWARDED. 337 
 
 said he, taking my hand, and tossing it from him, and learn 
 another conduct and more wit; and I will lay aside my 
 foolish regard for you, and assert myself. Begone ! said he, 
 again, with a haughty air. 
 
 Indeed, sir, said I, I cannot go, till you pardon me, 
 which I beg on my bended knees. I am truly sorry for my 
 boldness, — but I see how you go on : you creep by little 
 and little upon me ; and now soothe me, and now threaten 
 me ; and if I should forbear to show my resentment, when 
 you offer incivilities to me, would not that be to be lost by 
 degrees ? Would it not show, that I could bear anything 
 from you, if I did not express all the indignation I could 
 express, at the first approaches you make to what I dread ? 
 And have you not as good as avowed my ruin ? — And have 
 you once made me hope you will quit your purposes against 
 me ? How then, sir, can I act, but by showing my abhorrence 
 of every step that makes towards my undoing ? And what is 
 left me but words ? — And can these words be other than 
 such strong ones, as shall show the detestation which, from 
 the bottom of my heart, I have for every attempt upon my 
 virtue ? Judge for me, sir, and pardon me. 
 
 Pardon you ! said he, what ! when you don't repent ? 
 — When you have the boldness to justify yourself in your 
 fault ; why don't you say, you never will again offend me ? 
 I will endeavour, sir, said I, always to preserve that decency 
 towards you which becomes me. But really, sir, I must beg 
 your excuse for saying. That when you forget what belongs 
 to decency in your actions, and when words are all that are 
 left me, to shew my resentment of such actions, I will not 
 promise to forbear the strongest expressions that my distressed 
 mind shall suggest to me: nor shall your angriest frowns 
 deter me, when my honesty is in question. 
 
 What, then, said he, do you beg pardon for ? Where is 
 the promise of amendment, for which I should forgive you? 
 Indeed, sir, said I, I own that must absolutely depend on 
 your usage of me : for I will bear anything you can inflict 
 upon me with patience, even to the laying down of my life, 
 to show my obedience to you in other cases ; But I cannot 
 
338 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 be patient, I cannot be passive, when my virtue is at stake ! 
 It would be criminal in me, if I was. 
 
 He said, he never saw such a fool in his life. And he 
 walked by the side of me some yards without saying a word, 
 and seemed vexed ; and at last walked in, bidding me attend 
 him in the garden, after dinner. So having a little time, I 
 went up, and wrote thus far. ^ 
 
 Y 
 
 Wednesday night. 
 If, my dear parents, I am not destined more surely than 
 ever for ruin, I have now more comfort before me than ever 
 I yet knew: and am either nearer my happiness, or my 
 misery, than ever I was. God protect me from the latter, 
 if it be His blessed will 1 I have now such a scene to open to 
 you, that, I know, will alarm both your hopes and your fears, 
 as it does mine. And this it is : — 
 
 After my master had dined, he took a turn into the stables 
 to look at his stud of horses ; and, when he came in, he 
 opened the parlour-door, where Mrs. Jewkes and I sat at 
 dinner ; and, at his entrance, we both rose up; but he said, 
 Sit still, sit still, and let me see how you eat your victuals, 
 Pamela. Oh, said Mrs. Jewkes, very poorly, indeed, sir ! No, 
 said I, pretty well, sir, considering. None of your consider- 
 ings, said he, pretty face ; and tapped me on the cheek. I 
 blushed, but was glad he was so good-humoured ; but I could 
 not tell how to sit before him, nor to behave myself. So he 
 said, I know, Pamela, you are a nice carver : my mother 
 used to say so. My lady, sir, said I, was very good to me in 
 everything, and would always make me do the honours of 
 her table for her, when she was with her few select friends 
 that she loved. Cut up, said he, that chicken. I did so. 
 Now, said he, and took a knife and fork, and put a wing 
 upon my plate, let me see you eat that. Oh, sir, said I, I 
 have eaten a whole breast of chicken already, and cannot 
 eat so much. But he said, I must eat it for his sake^and he 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 239 
 
 would teach me to eat heartily. So I did eat it ; but was 
 much confused at his so kind and unusual freedom and con- 
 descension. And good lack ! you can't imagine how Mrs. 
 Jewkes looked and stared^ and how respectful she seemed to 
 me, and called me good madam, I'll assure you, urging me 
 to take a little bit of tart. 
 
 My master took two or three turns about the room, mus- 
 ing and thoughtful, as I had never before seen him ; and 
 at last he went out, saying, I am going into the garden : 
 you know, Pamela, what I said to you before dinner. I 
 rose, and courtesied, saying, I would attend his honour ; and 
 he said, Do, good girl ! 
 
 Well, said Mrs Jewkes, I see how things will go. O 
 madam, as she called me again, I am sure you are to be our 
 mistress ! And then I know what will become of me. Ah ! 
 Mrs. Jewkes, said I, if I can but keep myself virtuous, 'tis 
 the most of my ambition ; and, I hope, no temptation shall 
 make me otherwise. 
 
 Notwithstanding I had no reason to be pleased with his 
 treatment of nie before dinner, yet I made haste to attend 
 him ; and I found him walking by the side of that pond, 
 which for want of grace, and through a sinful despondence, 
 had like to have been so fatal to me, and the sight of which, 
 ever since, has been a trouble and reproach to me. And it 
 was by the side of this pond, and not far from the place 
 where I had that dreaded conflict, that my present hopes, if 
 I am not to be deceived again, began to dawn: which I pre- 
 sume to flatter myself with being a happy omen for me, as 
 if God Almighty would show your poor sinful daughter how 
 well I did to put my affiance in his goodness, and not to 
 throw away myself, because my ruin seemed inevitable, to 
 my short-sighted apprehension. 
 
 So he was pleased to say. Well, Pamela, I am glad you 
 a^ come of your own accord, as I may say : give me your 
 hind. I did so ; and he looked at me very steadily, and 
 pressing my hand all the time, at last said, I will now talk 
 to you in a serious manner. 
 
 You have a good deal of wit, a great deal of penetration 
 
240 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 much beyond your years, and, as I thought, your opportu- 
 nities. You are possessed of an open, frank, and generous 
 mind ; and a person so lovely, that you excel all your sexj 
 in my eyes. All these accomplishments have engaged my 
 affections so deeply, that, as I have often said, I cannot live 
 without you ; and I would divide, with all my soul, my 
 estate with you, to make you mine upon my own terms. 
 These you have absolutely rejected ; and that, though in 
 saucy terms enough, yet in such a manner as makes me 
 admire you the more. Your pretty chit-chat to Mrs. 
 Jewkes, the last Sunday night, so innocent, and so full of 
 beautiful simplicity, half disarmed my resolution before I 
 approached your bed : and I see you so watchful over your 
 virtue, that though I hoped to find it otherwise, I cannot 
 but confess my passion for you is increased by it. But now 
 what shall I say farther, Pamela ? — I will make you, though 
 a party, my adviser in this matter, though not, perhaps, my 
 definitive judge. 
 
 You know I am not a very abandoned profligate; I have 
 hitherto been guilty of no very enormous or vile actions. 
 This of seizing you, and confining you thus, may perhaps be 
 one of the worst, at least to persons of real innocence. Had 
 I been utterly given up to my passions, I should before now 
 have gratified them, and not have shown that remorse and 
 compassion for you, which have reprieved you, more than 
 once, when absolutely in my power; and you are as inviolate 
 a virgin as you were when you came into my house. 
 
 But what can I do ? Consider the pride of my condition. 
 I cannot endure the thought of marriage, even with a 
 person of equal or superior degree to myself; and have 
 declined several proposals of that kind. How then, with 
 the distance between us in the world's judgment^ can I 
 think of making you my wife ? — Yet I must have you ; I 
 cannot bear the thoughts of any other man supplanting 
 me in your affections : and the very apprehension of that 
 has made me hate the name of Williams, and use him in 
 a manner unworthy of my temper. 
 
 Now, Pamela, judge for me ; and, since I have told you. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 241 
 
 thus candidly, my mind, and I see yours is big with some 
 important meaning, by your eyes, your blushes, and that 
 sweet confusion which I behold struggling in your bosom, 
 tell me, with like openness and candour, what you think 
 I ought to do, and what you would have me do. 
 
 It is impossible for me to express the agitations of my 
 mind, on this unexpected declaration, so contrary to his 
 former behaviour. His manner too had something so 
 noble, and so sincere, as I thought, that, alas for me ! I 
 found I had need of all my poor discretion, to ward off the 
 blow which this treatment gave to my most guarded^ 
 thoughts. I threw myself at his feet ; for I trembled, and 
 could hardly stand : Oh, sir, said I, spare your poor servant's 
 confusion 1 Oh spare the poor Pamela ! — Speak out, said 
 he, and tell me, when I bid you, what you think I ought 
 to do ? I cannot say what you ought to do, answered I : 
 but I only beg you will not ruin me ; and, if you think me 
 virtuous, if you think me sincerely honest, let me go to my 
 poor jiarents. I will vow to you, that I will never suffer 
 myself to be engaged without your approbation. 
 
 Still he insisted upon a more explicit answer to his 
 question, of what I thought he ought to do. And I said. 
 As to my poor thoughts of what you ought to do, I must 
 needs say, that indeed I think you ought to regard the 
 world's opinion, and avoid doing anything disgraceful to 
 your birth and fortune ; and, therefore, if you really honour 
 the poor Pamela with your respect, a little time, absence, 
 and the conversation of worthier persons of my sex, will 
 effectually enable you to overcome a regard so unworthy 
 your condition : And this, good sir, is the best advice I 
 
 can offer. 
 
 Charming creature! lovely Pamela! said he (with an 
 ardour that was never before so agreeable to me), this 
 generous manner is of a piece with all the rest of your con- 
 duct. But tell me, still more explicitly, what you would 
 advise me to, in the case. 
 
 Oh, sir 1 said I, take not advantage of my credulity, and 
 these 'my weak moments : but were I the first lady in the 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
343 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 land, instead of the poor abject Pamela, I would, I could 
 tell you. But I can say no more 
 
 Oh my dear father and mother! now I know you will 
 indeed be concerned for me ; — for now I am for myself. — 
 And now I begin to be afraid I know too well the reason 
 why all his hard trials of me, and my black apprehensions, 
 would not let me hate him. 
 
 But be assured still, by Goti's grace, that I shall do 
 nothing unworthy of your Pamela; and if I find that he 
 is still capable of deceiving me, and that this conduct is 
 only put on to delude me more, I shall think nothing in 
 this world so vile, and so odious ; and nothing, if 'he be 
 not the worst of his kind (as he says, and, I hope, he is 
 not), so desperately guileful, as the heart of man. 
 
 He generously said, I will spare your confusion, Pamela. 
 But I hope I may promise myself, that you can love me 
 preferably to any other man ; and that no one in the world 
 has had any share in your affections ; for I am very jealous 
 • of what I love ; and if I thought you had a secret whisper- 
 ing in your soul, that had not yet come up to a wish, for 
 any other man breathing, I should not forgive myself to 
 persist in my affection for you; nor you, if you did not 
 frankly acquaint me with it. 
 
 As I still continued on my knees, on the grass border 
 by the pond-side, he sat himself down on the grass by me, 
 and took me in his arms: Why hesitates my Pamela? 
 said he. — Can you not answer me with truth, as I wish ? 
 If you cannot, speak, and I will forgive you. 
 
 Oh, good sir, said I, it is not that ; indeed it is not : but 
 a frightful word or two that you said^to Mrs. Jewkes, when 
 you thought I was not in hearing, comes cross my mind ; 
 and makes me dread that I am in more danger than ever I 
 was in my life. 
 
 You have never found me a common liar, said he (too 
 fearful and foolish Pamela !) — nor will I answer how long 
 I may hold in my present miijd ; for my pride struggles 
 hard within me, I'll assure you; and if you doubt me I 
 have no obligation to your confidence or opinion. Butj.at 
 
VIRTUE REJVARDED. 
 
 243 
 
 present, I am really sincere in what I say : And I expect you 
 will be so too ; and answer directly my question. 
 
 I find, sir, said I, I know not myself; and your question 
 is of such a nature^ that I only want to tell you what I 
 heard, and to have your kind answer to it; or else, what 
 I have to say to your question, may pave the way to my 
 ruin, and show a weakness that I did not believe was in me. 
 
 Well, said he, you may say what you have overheard; 
 for, in not answering me directly, you put my soul upon 
 the rack ; and half the trouble I have had with you would 
 have brought to my arms one of the finest ladies in 
 England. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, my virtue is as dear to me, as if I was of 
 the highest quality ; and my doubts (for which you know I 
 have had too much reason) have made me troublesome. 
 But now, sir, I will tell you what I heard, which has given 
 me great uneasiness. , 
 
 You talked to Mrs. Jewkes of having begun wrong with 
 me, in trying to subdue me with terror, and of frost, and 
 such like. — You remember it well : — And that you would, 
 for the future, change your conduct, and try to melt me, 
 that was your word, by kindness. 
 
 I fear not, sir, the grace of God supporting me, that any 
 acts of kindness would make me forget what I owe to my 
 virtue : but, sir, I may, I find, be made more miserable by 
 such acts, than by terror ; because my nature is too frank 
 and open to make me wish to be ungrateful: and if I 
 should be taught a lesson I never yet learnt, with what 
 regret should I descend to the grave, to think that I could 
 not hate my undoer t and that, at the last great day, I 
 must stand up as aa accuser of the poor unhappy soul, 
 that I could wish it in my power to save ! 
 
 Exalted girl! said he, what a thought is that !— Why, 
 now, Pamela, you excel yourself! You have given me a 
 hint that will hold me long. But, sweet creature, said he, 
 tell me what is this lesson, which you never yet learnt, and 
 which you are so afraid of learning ? 
 
 If, sir, said I, you will again generously spare my con- 
 
344 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 fusion, I need not speak it : But this I will say, in answer 
 to the question you seem most solicitous about, that I 
 know not the man breathing that I would wish to be 
 married to, or that ever I thought of with such an idea. I 
 had brought my mind so to love poverty, that I hoped for 
 nothing but to return to the best, though the poorest of 
 parents ; and to employ myself in serving God, and com- 
 forting them ; and you know not, sir, how you disappointed 
 those hopes, and my proposed honest pleasures, when you 
 sent me hither. 
 
 Well then, said he, I may promise myself, that neither 
 the parson, nor any other man, is any the least secret 
 motive to your steadfast refusal of my offers ? Indeed, sir, 
 said I, you may ; and, as you was pleased to ask, I answer, 
 that I have not the least shadow of a wish, or thought, for 
 any man living. 
 
 But, said he (for I am foolishly jealous, and yet it 
 shows my fondness for you), have you not encouraged 
 Williams to think you will have him ? Indeed, sir, said 
 I, I have not ; but the very contrary. And would you 
 not have had him, said he, if you had got away by his 
 means ? I had resolved, sir, said I, in my mind, other- 
 wise ; and he knew it ; and the poor man — I charge you, 
 said he, say not a word in his favour ! You will excite a 
 whirlwind in my soul, if you name -him with kindness; 
 and then you'll be borne away with the tempest. 
 
 Sir, said I, I have done! — Nay, said he, but do not 
 have done; let me know the whole. If you have any 
 regard for him, speak out; for it would end fearfully for 
 you, for me, and for him, if I found that you disguised any 
 secret of vour soul from me, in this nice particular. 
 
 Sir, said I, if I have ever given you cause to think me 
 
 sincere Say then, said he, interrupting me with great 
 
 vehemence, and taking both my hands between his, Say, 
 that yon now, in the presence of God, declare that you 
 have not any the most hidden regard for Williams, or any 
 other man. 
 
 Sir, said I, I do. As God shall bless me, and preserve 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 245 
 
 my innocence, I have not. Well, said he, I will believe 
 you, Pamela; and in time, perhaps, I may better bear 
 that man's name. And, if I am convinced that you arc 
 not prepossessed, my vanity makes me assured, that I need 
 not to fear a place in your esteem, equal, if not prefer- 
 able, to any man in England. But yet it stings my 
 pride to the quick, that you was so easily brought, and at 
 such a short acquaintance, to run away with that college 
 novice ! 
 
 Oh, good sir, said I, may I be heard one thing ? And 
 though I bring upon me your highest indignation, I will 
 tell you, perhaps, the unnecessary and imprudent, but yet 
 the whole truth. 
 
 My honesty (I am poor and lowly, and am not entitled 
 to call it honour) was in danger. I saw no means of 
 securing myself from your avowed attempts. You had 
 showed you would not stick at little matters ; and what, 
 sir, could anybody have thought of my sincerity, in prefer- 
 ring that to all other considerations, if I had not escaped 
 from these dangers, if I could have found any way for it ? 
 — I am not going to say anything for him; but, indeed, 
 indeed, sir, I was the cause of putting him upon assisting 
 me in my escape. I got him to acquaint me what gentry 
 there were in the neighbourhood that I might fly to ; and 
 prevailed upon him — Don't frown at me, good sir; for I 
 must tell you the whole truth — to apply to one Lady Jones ; 
 to Lady Darnford; and he was so good to apply to Mr. 
 Peters, the minister : But they all refused me ; and then it 
 was he let me know, that there was no honourable way 
 but marriage. That I declined ; and he agreed to assist me 
 for God's sake. 
 
 Now, said he, you are going— I boldly put my hand 
 before his mouth, hardly knowing the liberty I took : Pray, 
 sir, said I, don't be angry ; I have just done— I would only 
 say, that rather than have stayed to be ruined, I would have 
 thrown myself upon the poorest beggar that ever the world 
 saw, if I thought him honest.— And I hope, when you 
 duly weigh all matters, you will forgive me, and not think 
 
246 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 me so bold^ and so forward, as you have been pleased to 
 call me. 
 
 Well, said he, even in this your last speech, which, let 
 me tell you, shows more your honesty of heart than your 
 prudence, you have not overmuch pleased me. But 1 
 mzist love you; and that vexes me not a little. But tell 
 me, Pamela, for now the former question recurs : Since 
 you so much prize your honour, and your virtue ; since all 
 attempts against that are so odious to you; and since I 
 have avowedly made several of these attempts,- do you 
 think it is possible for you to love me preferably to any 
 other of my sex ? 
 
 Ah, sir ! said I, and here my doubt recurs, that you 
 may thus graciously use me, to take advantage of my 
 credulity. 
 
 Still perverse and doubting ! said he — Cannot you take 
 me as I am at present ? And that, I have told you, is sin- 
 cere and undesigning, whatever I may be hereafter. 
 
 Ah, sir ! replied I, what can I say ? I have already said 
 too much, if this dreadful hereafter should take place. 
 Don't bid me say how well I can — And then, my face 
 glowing as the fire, I, all abashed, leaned upon his shoulder, 
 to hide my confusion. 
 
 He clasped me to him with great ardour, and said. Hide 
 your dear face in my bosom, my beloved Pamela ! your 
 innocent freedoms charm me ! — But then say. How well — 
 what ? 
 
 If you will be good, said I, to your poor servant, and 
 spare her, I cannot say too much ! But if not, I am doubly 
 undone ! — Undone indeed ! 
 
 Said he, I hope my present temper will hold; for I tell 
 you frankly, that I, have known, in this agreeable hour 
 more sincere pleasure than I have experienced in all the 
 guilty tumults that my desiring soul compelled me into in 
 the hopes of possessing you on my own terms. And 
 Pamela, you must pray for the continuance of this temper • 
 and I hope your prayers will get the better of my temp- 
 tations. 
 
VIRTUE REPFJRDED. 
 
 247 
 
 This sweet goodness overpowered all my reserves. I 
 threw myself at his feet, and embraced his knees : What 
 pleasure, sir, you give me at these gracious words, is not 
 lent your poor servant to express ! — I shall be too much 
 rewarded for all my sufferings, if this goodness hold ! 
 God grant it may, for your own soul's sake as well as 
 mine. And oh ! how happy should I be, if 
 
 He stopt me, and said, But, my dear girl, what must we 
 do about the world, and the world's censure ? — Indeed, I 
 cannot marry ! 
 
 Now was I again struck all of a heap. However, soon 
 recollecting myself, Sir, said I, I have not the presumption 
 to hope such an honour. If I may be permitted to return 
 in peace and safety to my poor parents, to pray for you 
 there, it is all I at present requestj This, sir, after all my 
 apprehensions and dangers, will be a great pleasure to me. 
 And, if I know my own poor heart, I shall wish you happy 
 in a lady of suitable degree; and rejoice most sincerely in 
 every circumstance that shall make for the happiness of my 
 late good lady's most beloved son. 
 
 Well, said he, this conversation, Pamela, is gone farther 
 than I intended it. You need not be afraid, at this rate, of 
 trusting yourself with me: but it is I that ought to be 
 doubtful of myself, when I am with you. — But, before I say 
 anything farther on this subject, I will take my proud heart 
 to task ; and, till then, let everything be as if this conver- 
 sation had never passed. Only, let me tell you, that the 
 more confidence you place in me, the more you'll oblige me : 
 but your doubts will only beget cause of doubts. And with 
 this ambiguous saying, he saluted me with a more formal 
 manner, if I may so say, than before, and lent me his hand ; 
 and so we walked toward the house, side by side, he seeming 
 very thoughtful and pensive, as if he had already repented 
 him of his goodness. 
 
 What shall I do, what steps take, if all this be designing ! 
 —Oh the perplexities of these cruel doubtings !— To be sure, 
 if he be false, as I may call it, I have gone too far, much 
 
24? PAMELA; OR, 
 
 . too far ! — I am ready, on the apprehension of this, to bite 
 my forward tongue (or rather to beat my more forward 
 heart, that dictated to that poor machine) for what I have 
 said. But sure, at least, he must be sincere for the time ! — 
 He could not be such a practised dissembler ! — If he could, 
 oh how desperately wicked is the heart of man ! — And where 
 could he learn all these barbarous arts ? — If so, it must be 
 native surely to the sex ! — But, silent be my rash censurings j 
 be hushed, ye stormy tumults of my disturbed mind ! for 
 have I not a father who is a man ? — A man who knows no 
 guile ! who would do no wrong ! — who would not deceive or 
 oppress, to gain a kingdom ! — How then can I think it is 
 native to the sex ? And I must also hope my good lady's son 
 cannot be the worst of men ! — If he is, hard the lot of the 
 excellent woman that bore him ! — But much harder the hap 
 of your poor Pamela, who has fallen into such hands ! — But 
 yet I will trust in God, and hope the best : and so lay down 
 my tired pen for this time. 
 
 Thursday morning. 
 Somebody rapped at our chamber-door this morning, soon 
 after it was light : Mrs. Jewkes asked, who it was ? My 
 master said. Open the door, Mrs. Jewkes ! Oh, said I, for 
 God's sake, Mrs. Jewkes, don't ! Indeed, said she, but I 
 must. Then, said I, and clung about her, let me slip on my 
 clothes first. But he rapped again, and she broke from me ; 
 and I was frightened out of my wits, and folded myself in 
 the bed-clothes. He entered, and said. What, Pamela so 
 fearful, after what passed yesterday between us ! Oh sir 
 sir, said I, I fear my prayers have wanted their wished effect ! 
 
 Pray, good sir, consider He sat down on the bedside, and 
 
 interrupted me ; No need of your foolish fears ; I shall say 
 but a word or two, and go away. 
 
 After you went upstairs, said he, I had an invitation to 
 a ball, which is to be this night at Stamford, on occasion of 
 a wedding J and I am going to call on Sir Simon, and his 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 349 
 
 lady and daughters ; for the bride is a relation of theirs : so 
 I shall not be at home till Saturday. I come, therefore, to 
 caution you, Mrs. Jewkes, before Pamela (that she may not 
 wonder at being closer confined, than for these three or four 
 days past), that nobody sees her, nor delivers any letter to her, 
 in that space ; for a person has been seen lurking about, and 
 inquiring after her, and I have been well informed, that 
 either Mrs. Jervis, or Mr. Longman,* has written a letter, 
 with a design of having it conveyed to her : And, said he, 
 you must know, Pamela, that I have ordered Mr. Longman 
 to give up his accounts, and have dismissed Jonathan and 
 Mrs. Jervis, since I have been here ; for their behaviour has 
 been intolerable ; and they have made such a breach between 
 my sister Davers and me, as we shall never, perhaps, make 
 up. Now, Pamela, I shall take it kindly in you, if you will 
 confine yourself to your chamber pretty much, for the time 
 I am absent, and not give Mrs. Jewkes cause of trouble or 
 uneasiness; and the rather, as you know she acts by my 
 orders. 
 
 Alas ! sir, said I, I fear all these good people have suffered 
 for my sake ! — Why, said he, I believe so too ; and there 
 was never a girl of your innocence, that set a large family in 
 such an uproar, surely. — But let that pass. You know both 
 of you my mind, and, in part, the reason of it. I shall only 
 say, that I have had such a letter from my sister, as I could 
 not have expected ; and, Pamela, said he, neither you nor I 
 have reason to thank her, as you shall know, perhaps, at my 
 return. — I go in my coach, Mrs. Jewkes, because I take Lady 
 Darnford, and Mrs. Peters's niece, and one of Lady Darn- 
 ford's daughters^ along with me ; and Sir Simon and his 
 other daughter go in his chariot : so let all the gates be 
 fastened ; and don't take any airing in either of the chariots, 
 nor let anybody go to the gate, without you, Mrs. Jewkes. 
 I'll be sure, said she, to obey your honour. 
 
 I will give Mrs. Jewkes no trouble, sir, said I ; and will 
 keep pretty much in my chamber, and not stir so much as 
 into the garden without her ; to show you I will obey in 
 everything I can. But I begin to fear— Ay, said he, more 
 
250 PAMELA; OB, 
 
 plots and contrivances, don't you ? — But I'll assure you, you 
 never had less reason ; and I tell you the truth ; for I am 
 really going to Stamford this time; and upon the occasion I 
 tell you. And so, Pamela, give me your hand, and one 
 kiss ; and then I am gone. 
 
 I durst not refuse, and said, God bless you, sir, wherever 
 you go ! — But I am sorry for what you tell me about your 
 servants ! 
 
 He and Mrs. Jewkes had a little talk without the door ; 
 and I heard her say. You may depend, sir, upon my care 
 and vigilance. 
 
 He went in his coach, as he said he should, and very 
 richly dressed, which looks as if what he said was likely : 
 but really I have been used_ to so many tricks, and' plots, 
 and surprises, that I know not what to think. But I mourn 
 for poor Mrs. Jervis. — So here is Parson Williams ; here's 
 poor naughty John ; here is good Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. 
 Longman, and Mr. Jonathan, turned away for me ! — Mr. 
 Longman is rich, indeed, and so need the less matter it ; 
 but I know it will grieve him : and for poor Mr. Jonathan, 
 I am sure it will cut that good old servant to the heart. 
 Alas for me ! what mischiefs am I the occasion of ! — Or, 
 rather, my master, whose actions towards me have made so 
 many of my kind friends forfeit his favour, for my sake ! 
 
 I am very sad about these things : If he really loved me, 
 methinks he should not be so angry, that his servants loved 
 me too. — I know not what to think ! 
 
 Friday night. 
 I HAVE removed my papers from under the rose-bush ; for I 
 saw the gardener begin to dig near that spot; and I was 
 afraid he would find them. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes and I were looking yesterday through the 
 iron gate that fronts the elms ; and a gipsy-like body made 
 up to us, and said ; If, madam, you will give me some 
 broken victuals, I will telln you both your fortunes. I said 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 251 
 
 Let us hear our fortunes, Mrs. Jewkes. She said, J don't 
 like these sort of people ; but we will hear what she'll say 
 to us, however. I shan't fetch you any victuals, woman'- 
 but I will give you some pence, said she. 
 
 But Nan coming out, she said. Fetch some bread, and 
 some of the cold meat, and you shall have your fortune told 
 Nan. ' 
 
 This, you'll think, like some of my other matters, a very 
 trifling thing to write about. But mark the discovery of a 
 dreadful plot, which I have made by it. Oh, bless me! 
 What can I think of this naughty, this very naughty gentle- 
 man !— Now will I hate him most heartily. Thus it was :— 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes had no suspicion of the woman, the iron 
 gate being locked, and she on the outside, and we on the 
 inside ; and so put her hand through. She said, muttering 
 over a parcel' of cramp words. Why, madam, you will marry 
 soon, I can tell you. At that she seemed pleased, and said, 
 I am glad to hear that ; and shook- her fat sides with laugh- 
 ing. The woman looked most earnestly at me, all the time, 
 and as if she had meaning. Then it came into my head, 
 from my master's caution, that possibly this woman might 
 be employed to try to get a letter mto my hands ; and I was 
 resolved to watch all her motions. So Mrs. Jewkes said, 
 What sort of a man shall I have, pray? — Why, said she, a 
 man younger than yourself; and a very good husband he'll 
 prove.— I am glad of that, said she : and laughed again. 
 Come, madam, let us hear your fortune. 
 
 The woman came to me, and took my hand. Oh ! said she, 
 I cannot tell your fortune : your hand is so white and fine, 
 I cannot see the lines : but, said she, and, stooping, pulled 
 up a little tuft of grass, I have a way for that; and so rubbed 
 my hand with the mould part of the tuft : Now, said she, I 
 can see the lines. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes was very watchful of all her ways, and took 
 the tuft, and looked upon it, lest anything should be in that. 
 And then the woman said. Here is the line of Jupiter cross- 
 ing the line of life ; and Mars^-Odd ! my pretty mistress. 
 
252 P AM EL J; OR, 
 
 said she, you had best take care of yourself; for you are 
 hard beset, I'll assure you. You will never be married, I 
 can see; and will die of your first child. Out upon thee, 
 woman ! said I, better thou hadst never come here. 
 
 Said Mrs. Jewkes, .whispering, I don't like this : it looks 
 like a cheat : Pray, Mrs. Pamela, go in, this moment. So I 
 will, said I ; for I have enough of fortune-telling. And in I 
 went. 
 
 The woman wanted sadly to tell me more, which made 
 Mrs. Jewkes threaten her, suspecting still the more; and 
 away the woman went, having told Nan her fortune, and 
 she would be drowned. \ 
 
 This thing ran strongly in all our heads ; and we went, an 
 hour after, to see if the woman was lurking about, and took 
 Mr. Colbrand for our guard. Looking through the iron 
 gate, he spied a man sauntering about the middle of the walk ; 
 which filled Mrs. Jewkes with still more suspicions ; and she 
 said, Mr. Colbrand, you and I will walk towards this fellow, 
 and see what he saunters there for: And, Nan, do you and 
 madam stay at the gate. 
 
 So they opened the iron gate and walked down towards 
 the man ; and guessing the woman, if employed, must mean 
 something by the tuft of grass, I cast my eye that way, 
 whence she pulled it, and saw more grass seemingly pulled up : 
 then I doubted not something was there for me; and I 
 walked to it, and standing over it, said to Nan, That's a 
 pretty sort of wild flower, that grows yonder, near the elm, 
 the fifth from us on the left ; pray pull it for me. Said she. 
 It is a common weed. Well, said I, but pull it for me ; there 
 are sometimes beautiful colours in a weed. 
 
 While she went on, I stooped, and pulled up a good hand- 
 ful of the grass, and in it a bit of paper, which I put instantly 
 in my bosom, and dropt the grass : and my heart went pit-a- 
 pat at the odd adventure. Said I, Let's go in, Mrs. Anne. 
 No, said she, we must stay till Mrs. Jewkes comes. 
 
 I was all impatience to read this paper : and when Col- 
 brand and she returned, I went in. Said she. Certainly 
 there is some reason for my master's caution : I can make 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 253 
 
 nothing of this sauntering fellow ; but, to be sure, there was 
 some roguery in the gipsy. Well, said I, if there was, she 
 lost her aim, you see ! Ay, very true, said she ; but that was 
 owing to my watchfulness ; and you was very good to go 
 away, when I spoke to you. 
 
 I hastened upstairs to my closet, and found the billet to 
 contain, in a hand that seemed disguised, and bad spelling, 
 the following words : — - 
 
 ' Twenty contrivances have been thought of to let you 
 ' know your danger; but all have proved in vain. Your 
 ' friends hope it is not yet too late to give you this caution, 
 ' if it reaches your hands. The ^squire is absolutely deter- 
 ' mined to ruin you ; and, because he despairs of any other 
 ' wav, he will pretend great love and kindness to you, and 
 ' that he will marry you. You may expect a parson, for 
 ' this purpose, in a few days ; but it is a sly artful fellow of 
 ' a broken attorney, that he has hired to personate a minister. 
 ' The man has a broad face, pitted much with the small-pox, 
 ' and is a very great companion. So take care of yourself. 
 ' Doubt not this advice. Perhaps you'll have had but too 
 ' much reason already to confirm you in the truth of it. 
 ' From your zealous well-wisher, 
 
 'Somebody.' 
 
 Now, my dear father and mother, what shall we say of 
 this truly diabolical master ! Oh, how shall I find words to 
 paint my griefs, and his deceit ! I have as good as confessed 
 I love him ; but, indeed, it was on supposing him good.— 
 This, however, has given him too much advantage. But 
 now I will break this wicked forward heart of mine, if it will 
 not be taught to hate him ! Oh, what a black dismal heart 
 must he have ! So here is a plot to ruin me, and by my own 
 consent too !— No wonder he did not improve his wicked 
 opportunities (which I thought owing to remorse for his sin, 
 and compassion for me), when he had such a project as this 
 in reserve !— Here should I have been deluded with the hopes 
 of a happiness that my highest ambition could have had 
 aspired to !— But how dreadful must have been my lot, when 
 
254 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I had found myself an undone creature, and a guilty harlot, 
 instead of a lawful wife ! Oh ! this is indeed too much, too 
 much, for your poor Pamela to support ! This is the worse, 
 as I hoped all the worst was over ; and that I had the 
 pleasure of beholding a reclaimed man, and not an aban- 
 doned libertine. What now must your poor daughter do? 
 Now all her hopes are dashed ! And if this fails him, then 
 comes, to be sure, my forced disgrace ! for this shows he 
 will never leave till he has ruined me ! — Oh, the wretched, 
 wretched Pamela ! 
 
 Saturday noon, one o'clock. 
 My master is come home ; and, to be sure, has been where 
 he said. So once he has told truth ; and this matter seems 
 to be gone off without a plot : No doubt he depends upon 
 his sham wicked marriage ! He has brought a gentleman with 
 him to dinner; and so I have not seen him yet. 
 
 Two o'clock. 
 I AM very sorrowful, and still have greater reason; for, just 
 now, as 1 was in my closet, opening the parcel I had hid 
 under the rose-bush, to see if it was damao-ed bv Ivino- so 
 long, Mrs. Jewkes came upon me by surprise, and laid her 
 hands upon it ; for she had been looking through the kev- 
 hole, it seems. 
 
 I know not what I shall do ! For now he will see all mv 
 private thoughts of him and all my secrets, as I may say. 
 What a careless creature I am ! — To be sure I deserve to be 
 punished. 
 
 You know I had the good luck, by Mr. Williams's means, 
 to send you all my papers down to Sunday night, the 17th 
 day of my imprisonment. But now these papers contain all 
 my matters from that time, to Wednesday the 37th day of 
 my distress : And which, as you may now, perhaps, never see 
 I will briefly mention the contents to you. 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDEB. 255 
 
 In these papers, then, are included, ' An account of Mrs. 
 Jewkes's arts to draw me in to approve of Mr. Williams's 
 proposal for marriage; and my refusing to do so; and 
 desiring you not to encourage his suit to me. Mr 
 Williams's being wickedly robbed, and a visit of hers to 
 him ; whereby she discovered all his secrets. How I was 
 inclined to get off, while she was gone ; but was ridicu- 
 lously prevented by my foolish fears, &c. My having the 
 key of the back-door. Mrs. Jewkes's writing to my master 
 all the secrets she had discovered of Mr. Williams, and her 
 behaviour to me and him upon it. Continuance of my 
 correspondence with Mr. Williams by the tiles; begun in 
 the parcel you had. My reproaches to him for his reveal- 
 ing himself to Mrs. Jewkes ; and his letter to me in answer, 
 threatening to expose my master, if he deceived him ; 
 mentioning in it John Arnold's correspondence with him ; 
 and a letter which John sent, and was intercepted, as it 
 seems. Of the correspondence being carried on by a friend 
 of his at Gainsborough. Of the horse he was to provide for 
 me, and one for himself. Of what Mr. Williams had 
 owned to Mrs. Jewkes; and of my discouraging his pro- 
 posals. Then it contained a pressing letter of mine to him, 
 urging my escape before my master came; with his half- 
 angry answer to me. Your good letter to me, my dear 
 father, sent to me by Mr. Williams's conveyance; in which 
 you would have me encourage* Mr. Williams, but leave it 
 to me ; and in which, fortunately enough, you take notice 
 of my being uninclined to marry. — My earnest desire to be 
 with you. The substance of my answer to Mr. Williams, 
 expressing more patience, &c. A dreadful letter of my 
 master tg Mrs. Jewkes; which, by mistake, was directed to 
 me; and one to me, directed by like mistake to her; and 
 very free reflections of mine upon both. The concern I 
 expressed for Mr. Williams's being taken in, deceived, and 
 ruined. An account of Mrs. Jewkes's glorying in her 
 wicked fidelity. A sad description I gave of Monsieur 
 Colbrand, a person he sent down to assist Mrs. Jewkes in 
 watchino- me. How Mr. Williams was arrested, and 
 
256 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' thrown into gaol ; and the concern I expressed upon it ; and 
 ' my free reflections on my master for it. A projected con- 
 ' trivance of mine, to get away out of the window, and by 
 ' the back-door ; and throwing my petticoat and handkerchief 
 ' into the pond to amuse them, while I got off: An attempt 
 ' that had like to have ended very dreadfully for me ! My 
 ' further concern for Mr. Williams's ruin, on my account : 
 ' And, lastly, my over-hearing Mrs. Jewkes brag] of her 
 ' contrivance to rob Mr. Williams, in order to get at my 
 ' papers ; which, however, he preserved, and sent safe to 
 ' you.' 
 
 These, down to the execution of my unfortunate plot to 
 escape, are, to the best of my remembrance, the contents of 
 the papers which this merciless woman seized : For, how 
 badly I came off, and what" followed, I still have safe, as I 
 hope, sewed in my under-coat, about my hips. 
 
 In vain were all my prayers and tears to her, to get her 
 not to show them to my master. For she said. It had now 
 come out, why I affected to be so much alone ; and why I 
 was always writing. And she thought herself happy, she 
 said, she had found these; for often and often had she 
 searched every place she could think of, for writings, to no 
 purpose before. And she hoped, she said, there was nothing 
 in them but what anybody might see; for, said she, you 
 know you are all innocence ! — Insolent creature 1 said I, I 
 am sure you are all guilt ! — And so you must do your 
 worst ; for now I can't help myself, and I see there is no 
 mercy to be expected from you. 
 
 Just now, my master being come up, she went to him 
 upon the stairs, and gave him my papers. There, sir, said 
 she ; you always said Mrs. Pamela was a great writer ; but 
 I never could get at anything of hers before. He took 
 them; and, without coming to me, went down to the 
 parlour again. And what with the gipsy affair, and what 
 with this, I could not think of going down to dinner ; and 
 she told him that too ; and so I suppose I shall have him 
 upstairs, as soon as his company is gone. 
 
VIRTUE REHEARD ED. 257 
 
 Saturday, six o'clock. 
 
 My master came up, and, in a pleasanter manner than I 
 expected, said. So, Pamela, we have seized, it seems, your 
 treasonable papers? Treasonable! said I, very sullenly. 
 Ay, said he, I suppose so ; for you are a great plotter : but 
 I have not read them yet. 
 
 Then, sir, said I, very gravely, it will be truly honourable 
 in you not to read them ; but to give them to me again. 
 To whom, says he, are they written ? — To my father, sir ; 
 but I suppose you see to whom. — Indeed, returned he, I 
 have not read three lines yet. Then, pray, sir, don't read 
 them ; -but give them to me again. That I will not, said 
 he, till I have read them. Sir, said I, you served me not 
 well in the letters I used to write formerly : I think it was 
 not worthy your character to contrive to get them in your 
 hands, by that false John Arnold ! for should such a gentle- 
 man as you mind what your poor servant writes ? — Yes, 
 said he, by all means, mind what such a servant as 7ny 
 Pamela writes. 
 
 Yo7ir Pamela ! thought I. Then the sham marriage came 
 into my head ; and indeed it has not been out of it, since 
 the gipsy affair. — But, said he, have you anything in these 
 papers you would not have me see ? To be sure, sir, said I, 
 there is; for what one writes to one's father and mother, is 
 not for everybody to see. Nor, said he, am I everybody. 
 
 Those letters, added he, that I did see by John's means, 
 were not to your disadvantage, I'll assure you ; for they 
 gave me a very high opinion of your wit and innocence : 
 And if I had not loved you, do you think I would have 
 troubled myself about your letters ? 
 
 Alas ! sir, said I, great pride to me that ! For they gave 
 you such an opinion of my innocence, tljat you was resolved 
 to ruin me. And what advantage have they brought me ? 
 — ^Who have been made a prisoner, and used as I have been 
 between you and your housekeeper. 
 
 Why, Pamela, said he, a little seriously, why this beha- 
 viour, for my goodness to you in the garden ? — This is not 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
258 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 of a piece with your conduct and softness there, that quite 
 charmed me in your favour : And you must not give me 
 cause to think that you vifill be the more insolent, as you 
 find me kinder. Ah ! sir, said I, you know best your own 
 heart and designs ! But I fear I was too open-hearted then ; 
 and that you still keep your resolution to undo me, and 
 have only changed the form of your proceedings. 
 
 When I tell you once again, said he, a little sternly, that 
 you cannot oblige me more, than by placing some confi- 
 dence in me, I will let you know, that these foolish and 
 perverse doubts are the worst things you can be guilty of. 
 But, said he, I shall possibly account for the cause of them, 
 in these papers of yours; for I doubt not you have been 
 sincere to yonr father and mother, though you begin to make 
 me suspect you : For I tell you, perverse girl, that it is im- 
 possible you should be thus cold and insensible, after what 
 has passed in the garden, if you were not prepossessed in 
 some other person's favour: And let me add, that if I find 
 it so, it shall be attended with such effects, as will make 
 every vein in your heart bleed. 
 
 He was going away in wrath ; and I said. One word, good 
 sir, one word before you read them, since you will read 
 them : Pray make allowances for all the harsh reflections 
 that you will find in them, on your own conduct to me: 
 And remember only, that they were not written for your 
 sight ; .and were penned by a poor creature hardly used, and 
 who was in constant apprehension of receiving from you 
 the worst treatment that you could inflict upon her. 
 
 If that be all, said he, and there be nothing of another 
 nature, that I cannot forgive, you have no cause for uneasi- 
 ness ; for I had as many instances of your saucy reflections 
 upon me in your former letters, as there were lines; and 
 yet, you see, I have never upbraided you on that score; 
 though, perhaps, I wished you had been more sparing of 
 your epithets, and your freedoms of that sort. 
 
 Well, sir, said I, since you will, you must read them ; 
 and I think I have no reason to be afraid of being found 
 insincere, or having, in any respect, told you a falsehood ; 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 359 
 
 because, though I don't remember all I wrote, yet I know 
 I wrote my heart; and that is not deceitful. And re- 
 member, sir, another thing, that I always declared I thought 
 myself right to endeavour to make my escape from this 
 forced and illegal restraint; and so you must not be angry 
 that I would have done so, if I could. 
 
 I'll judge you, never fear, said he, as favourably as you 
 deserve; for you have too powerful a pleader within me. 
 And so went downstairs. 
 
 About nine o'clock he sent for me down into the parlour. 
 I went a little fearfully ; and he held the papers in his hand, 
 and said. Now, Pamela, you come upon your trial. Said 
 I, I hope I have a just j udge to hear my cause. Ay, said 
 he, and you may hope for a merciful one too, or else 1 know 
 not what will become of you. 
 
 I expect, continued he, that you will answer me directly, 
 and plainly, to every question I shall ask you. — In the first 
 place, here are several love-letters between you and Williams. 
 Love-letters ! sir, said I. — Well, call them what you will, 
 said he, I don't entirely like them, I'll assure you, with all 
 the allowances you desired me to make for you. Do you 
 find, sir, said I, that I encouraged his proposal, or do you 
 not ? Why, said he, you discourage his address in appear- 
 ance; but no otherwise than all your cunning sex do to 
 ours, to make us more eager in pursuing you. 
 
 Well, sir, said I, that is your comment; but it does not 
 appear so in the text. Smartly said ! says he : Where a 
 d_l gottest thou, at these years, all this knowledge ? And 
 then thou hast a memory, as I see by your papers, that no- 
 thing escapes. Alas ! sir, said I, what poor abilities I have, 
 serve only to make me more miserable !— I have no pleasure 
 in my memory, which impresses things upon me, that I could 
 be glad never were, or everlastingly to forget. 
 
 Well, said he, so much for that.— But where are the 
 accounts (since you have kept so exact a journal of all that 
 has befallen you) previous to these here in my hand? My 
 father has them, sir, said I.— By whose means ? said he.— 
 
26o PAMELA; OR, 
 
 By Mr. Williams's^ said I. Well answered, said he. But 
 cannot you contrive to get me a sight of them ? That would 
 be pretty ! said I. I wish I could have contrived to have 
 kept those you have from your sight. Said he, I rrnist see 
 them, Pamela, or I shall never be easy; for I must know 
 how this correspondence between you and Williams began : 
 and if I can see them, it shall be better for you, if they 
 answer what these give me hope they will. 
 
 I can tell you, sir, very faithfully, said I, what the begin- 
 ning was ; for I was bold enough to be the beginner. That 
 won't do, said he ; for though this may appear a punctilio 
 to you, to me it is of high importance. Sir, said I, if you 
 please to let me go to my father, I will send them to you by 
 any messenger you shall send for them. Will you so ? But 
 I daresay, if you will write for them, they will send them to 
 you, without the trouble of such a journey to yourself: and 
 I beg vou will. 
 
 I think, sir, said I, as you have seen all mv former letters 
 through John's baseness, and now these, through your faith- 
 ful housekeeper's officious watchfulness, you might see all 
 the rest : But I hope you will not desire it, till I can see how 
 much my pleasing you in this particular will be of use to 
 myself. 
 
 You must trust to my honour for that. But tell me, 
 Pamela, said the sly gentleman, since I have seen these, 
 would you have voluntarily shown me those, had thev been 
 in your possession ? 
 
 I was not aware of this inference, and said, Yes, truly, sir, 
 I think I should, if you commanded it. Well then, Pamela, 
 said he, as I am sure you have found means to continue 
 your journal, I desire, till the former part can come, that you 
 will show me the succeeding. — Oh sir, sir, said I, have you 
 caught me so ? — But indeed you must excuse me there. 
 
 Why, said he, tell me truly, haveyou not continued your 
 account till now? Don't ask me, sir, said I. But I insist 
 upon your answer, replied he. Why then, sir, I will not tell 
 an untruth; I have. — That's my good girl! said he, I love 
 sincerity at my heart. — In another, sir, said I, I presume you 
 
 I i 
 1 I 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 261 
 
 mean ! — Well, said he, I'll allow you to be a little witty upon 
 me ; because it is in you, and you cannot help it : but you 
 will greatly oblige me, to show me voluntarily what you have 
 written. I long to see the particulars of your plot, and your 
 disappointment, where your papers leave off: for you have 
 so beautiful a manner, that it is partly that, and partly my 
 love for you, that has made me desirous of reading all you 
 write; though a great deal of it is against myself; for 
 which you must expect to suffer a little : and as I have 
 furnished you with the subject, I have a title to see the fruits 
 o£ your pen. — Besides, said he, there is such a pretty air of 
 romance, as you relate them, in your plots, and my plots, 
 that I shall be better directed in what manner to wind up 
 the catastrophe of the pretty novel. 
 
 If I was your equal, sir, said I, I should say this is a very 
 provoking way of jeering at the misfortunes you have brought 
 upon me. 
 
 Oh, said he, the liberties you have taken with my cha- 
 racter in your letters, sets us upon a par, at least in that re- 
 spect. Sir, I could not have taken those liberties, if you had 
 not given me the cause : and the cause, sir, you know, is be- 
 fore the effect. 
 
 True, Pamela, said he; you chop logic very prettily. 
 What the deuce do we men go to school for ? If our wits 
 were equal to women's, we might spare much time and pains 
 in our education : for nature teaches your sex, what, in a 
 long course of labour and study, ours can hardly attain to. — 
 But, indeed, every lady is not a Pamela. 
 
 You delight to banter your poor servant, said I. 
 
 Nay, continued he, I believe I must assume to myself half 
 the merit of your, wit, too ; for the innocent exercises you 
 have had for it, from me, have certainly sharpened your in- 
 vention. 
 
 Sir, said I, could I have been without those innocent 
 exercises, as you are pleased to call them, I should have been 
 glad to have been as dull as a beetle. But then, Pamela, 
 said he, I should not have loved you so well. But then, 
 sir, I should have been safe, easy, and happy.— Ay, maybe 
 
263 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 so, and .maybe not; and the wife, too, of some clouterly 
 ploughboy. 
 
 But then^ sir^ I should have been content and innocent; 
 and that's better than being a princess, and not so. And 
 maybe not, said he ; for if vou had had that pretty face, 
 some of us keen fox-hunters should have found you out ; 
 and, in spite of your romantic notions (which then, too, 
 perhaps, would not have had so strong a place in your mind), 
 might have been more happy with the ploughman's wife, 
 than I have been with my mother's Pamela. I hope, sir, 
 said I, God would have given me more grace. 
 
 Well, but, resumed he, as to these writings of yours, that 
 follow your fine plot, I must see them. Indeed, sir, you must 
 not, if I can help it. Nothing, said he, pleases me better, 
 than that, in all your arts, shifts, aiid stratagems, you have 
 had a great regard to truth ; and have, in all your little 
 pieces of deceit, told very few wilful fibs. Now I expect 
 you'll continue this laudable rule in your conversation with 
 me. — Let me know then, where you have found supplies of 
 pen, ink, and paper, when Mrs. Jewkes was so vigilant, and 
 gave you but two sheets at a time ? — Tell me truth. 
 
 Why, sir, little did I think I should have such occasion 
 for them ; but, when I went away from your house, I begged 
 some of each of good Mr. Longman, who gave me plenty. 
 Yes, yes, said he, it must be good Mr. Longman ! All your 
 confederates are good, every one of them : but such of my 
 servants as have done their duty, and obeyed my orders, are 
 painted out by you as black as devils I nav, so am I too, for 
 that matter. 
 
 Sir, said I, I hope you won't be angry, but, saving yourself, 
 do you think they are painted worse than they deserve ? or 
 worse than the parts they acted require? 
 
 You say, saving myself, Pamela ; but is not that saving a 
 mere compliment to me, because I am present, and you are 
 in my hands? Tell me truly. — Good sir, excuse me; but I 
 fancy I might ask you,, why you should think so, if there 
 was not a little bit of conscience that told you, there was but 
 too much reason for it ? 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. ci.6^ 
 
 He kissed me,, and said, I must either do thus, or be ancrry 
 with you; for you are very saucy, Pamela. — But, with 
 your bewitching chit-chat, and pretty impertinence, I will 
 not lose my question. Where did you hide your paper, 
 pens, and ink? 
 
 Some, sir, in one place, some in another ; that I might 
 have some left, if others should be found. — That's a good 
 girl! said he; I love you for your sweet veracity. Now 
 tell me where it is you hide your written papers, your saucv 
 journal ? — I must beg your excuse for that, sir, said I. But 
 indeed, answered he, you will not have it : for I will know, 
 and I will see them. — This is very hard, sir, said I ; but I 
 must say, you shall not, if I can help it. 
 
 We were standing most of this time; but he then sat 
 down, and took me by both my hands, and said, Well said, 
 my pretty Pamela, if you can help it ! But I will not let 
 you help it. Tell me, are they in your pocket? No, sir, 
 said I ; my heart up at my mouth. Said he, I know you 
 won't tell a downright Jib for the world : but for equivoca- 
 tion ! no Jesuit ever went beyond you. Answer me then, 
 are they in neither of your pockets? No, sir, said I. Are 
 they not, said he, about your stays? No, sir, replied I: 
 But pray no more questions : for ask me ever so much, I 
 will not tell you. 
 
 Oh, said he, I have a way for that. I can do as they do 
 abroad, when the criminals won't confess ; torture them till 
 they do.— But pray, sir, said I, is this fair, just, or honest? 
 I am no criminal ; and I won't confess. 
 
 Oh, my girl 1 said he, many an innocent person has been 
 put to the torture. But let me know where they are, and 
 you shall escape the question, as they call it abroad. 
 
 Sir, said I, the torture is not used in England, and I hope 
 you won't bring it up. Admirably said ! said the naughty 
 gentleman.— But I can tell you of as good a punishment. 
 If a criminal won't plead with us, here in England, we press 
 him to death, or till he does plead. And so now, Pamela, 
 that is a punishment shall certainly be yours, if you won't 
 tell without.. 
 
364 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Tears stood in my eyes, and I said. This, sir, is very cruel 
 and barbarous. — No matter, said he; it is but like your 
 Lucifer, you know, in my shape ! And, after I have done so 
 many heinous things by you as you think, you have no great 
 reason to judge so hardly of this; or, at least, it is but of a 
 piece with the rest. 
 
 But, sir, said I (dreadfully afraid he had some notion they 
 were about me), if you will be obeyed in this unreasonable 
 manner, though it is sad tyranny, to be sure ! — let me go up 
 to them, and read them over again, and you shall see so far 
 as to the end of the sad story that follows those you have. 
 
 ni see them all, said he, down to this time, if you have 
 written so far : — Or, at least, till within this week. — Then 
 let me go up to them, said I, and see what I have written, 
 and to what day, to show them to you; for you won't 
 desire to see everything. But I will, replied he. — But 
 say, Pamela, tell me truth : Are they above ? I was much 
 affrighted. He saw my confusion. Tell me truth, said he. 
 Why, sir, answered I, I have sometimes hid them under 
 the dry -nsould in the garden; sometimes in one place, 
 sometimes in another; and those you have in your hand 
 were several days under a rose-bush, in the garden. Artful 
 slut! said he, what's this to my question? — Are they not 
 about you? — If^ said I, I must pluck them out of my hiding- 
 place behind the wainscot, won't you see me? — Still more 
 and more artful ! said he — Is this an answer to my question? 
 — I have searched every place above, and in your closet, for 
 them, and cannot find them; so I will know where they 
 are. Now, said he, it is my opinion they are about you ; 
 and I never undressed a girl in my life; but I will now 
 begin to strip my pretty Pamela ; and I hope I shall not go 
 far before I find them. 
 
 I fell a crying, and said, I will not he used in this manner. 
 Pray, sir, said I (for he began to unpin my handkerchief), 
 consider ! Pray, sir, do ! — And pray, said he, do you consider. 
 For I will see these papers. But maybe, said he, they are 
 tied about your knees, with your garters, and stooped. 
 Was ever anything so vile and so wicked? — I fell on my 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 265 
 
 knees, and said, What can I do? What can I do? If you'll 
 let me go up I'll fetch them to you. Will you, said he, on 
 your honour, let me see them uncurtailed, and not offer to 
 make them away; no not a single paper? — I will, sir.-^On 
 your honour? Yes, sir. And so he let me go upstairs, crying 
 sadly for vexation to be so used. Sure nobody was ever so 
 served as I am ! 
 
 I went to my closet, and there I sat me down, and could 
 not bear the thoughts of giving up my papers. Besides, I 
 must all undress me, in a manner, to untack them. So I 
 writ thus : 
 
 ' Sir, — To expostulate with such an arbitrary gentleman, 
 ' I know will signify nothing; and most hardly do you use 
 ' the power you so wickedly have got over me. I have 
 ' heart enough, sir, to do a deed that would make you regret 
 ' using me thus; and I can hardly bear it, and what I am 
 ' further to undergo. But a superior consideration withholds 
 ' me ; thank God, it does ! — I will, however, keep* my word, 
 ' if you insist upon it when you have read this; but, sir, let 
 ' me beg of you to give me time till to-morrow morning, 
 ' that I may just run them over, and see what I put into 
 ' your hands against me : and I will then give my papers to 
 ' you, without the least alteration, or adding or diminishing : 
 ' But I should beg still to be excused, if you please : But if 
 ' not, spare them to me but till to-morrow morning: and 
 ' this, so hardly am I used, shall be thought a favour, which 
 ' I shall be very thankful for.' 
 
 I guessed it would not be long before I heard from him : 
 and he accordingly sent up Mrs. Jewkes for what I had 
 promised. So I gave her this note to carry to him. And he 
 sent word, that I must keep my promise, and he would give 
 me till morning ; but that I must bring them to him without 
 his asking again. 
 
 So I took off my under-coat, and, with great trouble of 
 mind, unsewed them from it. And there is a vast quantity 
 
/V 
 
 %66 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 of it. I will just slightly touch upon the subjects; because 
 I may not, perhaps, get them again for you to see. 
 
 They begin with an account of ' my attempting to get 
 ' away out of the window first, and then throwing my pet- 
 ' ticoat and handkerchief into the pond. How sadly I was 
 ' disappointed, the lock of the J)ack-door being changed- 
 ' How, in trying to climb over the door, I tumbled down, 
 ' and was piteously bruised ; the bricks giving way, and 
 ' tumbling upon me. How, finding I could not get off, and 
 ' dreading the hard usage I should receive, I was so wicked 
 ' as to think of throwing myself into the water. My sad 
 ' reflections upon this matter. How Mrs. Jewkes used me 
 ' upon this occasion, when she found me. How my master 
 ' had like to have been drowned in hunting; and my con- 
 ' cern for his danger, notwithstanding his usage of me. Mrs. 
 ' Jewkes's wicked reports, to frighten me, that I was to be 
 ' married to the ugly Swiss; who was to sell me on the 
 ' wedding-day to my master. Her vile way of talking to 
 ' me, like a London prostitute. My apprehensions of seeing 
 ' preparations made for my master's coming. Her causeless 
 ' fears that I was trying to get away again, when I had no 
 ' thoughts of it; and my bad usage upon it. My master's 
 ' dreadful arrival'; and his hard, very hard treatment of me; 
 ' and Mrs. Jewkes's insulting of me. His jealousy of Mr. 
 ' Williams and me. How Mrs. Jewkes vilely instigated 
 ' him to wickedness.' And down to here, I put into one 
 parcel, hoping that would content him. But for fear it 
 should not, I put into another parcel the following, viz.: 
 
 ' A copy of his proposals to me, of a great parcel of gold, 
 ' and fine clothes and rings, and an estate of I can't tell what 
 • ' a year ; and 50Z. a year for the life of both you, mv dear 
 ' parents, to be his mistress ; with an insinuation, that, may- 
 ' be, he would marry me at the year's end : All sadly-vile : 
 ' With threatenings, if I did not comply, that he woulS ruin 
 ' me, without allowing me anything. A copy of my answer, 
 ' refusing all, with just abhorrence: But begging at last his 
 
VIRTUE REPVARDED. 367 
 
 ' goodness towards me, and mercy on me, in the most mov- 
 ' ing manner I could think of. An account of his angry 
 ' behaviour, and Mrs. Jewkes's wicked advice hereupon. His 
 ' trying to get me to his chamber; and my refusal to go. A 
 ' deal of stuff and chit-chat between me and the odious Mrs. 
 ' Jewkes; in which she was very wicked and very insulting:. 
 ' Two notes I wrote, as if to be carried to church, to pray for 
 ' his reclaiming, and my safety ; which Mrs. Jewkes seized, 
 ' and officiously showed him. A confession of mine, that, 
 ' notwithstanding his bad usage, I could not hate him. Mv 
 ' concern for Mr. Williams. A horrid contrivance of my 
 ' master's to ruin me ; being in my room, disguised in clothes 
 ' of the maid's, who lay with me and Mrs. Jewkes. How 
 ' narrowly I escaped (it ijiakes my heart ache to think of it 
 still !) by falling into fits. Mrs. Jewkes's detestable part in 
 this sad affair. How he seemed moved at my danger, and 
 forbore his abominable designs; and assured me he had 
 offered no indecency. How ill I was for a day or two after ; 
 and how kind he seemed. How he made me forgive Mrs. 
 Jewkes, How, after this, and great kindness pretended, he 
 made rude offers to me in the garden, which I escaped. 
 How I resented them.' Then I had written, "^ How kindly 
 he behaved himself to me; and how he praised me, and 
 gave me great hopes of his being good at last. Of the too 
 tender impression this made upon me ; and how I began to 
 be afraid of my own weakness and consideration for him, 
 though he had used me. so ill. How sadly jealous he was 
 of Mr. Williams; and how I, as justly could, cleared myself 
 as to his doubts on that score. How, just when he had 
 raised me up to the highest hope of his goodness, he dashed 
 me sadly again, and went off" more coldly. My free reflec- 
 tions upon this trying occasion.' 
 
 This brought down matters from Thursday, the aoth day 
 of my imprisonment, to Wednesday the 41st, and here I 
 was resolved to end, let what would come ; for only Thursday, 
 Friday, and Saturday, remain to give an account of; and 
 Thursday he set out to a ball at Stamford ; and Friday was 
 the gipsy story; and this is Saturday, his return from 
 
a68 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Stamford. And trulv, I shall have but little heart to write, 
 if he is to see all. 
 
 So these two parcels of papers I have got ready for him 
 against to-morrow morning. To be sure I have always used 
 him very freely in my writings, and showed him no mercy ; 
 but yet he must thank himself for it ; for I have only writ 
 truth ; and I wish he had deserved a better character at my 
 hands, as well for his own sake as mine. — So, though I don't 
 know whether ever you'll see what I write, I must say, that 
 I will go to bed, with remembering you in my prayers, as I 
 always do, and as I know you do me : And so, my dear 
 parents, good night. 
 
 Sunday morning. 
 I REMEMBERED what he Said, of not being obliged to ask 
 again for my papers ; and what I should be forced to do, and 
 could not help, I thought I might as well do in such a 
 manner as might show I would not disoblige on purpose: 
 though I stomached this matter very heavily too. I had 
 therefore got in readiness my two parcels; and he, not going 
 to church in the morning, bid Mrs. Jewkes tell me he was 
 gone into the garden. 
 
 I knew that was for me to go to him ; and so I went : 
 for how can I help being at his beck? which grieves me not 
 a little, though he is my master, as I may say ; for I am so 
 wholly in his power, that it would do me no good to incense 
 him ; and if I refused to obey him in little matters, my 
 refusal in greater would have the less weight. So I went 
 down to the garden ; but as he walked in one walk, I took 
 another, that I might not seem too forward neither. 
 
 He soon 'spied me, and said. Do you expect to be courted 
 to come to me ? Sir, said I, and crossed the walk to attend 
 him, I did not know but I should interrupt you in your 
 meditations this good day. 
 
 Was that the case, said he, truly, and from your heart ? 
 Why, sir, said I, I don't doubt but you have very o-ood 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 269 
 
 thoughts sometimes ; though not towards me. I wish, said 
 he, I could avoid thinking so well of you as I do. But 
 where are the papers ? — I daresay you had them about you 
 yesterday; for you say in those I have, that you will bury 
 your writings in the garden, for fear you should be searched, 
 if you did not escape. This, added he, gave me a glorious 
 pretence to search you; and I have been vexing mvself all 
 night, that I did not strip you garment by garment, till I had 
 found them. Oh fie, sir, said I ; let me not be scaredy with 
 hearing that you had such a thought in earnest. 
 
 Well, said he, I hope you have not now the papers to give 
 me ; for I had rather find them myself^ I'll assure you. 
 
 I did not like this way of talk ; and thinking it best not to 
 dwell upon it, said, Well, but, sir, you will excuse me, I hope, 
 giving up my papers. 
 
 Don't trifle with me, said he; where are they? — I think 
 I was very good to you last night, to humour you as I did. 
 If you have either added or diminished, and have not strictly 
 kept your promise, woe be to you 1 Indeed, sir, said I, I have 
 neither added nor diminished. But there is the parcel that 
 goes on with my sad attempt to escape, and the terrible con- 
 sequences it had like to have been followed with. And it 
 goes down to the naughty articles you sent me. And as you 
 know all that has happened since, I hope these will satisfy 
 you. 
 
 He was going to speak ; but I said, to drive hirti from 
 thinking of any more, And I must beg you, sir, to read the 
 matter favourably, if I have exceeded in any liberties of my 
 pen. 
 
 I think, said he, half smiling, you ' may wonder at my 
 patience, that I can be so easy to read myself abused as I 
 am by such a saucy slut, — Sir, said I, I have wondered you 
 should be so desirous to see my bold stuff; and, for that 
 very reason, I have thought it a very good, or a very lad 
 sign. What, said he, is your good sign ?— That it may have 
 an effect upon your temper, at last, in my favour, when you 
 see me so sincere. Your had sign ? Why, that if you can 
 read my reflections and observations upon your treatment 
 
270 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 of me, with tranquillity, and not be moved, it is a sign of a 
 very cruel and determined heart. Now, pray, sir, don't be 
 angry at my boldness in telling you so freely my thoughts. 
 You may, perhaps, said he, be least mistaken, when you 
 think of your bad sign. God forbid ! said I. 
 
 So I took out my papers ; and said. Here, sir, they are. 
 But if you please to return them, without breaking the seal, 
 it will be very generous : and I will take it for a great favour, 
 and a good omen. 
 
 He broke the seal instantly, and opened them : So much 
 for your omen ! replied he. I am sorry for it, said I, very 
 seriously ; and was walking away. Whither now ? said he. 
 I was going in, sir, that you might have time to read them, 
 if you thought fit. He put them into his pocket, and said. 
 You have more than these. Yes, sir : but all they contain, 
 you know as well as I. — But I don't know, said he, the light 
 you put things in ; and so give them me, if you have not a 
 mind to be searched. 
 
 Sir, said I, I can't stay, if you won't forbear that ugly 
 word.. — Give me then no reason for it. Where are the 
 other papers ? Why, then, unkind sir, if it must be so, here 
 they are. And so I gave him, out of my pocket, the second 
 parcel, sealed up, as the former, with this superscription; 
 From the naughty articles, down, through sad attempts, to 
 Thursday the ^%d day of my imprisonment. This is last 
 Thursday, is it ? Yes, sir ; but now you will see what I 
 write, I will find some other way to employ my time : for 
 how can I write with any face, what must be for your per- 
 usal, and not for those I intended to read my melancholy 
 stories ? 
 
 Yes, said he, I would have you continue your penmanship 
 by all means ; and, I assure you, in the mind I am in, I 
 will not ask you for any after these ; except anything very 
 extraordinary occurs. And I have another thing to tell you, 
 added he, that if you send for those from your father, and 
 let me read them, I may, very probably, give them all back 
 again to you. And so I desire you will do it. 
 
 This a little encourages me to continue my scribblino-j 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 271 
 
 but, for fear of the worst, I will, when they come to any 
 bulk, contrive some way to hide them, if I can, that I may 
 protest I have them not about me, which, before, I could 
 not say of a truth ; and that made him so resolutely bent 
 to try to find them upon me ; for which I might have 
 suffered frightful indecencies. 
 
 He led me, then, to the side of the pond ; and sitting 
 down on the slope, made me sit by him. Come, said he, 
 this being the scene of part of your project, and where you 
 so artfully threw in some of your clothes, I will just look 
 upon that part of your relation. Sir, said I, let me then 
 walk about, at a little distance ; for I cannot bear the thought 
 of it. Don't go far, said he. 
 
 When he came, as I suppose, to the place where I men- 
 tioned the bricks falling upon me, he got up, and walked to 
 the door, and looked upon the broken part of the wall ; 
 for it had not been mended ; and came back, reading on tu 
 himself, towards me ; and took my hand, and put it under 
 his arm. 
 
 Why, this, said he, my girl, is a very moving tale. It 
 was a very desperate attempt, and, had you got out, you 
 might have been in great danger ; for you had a very bad 
 and lonely way : and I had taken such measures, that, let 
 you have been where you would, I should have had you. 
 
 You may see, sir, said I, what I ventured, rather than be 
 ruined; and you will be so good as hence to judge of the 
 sincerity of my profession, that my honesty is dearer to me 
 than my life. Romantic girl ! said he, and read on. 
 
 He was very serious at my reflections, on what God had 
 enabled me to escape. And when he came to my reason- 
 ings about throwing myself into the water, he said. Walk 
 gently before ; and seemed so moved, that he turned away 
 his fa|fce from me ; and I blessed this good sign, and began 
 not so much to repent at his seeing this mournful part of 
 my story. 
 
 He put the papers in his pocket, when he had read my 
 reflections, and thanks for escaping from myself; and said, 
 taking me about the waist. Oh, my dear girl ! you have 
 
%1% PAMELJ; OR, 
 
 touched me sensibly with your mournful relation, and your 
 sweet reflections upon it. I should truly have been very 
 miserable had it taken efFect. I see you have been used 
 too roughly ; and it is a mercy you stood proof in that fatal 
 moment. 
 
 Then he most kindly folded me in his arms : Let us, say 
 I too, my Pamela, walk from this accursed piece of water ; 
 for I shall not, with pleasure, look upon it again, to think 
 how near it was to have been fatal to my fair one. I 
 thought, added he, of terrifying you to my will, since I 
 could not move you by love ; and Mrs, Jewkes too well 
 obeyed me, when the terrors of your return, after your dis- 
 appointment, were so great, that you had hardly courage 
 to withstand them ; but had like to have made so fatal a 
 choice, to escape the treatment you apprehended. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, I have reason, I am sure, to bless my dear 
 parents, and my good lady, your mother, for giving me 
 something of a religious education; for, but for that, and 
 God's grace, I should, more than upon one occasion, have 
 attempted, at least, a desperate act : and I the less wonder 
 how poor creatures, who have not the fear of God before 
 their eyes, and give way to despondency, cast themselves 
 into perdition. 
 
 Come, kiss me, said he, and tell me you forgive me for 
 pushing you into so much danger and distress. If mv 
 mind hold, and I can see those former papers of yours, 
 and that these in my pocket give me no cause to alter my 
 opinion, I will endeavour to defy the world and the world's 
 censures, and make my Pamela amends, if it be in the 
 power of my whole life, for all the hardships I have made 
 her undergo. 
 
 All this looked well ; but you shall see how strangely it 
 was all turned. For this sham marriage then came, into 
 my mind again ; and I said. Your poor servant is far 
 unworthy of this great honour ; for what will it be but to 
 create envy to herself, and discredit to you ? Therefore sir 
 permit me to return to my poor parents, and that is' all I 
 have to ask. 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 273 
 
 He was in a fearful passion then. And is it thus, said 
 ne, in my fond conceding moments, that I am to be 
 despised and answered ? — Precise, perverse, unseasonable 
 Pamela ! begone from my sight ! and know as well how to 
 behave in a hopeful prospect, as in a distressful state ; and 
 then, and not till then, shalt thou attract the shadow of my 
 notice. 
 
 I was startled, and going to speak : but he stamped with 
 his foot, and said. Begone ! I tell you : I cannot bear this 
 stupid romantic folly. 
 
 One word, said I ; but one word, I beseech you, sir. 
 
 He turned from me in great wrath, and took down 
 another alley, and so I went, with a very heavy heart; and 
 fear I was too unseasonable, just at a time when he was 
 so condescending : but if it was a piece of art of his side, 
 as I apprehended, to introduce the sham-wedding (and, to 
 be sure, he is very full of stratagem and art), I think I was 
 not so much to blame. 
 
 So I went up to my closet; and wrote thus far, while 
 he walked about till dinner was ready ; and he is now sat 
 down to it, as I hear by Mrs. Jewkes, very sullen, thought- 
 ful, and out of humour; and she asks. What I have done 
 to him ? — Now, again, I dread to see him ! — When will my 
 fears be over ? 
 
 Three o'clock. 
 
 Well, he continues exceeding wrath. He has ordered 
 his travelling chariot to be got ready with all speed. What 
 is to come next, I wonder ! 
 
 Sure I did not 'say 50 much I^But see the lordliness of 
 a high condition !— A poor body must not put in a word, 
 whenlthey take it into their heads to be angry ! What a 
 fine tiUe a person of an equal condition would have of it, 
 if she( were even to marry such a one !— His poor dear 
 mother spoiled him at first. Nobody must speak to him 
 or contradict him, as I have heard, when he was a^ child ; 
 
 VOL. i. 
 
374 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 and so he has not been used to be controlled, and cannot 
 bear the least thing that crosses his violent will. This is one 
 of the blessings attending men of high condition 1 Much 
 good may do them with their pride of birth, and pride of 
 fortune ! say I : — All that it serves for, as far as I can see, 
 is, to multiply their disquiets, and everybody's else that has 
 to do with them. 
 
 So, so ! where will this end ? — Mrs.' Jewkes has been with 
 me from him, and she says, I must get out of the house 
 this moment. Well, said I, but whither am I to be carried 
 next? Why, home, said she, to your father and mother. 
 And can it be ? said I ; No, no, I doubt I shall not be so 
 happy as that l^To be sure some bad design is on foot 
 again! To be sure it is ! — Sure, sure, said I, Mrs. Jewkes, 
 he has not found out some other housekeeper worse than 
 you ! She was very angry, you may well think. But I 
 know she can't be made worse than she is. 
 
 She came up again. Are you ready ? said she. Bless 
 me, said T, you are very hasty ! I have heard of this not 
 a quarter of an hour ago. But I shall be soon ready ; for 
 I have but little to take with me, and no kind friends in 
 this house to take leave of, to delay me. Yet, like a fool, 
 I can't help crying. Pray, said I, just step down, and ask, 
 if I may not have my papers.- 
 
 So, I am quite ready now, against she comes up with 
 an answer ; and so I will put up these few writings in my 
 bosom, that I have left, 
 
 I don't know what to think — nor how to judge; but I 
 shall never believe I am with you, till I am on my knees 
 before you, begging both your blessings. Yet I am sorry 
 he is so angry with me ! I thought I did not say so much. 
 
 There is, I see, the chariot drawn out, the horses too, the 
 grim Colbrand going to get on horseback. What will be 
 the end of all this ? 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 275 
 
 Monday. 
 
 Well, where this will end, I cannot say. But here I am, 
 at a little poor village, almost such a one as yours ! I shal 
 learn the name of it by and by : and Robin assures me, he 
 has orders to carry me to you, my dear father and mother. 
 Oh that he may say truth, and not deceive me again 1 But 
 having nothing else to do, and I am sure I shall not sleep 
 a wink to-night, if I was to go to bed, I will write my time 
 away, and take up my story where I left off, on Sunday 
 afternoon. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes came up to me, with this answer about my 
 papers : My master says, he will not read them yet, lest he 
 should be moved by anything in them to alter his resolution. 
 But if he should think it worth while to read them, he will 
 send them to you, afterwards, to your father's. But, said 
 she, here are your guineas that I borrowed: for all is over 
 now with you, I find. 
 
 She saw me cry, and said. Do you repent ? — Of what ? 
 said I. — Nay, I can't tell, replied she; but, to be sure, he 
 has had a taste of your satirical flings, or he would not be 
 so angry. Oh 1 continued she, and held up her hand, thou 
 hast a spirit ! — But I hope it will now be brought down. — 
 I hope so too, said I. 
 
 Well, added I, I am ready. She lifted up the window, 
 •and said, I'll call Robin to take your portmanteau: Bag 
 and baggage ! proceeded she, Pm glad you're going. I have 
 no words, said I, to throw away upon you, Mrs. Jewkes ; 
 but, making her a very low courtesy, I most heartily thank 
 you for all your virtuous civilities to me. And so adieu; 
 for I'll have no portmanteau, I'll assure you, nor anything 
 but these few things that I brought with me in my hand- 
 kerchief, besides what I have. on. For I had all this time 
 worn my own bought clothes, though my master would 
 have had it otherwise often : but I had put up paper, ink, 
 and pens, however. 
 
 So down I went, and as I passed by the parlour, she 
 
ayS PAMELA; OR, 
 
 stepped in, and said. Sir, you have nothing to say to the 
 girl before she goes ? I heard him reply, though I did not 
 see him. Who bid you say, the girl, Mrs. Jewkes, in that 
 manner ? She has offended only me. 
 
 I beg your honour's pardon, said the wretch; but if I 
 was your honour, she should not, for all the trouble she 
 has cost you, go away scot-free. No more of this, as I told 
 you lefore, said he : What ! when I have such proof, that 
 her virtue is all her pride, shall I rob her of that ? — No, 
 added he, let her go, perverse and foolish as she is ; but she 
 deserves to go honest, and she shall go so ! 
 
 I was so transported with this unexpected goodness, that 
 I opened the door before I knew what I did ; and said, 
 falling on my knees at the door, with my hands folded, and 
 lifted up. Oh thank you, thank your honour, a million of 
 times ! — May God bless you for this instance of your good- 
 ness to me ! I will pray for vou as long as I live, and so 
 shall my dear father and mother. And, Mrs. Jewkes, said 
 I, I will pray for you too, poor wicked wretch that you are ! 
 
 He turned from me, and went into his closet, and shut 
 the door. He need not have done so ; for I would not have 
 gone nearer to him ! 
 
 Surely I did not say so mtich, to incur all this displeasure, 
 
 I think I was loath to leave the house. Can you believe 
 it ? — What could be the matter with me, I wonder ? — I felt 
 something so strange, and my heart was so lumpish ! — I 
 wonder what ailed me ! — ^But this was so unexpected ! — I 
 believe that was all ! — Yet I am very strange still. Surely, 
 surely, I cannot be like the old murmuring Israelites, to 
 long after the onions and garlic of Egypt, when they had 
 suffered there such heavy bondage ? — I'll take thee, oh 
 lumpish, contradictory, ungovernable heart ! to severe task, 
 for this thy strange impulse, when I get to my dear father's 
 and mother's ; and if I find 9,nything in thee that should 
 not be, depend upon it thou shalt be humbled, if strict 
 abstinence, prayer, and mortification, will do it ! 
 
 But yet, after all, this last goodness of his has touched me 
 too sensibly. I wish I had not heard it, almost ; and yet. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 277 
 
 methinks, I am glad I did; for I should rejoice to think the 
 best of him, for his own sake. 
 
 Well, and so I went out to the chariot, the same that 
 brought me down. So, Mr. Robert, said I, here I am 
 again ! a poor sporting-piece for the great ! a mere tennis- 
 ball of fortune ! You have your orders, I hope. Yes, madam, 
 said he. Pray, now, said I, don't madam me, nor stand 
 with your hat off to such a one as I. Had not my master, 
 said he, ordered me not to be wanting in respects to you, I 
 would have shown you all I could. Well, said I, with my 
 heart full, that's very kind, Mr. Robert. 
 
 Mr. Colbrand, mounted on horseback, with pistols before 
 him, came up to me, as soon as I got in, with his hat off too. 
 What, monsieur ! said I, are you to go with me ? — Part of 
 the way, he said, to see you safe. I hope that's kind too, in 
 you, Mr. Colbrand, said I. 
 
 I had nobody to wave my handkerchief to now, nor to 
 take leave of; and so I resigned myself to my contempla- 
 tions, with this strange wayward heart of mine, that I never 
 found so ungovernable and awkward before. 
 
 So away drove the chariot ! — And when I had got out of 
 the elm-walk, and into the great road, I could hardly think 
 but I was in a dream all the time. A few hours before, in 
 my master's arms almost, with twenty kind things said to 
 me, and a generous concern for the misfortunes he had 
 brought upon me; and only by one rash half-word exas- 
 perated against me, and turned out of doors, at an hour's 
 warning ; and all his kindness changed to hate ! And I 
 now, from three o'clock to five, several miles off! But if I 
 am going to you, all will be well again, I hope. 
 
 Lack-a-day, what strange creatures are men ! gentlemen, 
 I should say, rather ! For, my dear deserving good mother, 
 though poverty be both your lots, has had better hap, and 
 you are, and have always been, blest in one another ! — Yet 
 this pleases me too ; he was so good, he would not let Mrs. 
 Jewkes speak ill of me, and scorned to take her odious 
 unwomanly advice. Oh, what a black heart has this poor 
 wretch 1 So I need not rail against men so much ; for my 
 
378 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 master, bad as I have thought him, is not half so bad as 
 this woman. — To be sure she must be an atheist ! — Do you 
 think she is not ? 
 
 We could not reach further than this little poor place and 
 sad alehouse, rather than inn ; for it began to be dark, and 
 Robin did not make so much haste as he might have done ; 
 and he was forced to make hard shift for his horses. 
 
 Mr. Colbrand, and Robert too, are very civil. I see he 
 has got my portmanteau lashed behind the coach. I did 
 not desire it ; but I shall not come quite empty. 
 
 A thorough riddance of me, I see 1 — Bag and baggage ! 
 as Mrs. Jewkes says. Well, my story surely would furnish 
 out a surprising kind of novel, if it was to be well told. 
 
 Mr. Robert came up to me, just now, and begged me to 
 eat something : I thanked him ; but said, I could not eat. 
 I bid him ask Mr. Colbrand to walk up ; and he came ; but 
 neither of them would sit ; nor put their hats on. What 
 mockado is this, to such a poor soul as I ! I asked them, if 
 they were at liberty to tell me the truth of what they were 
 to do with me? If not, I would not desire it. — They both 
 said, Robin was ordered to carry me to my^^father's ; and 
 Mr. Colbrand was to leave me within ten miles, and then 
 strike off for the other house, and wait till my master arrived 
 there. They both spoke so solemnly, that I could not but 
 believe them. 
 
 But when Robin went down, the other said, he had a 
 letter to give me next day at noon, when we baited, as we 
 were to do, at Mrs. Jewkes's relation's. — May I not, said I, 
 beg the favour to see it to-night ? He seemed so loath to 
 deny me, that I have hopes I shall prevail on him by and by. 
 
 Well, my dear father and mother, I have got the letter, 
 on great promises of secrecy, and making no use of it. I 
 will try if I can open it without breaking the seal, and will 
 take a copy of it by and by ; for Robin is in and out : there 
 being hardly any room in this little house for one to be long 
 alone. Well, this is the letter : — 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 279 
 
 ' When these Hnes are delivered to you^ you will be far 
 on your way to your father and mother^ where you have 
 so long desired to be ; and^ I hope^ I shall forbear thinking 
 of you with the least shadow of that fondness my foolish 
 heart had entertained for you : I bear you, however, no ill 
 will ; but the end of my detaining you being over, I would 
 not that you should tarry with me an hour more than 
 needed, after the ungenerous preference you gave, at a 
 time that I was inclined to pass over all other considera- 
 tions, for an honourable address to you ; for well I found 
 the tables entirely turned upon me, and that I was in fai 
 more danger from you than you were from me ; for I was 
 just upon resolving to defy all the censures of the world, 
 and to make you my wife. 
 
 ' I will acknowledge another truth : That, had I not 
 parted with you as I did, but permitted you to stay till 1 
 had read your journal, reflecting, as I doubt not I shal 
 find it, and till I had heard your bewitching pleas in youi 
 own behalf, I feared I could not trust myself with my owr 
 resolution. And this is the reason, I frankly own, that 1 
 have determined not to see you, nor hear you speak ; foi 
 well I know my weakness in your favour. 
 
 ' But I will get the better of this fond folly : Nay, I hope 
 I have already done it, since it was likely to cost me sc 
 dear. And I write this to tell you, that I wish you wel 
 with all my heart, though you have spread such mischiel 
 through my family. — And yet I cannot but say that I coulc 
 wish you would not think of marrying in haste; and, 
 particularly, that you would not have this cursed Williams 
 —But what is all this to me now?— Only, my weakness 
 makes me say, That as I had already looked upon you as 
 mine, and you have so soon got rid of your first husband ; 
 so you will not refuse, to my memonj, the decency that 
 every common person observes, to pay a twelvemonth's 
 compliment, though but a mere compliment, to my ashes. 
 
 ' Your papers shall be faithfully returned you ; and I have 
 paid- so dear for my curiosity in the affection they have 
 riveted upon me for you, that you would look upon 
 
2 8o PAMELA; OR, ■ 
 
 ' yourself amply revenged if you knew what they have 
 ' cost me. 
 
 ' I thought of writing only a few lines ; but I have run 
 ' into length. I will now try to recollect my scattered 
 ' thoughts^ and resume my reason ; and shall find trouble 
 ' enough to replace my aflFairs, and my own family, and to 
 ' supply the chasms you have made in it : For, let me tell 
 ' you, though I can forgive you, I never can my sister, nor 
 ' my domestics ; for my vengeance must be wreaked some- 
 ' where. 
 
 ' I doubt not your prudence in forbearing to expose me 
 ' any more than is necessary for your own justification j and 
 ' for that I will suifer myself to be accused by you, and will 
 ' also accuse myself, if it be needful. For I am, and will 
 ' ever be, 
 
 ' Your affectionate well-wisher.' 
 
 This letter, when I expected somie new plot, has affected 
 me more than anything of that sort could have done. For 
 here is plainly his great value for me confessed, and his 
 rigorous behaviour accounted for in such a manner, as 
 tortures me much. And all this wicked gipsy story is, as it 
 seems, a forgery upon us both, and has quite ruined me : 
 For, oh my dear parents, forgive me ! but I found, to my 
 grief, before, that my heart was too partial in his favour; 
 but now with so much openness, so much affection ; nay, so 
 much honour too (which was all I had before doubted, and 
 kept me on the reserve), I am quite overcome. This was a 
 happiness, however, I had no reason to expect. But, to be 
 sure, I must own to you, that I shall never be able to think 
 of anybody in the world but him. — Presumption! you will 
 say; and so it is : But love is not a voluntary thing : Love, 
 did I say? — But come, I hope not: — At least it is not, I 
 hope, gone so far as to make me very uneasy : For I know 
 not how it came, nor when it began ; but crept, crept it has, 
 like a thief, upon me; and before I knew what was the 
 matter, it looked like love. 
 
 I wish, since it is too late, and my lot determined that 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. a8i 
 
 I had not had this letter, nor heard him take my part to 
 that vile woman ; for then I should have blessed myself in 
 having escaped so happily his designing arts upon my virtue : 
 but now my poor mind is all topsy-turvied, and I have made 
 an escape to be more a prisoner. 
 
 But I hope, since thus it is, that all will be for the best ; 
 and I shall, with your prudent advice, and pious prayers, be 
 able to overcome this weakness. — But, to be sure, my dear 
 sir, I will keep a longer time than a twelvemonth, as a trtie 
 widow, for a compliment, and more than a compliment, to 
 your ashes ! Oh the dear word ! — How kind, how moving, 
 how affectionate is the word ! Oh why was I not a duchess, 
 to show my gratitude for it ! But must labour under the 
 weight of an obligation, even had this happiness befallen me, 
 that would have pressed me to death, and which I never 
 could return by a whole life of faithful love, and cheerful 
 obedience. 
 
 Oh forgive your poor daughter ! — I am sorry to find this 
 trial so sore upon me ; and that all the weakness of my weak 
 sex, and tender years, who never before knew what it was to 
 be so touched, is come upon me, and too mighty to be with- 
 stood by me. — But time, prayer, and resignation to God's 
 will, and the benefits of your good lessons, and examples, I 
 hope, will enable me to get over this so heavy a trial. 
 
 Oh my treg,cherous, treacherous heart ! to serve me thus ! 
 and give no notice to me of the mischiefs thou wast about 
 to bring upon me! — But thus foolishly to give thyself up 
 to the proud invader, without ever consulting thy poor 
 mistress in the least ! But thy punishment will be the Jrst 
 and the greatest; and well deservest thou to smart, oh 
 perfidious traitor ! for giving up so weakly thy whole self, 
 before a summons came; and to one, too, who had used me 
 so hardly; and when, likewise, thou hadst so well main- 
 tained thy post against the most violent and avowed, and, 
 therefore, as I thought, more dangerous attacks ! 
 
 After all, I must either not show you this my weakness, 
 or tear it out of my writing. Memorandum : to consider of 
 this, when I get home. 
 
a8a PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Monday morning, eleven o'clock. 
 We are just come in here, to the inn kept by Mrs. 
 Jewkes's relation. The first compHment I had, was in a 
 very impudent manner. How I liked the 'squire ?— I could 
 not help saying, Bold, forward woman ! Is it for you, who 
 keep an inn, to treat passengers at this rate ? She was but 
 in jest, she said, and asked pardon : And she came, and 
 begged excuse again, very submissively, after Robin and 
 Mr. Colbrand had talked to her a Httle. 
 
 The latter here, in great form, gave me, before Robin, 
 the letter which I had given him back for that purpose. 
 And I retired, as if to read it ; and so I did ; for I think I 
 can't read it too often; though, for my peace of mind's 
 sake, I might better try to forget it. I am sorry, methinks, 
 I cannot bring you back a sound heart ; biit, indeed, it is 
 an honest one, as to anybody but me ; for it has deceived 
 nobody else : Wicked thing that it is ! 
 
 More and more surprising things still 
 
 Just as I had sat down, to try to eat a bit of victuals, to 
 get ready to pursue my journey, came in Mr. Colbrand, in 
 a mighty hurry. O madam ! madam ! said he, here be de 
 
 groom from de 'Squire B , all over in a lather, man 
 
 and horse 1 Oh how my heart went pit-a-pat 1 What now, 
 thought I, is to come next ! He went out, and presently 
 returned with a letter for me, and another, enclosed, for 
 Mr. Colbrand. This seemed odd, and put me all in a 
 trembling. So I shut the door; and never, sure, was the 
 like known ! found the following agreeable contents : — 
 
 ' In vain, my Pamela, do I find it to struggle against my 
 ' affection for you. I must needs, after you were gone, 
 ' venture to entertain myself with your Journal, when I 
 ' found Mrs. Jewkes's bad usage of you, after your dreadful 
 ' temptations and hurts ; and particularly your generous 
 ' concern for me, on hearing how narrowly I escaped drown- 
 ' ing (though my death would have been your freedom, and 
 ' I had made it your interest to wish it) ; and your most 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 283 
 
 ' agreeable confession in another place, that^ notwithstand- 
 ' ing all my hard usage of you, you could not hate me ; and 
 ' that expressed in so sweet, so soft, and so innocent a 
 ' manner, that I flatter myself you may be brought to love 
 ' me (together with the other parts of your admirable 
 ' Journal) : I began to repent my parting with you ; but, 
 ' God is my witness ! for no unlawful end, as you would call 
 ' it ; but the very contrary : and the rather, as all this was 
 ' improved in your favour, by your behaviour at leaving my 
 ' house : For, oh ! that melodious voice praying for me at 
 ' your departure, and thanking me for my rebuke to Mrs. 
 ' Jewkes, still hangs upon my ears, and delights my 
 ' memory. And though I went to bed, I could not rest ; 
 ' but about two got up, and made Thomas get one of the 
 ' best horses ready, in order to set out to overtake you, 
 ' while I sat down to write this to you. 
 
 ' Now, my dear Pamela, let me beg of you,''on the receipt 
 'of this, to order Robin to drive you back again to my 
 house. I would have set out myself, for the pleasure of 
 ' bearing you company back in the chariot ; but am really 
 ' indisposed ; I believe, with vexation that I should part 
 ' thus with my soul's delight, as I now find you are, and 
 ' must be, in spite of the pride of my own heart. 
 
 * You cannot imagine the obligation your return will lay 
 ' me under to your goodness ; and yet, if you will not so far 
 ' favour me, you shall be under no restraint, as you will 
 ' see by my letter enclosed to Colbrand ; which I have not 
 ' sealed, that you may read it. But spare me, my dearest 
 ' girl ! the confusion of following you to your father's ; 
 ' which I must do, if you persist to go on ; for I find I can- 
 ' not live a day without you. 
 
 ' If you are the generous Pamela I imagine you to be 
 ' (for hitherto you have been all goodness, where it has not 
 ' been merited), let me see, by this new instance, the further 
 ' excellence of your disposition ; let me see you can forgive 
 ' the man who loves you more than himself; let me see, by 
 ' it, that you are not prepossessed in any other person's 
 ' favour : And one instance more I would beg, and then I 
 
 i 
 
a84 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' am all gratitude; and that is, that you would despatch 
 ' Monsieur Colbrand with a letter to your father, assuring 
 ' him that all will end happily ; and to desire, that he will 
 ' send to you, at my house, the letters you found means, by 
 ' Williams's conveyance, to send him. And when I have all 
 ' my proud, and, perhaps, punctilious doubts answered, I 
 ' shall have nothing to do, but to make you happy, and be 
 ' so myself. For I must be 
 
 ' Yours, and only yours. 
 
 ' Monday morn, near three o'clock.' 
 
 Oh my exulting heart 1 how it throbs in my bosom, as if 
 it would reproach me for so lately upbraiding it for giving 
 way to the love of so dear a gentleman! — But take care 
 thou art not too credulous neither, oh fond believer ! Things 
 that we wish, are apt to gain a too ready credence with us. 
 This sham marriage is not yet cleared up : Mrs. Jewkes, the 
 vile Mrs. Jewkes ! may yet instigate the mind of this 
 master : his pride of heart, and pride of condition, may 
 again take place : And a man that could in so little a space, 
 first love me, then hate, then banish me his house, and send 
 me away disgracefully; and now send for me again, in such 
 affectionate terms, may still waver, may still deceive thee. 
 Therefore will I not acquit thee yet, oh credulous, fluttering, 
 throbbing mischief! that art so ready to believe what thou 
 wishest ! And I charge thee to keep better guard than thou 
 hast lately done, and lead me not to follow too implicitly 
 thy flattering and desirable impulses. Thus foolishly 
 dialogued I with my heart ; and yet, all the time, this heart 
 is Pamela. 
 
 I opened the letter to Monsieur Colbrand; which was 
 in these words : — 
 
 ' Monsieur, — I am sure you'll excuse the trouble I give 
 ' you. I have, for good reasons, changed my mind ; and I 
 ' have besought it, as a favour, that Mrs. Andrews will 
 ' return to me the moment Tom reaches you. I hope, for 
 ' the reasons I have given her, she will have the goodness 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 285 
 
 * to oblige me. But, if not, you are to order Robin to 
 
 * pursue his directions, and set her down at her father's 
 ' door. If she will oblige me in her return, perhaps she'll 
 ' give you a letter to her father, for some papers to be 
 ' delivered to you for her ; which you'll be so good, in that 
 
 * case, to bring to her here : But if she will not give you 
 ' such a letter, you'll return with her to me, if she please to 
 ' favour me so far; and that with all expedition, that her 
 ' health and safety will permit ; for I am pretty much indls- 
 ' posed ; but hope it will be but slight, and soon go off. 
 ' I am 
 
 'Yours, &c. 
 
 ' On second thoughts, let Tom go forward with Mrs. 
 ' Andrews's letter, if she pleases to give one; and you 
 ' return with her, for her safety.' 
 
 Now this is a dear generous manner of treating me. Oh 
 how I love to be generously used ! — Now, my dear parents, 
 I wish I could consult you for your opinions, how I should 
 act. Should I go back, or should I not ? — I doubt he has 
 got too great hold in my heart, for me to be easy presently, 
 if I should refuse : And yet this gipsy information makes 
 me fearful. 
 
 Well, I will, I think, trust in his generosity ! Yet is it 
 not too great a trust ? — especially considering how I have 
 been used !— But then that was while he avowed his bad 
 designs; and now he gives great hope of his good ones. 
 And I may he the means of making many happy, as well 
 as myself, by placing a generous confidence in him. 
 
 And then, I think, he might have sent to Colbrand, or 
 to Robin, to carry me back, whether I would or not. And 
 how different is his behaviour to that ! And would it not 
 look as if I was prepossessed, as he calls it, if I don't oblige 
 him; and as if it was a silly female piece of pride, to make 
 him follow me to my father's ;• and as if I would use him 
 hardly in my turn, for his having used me ill in his ? Upon 
 the whole, I resolved to obey him ; and if he uses me ill 
 
a86 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 afterwards, double will be his ungenerous guilt !— Though 
 hard will be my lot, to have my credulity so justly blamable, 
 as it will then seem. For, to be sure, the world, the wise 
 world, that never is wrong itself, judges always by events. 
 And if he should use me ill, then I shall be blamed for 
 trusting him : If well, oh then I did right, to be sure !— But 
 how would my censurers act in my case, before the event 
 justifies or condemns the action, is the question ? 
 
 Then I have no notion of obliging by halves; but of 
 doing things with a grace, as one may say, where they are 
 to be done ; and so I wrote the desired letter to you, assur- 
 ing you, that I had before me happier prospects than ever 
 I had ; and hoped all would end well : And that I begged 
 you would send me, by the bearer, Mr. Thomas, my master's 
 groom, those papers, which I had sent you by Mr. Williams's 
 conveyance : For that they imported me much, for clearing 
 up a point in my conduct, that my master was desirous to 
 know, before he resolved to favour me, as he had intended. — 
 But you will have thxit letter, before you can have this : for 
 I would not send you this without the preceding; which 
 now is in my master's hands. 
 
 And so, having given the letter to Mr. Thomas for him 
 to carry to you, when he had baited and rested after his 
 great fatigue, I sent for Monsieur Colbrand, and Robin, 
 and gave to the former his letter ; and when he had read 
 it, I said. You see how things stand. I am resolved to 
 return to our master ; and as he is not so well as were to 
 be wished, the more haste you make the better : and don't 
 mind my fatigue, but consider only yourselves, and the 
 horses. Robin, who guessed the matter, by his conversation 
 with Thomas (as I suppose), said, God bless you, madam, 
 and reward you, as your obligingness to my good master 
 deserves ; and may we all live to see you triumph over Mrs. 
 Jewkes 1 
 
 I wondered to hear him say so ; for I was always care- 
 ful of exposing my master, or even that naughty woman, 
 before the common servants. But yet I question whether 
 Robin would have said this, if he had not guessed, by 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 287 
 
 Thomas's message, and my resolving to return, that I might 
 stand well with his master. So selfish are the hearts of poor 
 mortals, that they are ready to change as favour goes ! 
 
 So they were not long getting ready; and I am just set- 
 ting out, back again : and I hope I shall have no reason to 
 repent it. 
 
 Robin put on very vehemently; and when we came to 
 the little town, where we lay on Sunday night, he gave 
 liis horses a bait, and said, he would push for his master's 
 that night, as it would be moonlight, if I should not be 
 too much fatigued : because there was no place between 
 that and the town adjacent to his master's, fit to put up at, 
 for the night. But Monsieur Colbrand's horse beginning 
 to give way, made a doubt between them : wherefore I 
 said (hating to lie on the road), if it could be done, I should 
 bear it well enough, I hoped ; and that Monsieur Colbrand 
 might leave his horse, when it failed, at some house, and 
 'come into the chariot. This pleased them both ; and, about 
 twelve miles short, he left the horse, and took off his spurs 
 and holsters, &c., and, with abundance of ceremonial excuses, 
 came into the chariot; and I sat the easier for it ; for my 
 bones ached sadly with the jolting, and so many miles 
 travelling in so few hours, as I have done, from Sunday 
 night, five o'clock. But, for all this, it was eleven o'clock at 
 night, when we came to the village adjacent to my master's ; 
 and the horses began to be very much tired, and Robin too : 
 but I said. It would be pity to put up only three miles short 
 of the house. 
 
 So about one we reached the gate; but everybody was 
 a-bed. But one of the helpers got the keys from Mrs. 
 Jewkes, and opened the gates ; and the horses could hardly 
 crawl into the stable. And I, when I went to get out of 
 the chariot, fell down, and thought I had lost the use of 
 my limbs. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes came down with her clothes huddled on, 
 and lifted up her hands and eyes, at my return; but showed 
 more care of the horses than of me. By that time the two 
 
a88 FAMELA; OR, 
 
 maids came; and I made shift to creep in, as well as I 
 could. 
 
 It seems my poor master was very ill indeed, and had 
 been upon the bed most part of the day; and Abraham 
 (who succeeded John) sat up with him. And he was got 
 into a fine sleep, and heard not the coach come in, nor the 
 noise we made ; for his chamber lies towards the garden, 
 on the other side of the house. Mrs. Jewkes said. He had 
 a feverish complaint, and had been blooded; and, very 
 prudently, ordered Abraham, when he awaked, not to tell 
 him I was come, for fear of surprising him, and augment- 
 ing his fever ; nor, indeed, to say anything of me, till she 
 herself broke it to him in the morning, as she should see 
 how he was. 
 
 So I went to bed with Mrs. Jewkes, after she had caused 
 me to drink almost half a pint of burnt wine, made very 
 rich and cordial, with spices; which I found very refresh- 
 ing, and set me into a sleep I little hoped for. 
 
 Tuesday morning. 
 Getting up pretty early, I have written thus far, while 
 Mrs. Jewkes lies snoring in bed, fetching up her last night's 
 disturbance. I long for her rising, to know how my poor 
 master does. 'Tis well for her she can sleep so purely. 
 No love, but for herself, will ever break her rest, I am sure. 
 I am deadly sore all over, as if I had been soundly beaten. 
 I did not think I could have lived under such fatigue. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes, as soon as she got up, went to know how 
 my master did, and he had had a good night ; and, having 
 drank plentifully of sack whey, had sweated much ; so that 
 his fever had abated considerably. She said to him, that he 
 must not be surprised, and she would tell him news. He 
 asked. What? And she said, I was come. He raised 
 himself up in his bed ; Can it be ? said he — What, already ! 
 — She told him I came last night. Monsieur Colbrand 
 coming to inquire of his health, he ordered him to draw 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 289 
 
 near him, and was highly pleased with the account he gave 
 han of the journey, my readiness to come back, and mv 
 willingness to reach home that night. And he said, Whv, 
 these tender fair ones, I think, bear fatigue better than us 
 men. But she is very good, to give me such an instance of 
 her readiness to oblige me. Pray, Mrs. Jewkes, said he, 
 take great care of her health 1 and let her. lie a-bed all day. 
 She told him I had been up these two hours. Ask her, said 
 he, if she will be so good as to make me a visit : If she 
 won't, I'll rise, and go to her. Indeed, sir, said she, vou 
 must be still ; and I'll go to her. But don't urge her too 
 much, said he, if she be unwilling. 
 
 She came to me, and told me all the above ; and I said, 
 I would most willingly wait upon him ; for, indeed, I longed 
 to see him, and was much grieved he was so ill. — So I went 
 down with her. Will she come ? said he, as I entered the 
 room. Yes, sir, said we; and she said, at the first word, 
 Most willingly. — Sweet excellence 1 said he. 
 
 As'soon as he saw me, he said. Oh, my beloved Pamela ! 
 you have made me quite well. I'm concerned to return 
 my acknowledgments to you in so unfit a place and man- 
 ner; but will you give me your hand ? I did, and he kissed 
 it with great eagerness. Sir, said I, you do me too much 
 honour ! — I am sorry you are so ill. — I can't be ill, said 
 he, while you are with me. I am very well already. 
 
 Well, said he, and kissed my hand again, you shall not 
 repent this goodness. My heart is too full of it to express 
 myself as I ought. But I am sorry you have had such a 
 fatiguing time of it. — Life is no life without you ! If you 
 had refused me, and yet I had hardly hopes you would 
 oblige me, I should have had a severe fit of it, I believe; 
 for I was taken very oddly, and knew not what to make of 
 myself: but now I shall be well instantly. You need not, 
 Mrs. Jewkes, added he, send for the doctor from Stamford, 
 as we talked yesterday ; for this lovely creature is my doctor, 
 as her absence was my disease. 
 
 He begged me to sit down by his bed-side, and aske^ 
 me, if I°had obliged him with sending for my formei 
 
 T 
 VOL. I. 
 
290 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 packet ? I said I had, and hoped it would be brought. He 
 said it was doubly kind. 
 
 I would not stay long because of disturbing him. And 
 he got up in the afternoon, and desired my company ; and 
 seemed quite pleased, easv, and much better. He said, 
 Mrs. Jewkes, after this instance of my good Pamela's oblig- 
 ingness in her return, I am sure we ought to leave her en- 
 tirely at her own liberty ; and pray, if she pleases to take a 
 turn in our chariot, or in the garden, or to the town, or 
 wherever she will, let her be left at liberty, and asked no 
 questions ; and do you do all in your power to oblige her. 
 She said she would, to be sure. 
 
 He took my hand, and said. One l,hing I will tell you, 
 Pamela, because I know you will be glad to hear it, and 
 yet not care to ask me: Ihad, before you went, taken 
 Williams's bond for the money ; for how the poor man 
 had behaved I can't tell, but he could get no bail ; and if 
 I have no fresh reason given me, perhaps I shall not exact 
 the payment j and he has been some time at liberty, and 
 now follows his school ; but, methinks, I could wish you 
 would not see him at present. 
 
 Sir, said I, I will not do anything to disoblige you wil- 
 fully ; and I am glad he is at liberty, because I was the 
 occasion of his misfortunes. I durst say no more, though 
 I wanted to plead for the poor gentleman ; which, in gra- 
 titude, I thought I ought, when I could do him service. I 
 said, I am sorry, sir. Lady Davers, who loves you so well, 
 should have incurred your displeasure, and that there should 
 be any variance between your honour and her ; I hope it 
 was not on my account. He took out of his waistcoat 
 pocket, as he sat in his gown, his letter-case, and said. Here, 
 Pamela, read that when you go upstairs, and let me have 
 your thoughts upon it ; and that will let you into the 
 affair. 
 
 He said he was very heavy of a sudden, and would lie 
 down, and indulge for that day ; and if he was better in the 
 morning, would take an airing in the chariot. And so I 
 took my leave for the present, and went up to my closet, 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 391 
 
 and read the letter he was pleased to put into my hands ■ 
 which IS as follows : — ' 
 
 ' Brother,— I am very uneasy at what I hear of you ; 
 and must write, whether it please you or not, my full 
 mmd. I have had some people with me, desiring me to 
 mterpose with you; and they have a greater regard for 
 your honour, than, I am sorry to say it, you have your- 
 self. Could I think, that a brother of mine would so 
 meanly run away with my late dear mother's waiting- 
 maid, and keep her a prisoner from all her friends, aiul 
 to the disgrace of your own ? But I thought, when you 
 would not let the wench come to me on my mother's 
 death, that you meant no good. — I blush for you, I'll 
 assure you. The girl was an innocent, good girl; but I 
 suppose that's over with her now, or soon will. What 
 can you mean by this, let me ask you ? Either you will 
 have her for a kept mistress, or for a wife. If the former, 
 there are enough to be had without^ ruining a poor wench 
 that my mother loved, and who really was a very good 
 girl : and of this you may be ashamed. As to the other, 
 I daresay you don't think of it ; but if you should, you 
 would be utterly inexcusable. Consider, brother, that 
 ours is no upstart family ; but is as ancient as the best in 
 the kingdom ! and, for several hundreds of years, it has 
 never been known, that the heirs of it have disgraced 
 ithemselves by unequal matches : And you know you 
 have been sought to by some of the best families in t"he 
 nation, for your alliance. It might be well enough, if you 
 were descended of a family of yesterday, or but a remove or 
 two from the dirt you seem so fond of. But, let -1 tell 
 you, that I, and all mine, will renounce you for ever, if 
 you can descend so meanly ; and I shall be ashamed to be 
 called your sister. A handsome man, as you are, in your 
 person ; so happy in the gifts of your mind, that every- 
 body courts your company; and possessed of such a noble 
 and clear estate; and very rich in money besides, left you 
 by the best of fathers and mothers, with such ancient 
 
393 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' blood in your veins, untainted ! for you to throw away 
 ' yourself thus, is intolerable ; and it would be very wicked in 
 ' you to ruin the wench too. So that I beg you will restore 
 ' her to her parents, and give her looZ. or so, to make her 
 ' happy in some honest fellow of her own degree; and that 
 ' will be doing something, and will also oblige and pacify 
 
 ' Your much grieved sister. 
 
 ' If I have written too sharply, consider it is my love 
 ' to you, and the shame you are bringing upon your- 
 ' self; and I wish this may have the effect upon you, 
 ' intended by your very loving sister.' 
 
 This is a sad letter, my dear father and mother; and 
 one may see how poor people are despised by the proud 
 and the rich ! and yet we were all on a foot originally : 
 And many of these gentry, that brag of their ancient blood, 
 would be glad to have it as wholesome, and as really 
 untainted, as ours 1 — Surely these proud people never think 
 what a short stage life is ; and that, with all their vanity, 
 a time is coming, when they shall be obliged to submit to 
 be on a level with us : And true said the philosopher, when 
 he looked upon the skull of a king, and that of a poor man, 
 that he saw no difference between them. Besides, do they 
 not know, that the richest of princes, and the poorest of 
 beggars, are to have one great and tremendous Judge, at 
 the last day; who will not distinguish between them, 
 according to their circumstances in life ? — But, on the 
 contrary, may make their condemnations the greater, as 
 their neglected opportunities were the greater ? Poor 
 souls ! how do I pity their pride I — Oh keep me. Heaven ! 
 from their high condition, if my mind shall ever be tainted 
 with their vice 1 or polluted with so cruel and inconsiderate 
 a contempt of the humble estate which they behold with 
 so much scorn ! 
 
 But, besides, how do these gentry know, that, supposing 
 they could trace back their ancestry for one, two, three 
 or even five hundred years, that then the original stems of 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 393 
 
 these poor families, though they have not kept such elabo- 
 rate records of their good-for-nothingness, as it often 
 proves, were not still deeper rooted? — And how can they 
 be assured, that one hundred years hence, or two, some of 
 those now despised upstart families may not revel in their 
 estates, while their descendants may be reduced to the 
 others' dunghills ! — And, perhaps^ such is the vanity, as well 
 as changeableness, of human estates, in their turns set up 
 for pride of family, and despise the others ! 
 
 These reflections occurred to my thoughts, made serious 
 by my master's indisposition, and this proud letter of the 
 lowly Lady Davers, against the high-minded Pamela. 
 Lowly, I say, because she could stoop to such vain pride ; 
 and high-minded I, because I hope I am too proud ever 
 to do the like ! — But, after all, poor wretches that we be ! 
 we scarce know what we are, much less what we shall he ! 
 — But, once more pray I to be kept from the sinful pride 
 of a high estate. 
 
 On this occasion I recall the following lines, which 
 I have read; where the poet argues in a much better 
 manner : — 
 
 " Wise Providence 
 
 Does various parts for various minds dispense : 
 The meanest slaves, or those who hedge and ditch. 
 Are useful, by their sweat, to feed the rich. 
 The rich, in due return, impart their store ; 
 Which comfortably feeds the lab'ring /fl«r. 
 Nor let the rich the lowest slave disdain : 
 He's equally a link of Nature's chain : 
 Labours to the same end, joins in one view : 
 And both alike the will divine pursue ; 
 And, at the last, are levell'd, king and slave. 
 Without distinction, in the silent grave." 
 
294 PAMELA; OE, 
 
 Wednesday morning. 
 Mv master sent me a message just now^ that he was so 
 much better, that he would take a turn, after breakfast, in 
 the chariot, and would have me give him my company. I 
 hope I shall know how to be humble, and comport myself 
 as I should do, under all these favours. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes is one of the most obliging creatures in the 
 world ; and I have such respects shown me by every one, 
 as if I was as great as Lady Davers. — But now, if this 
 should all end in the sham marriage! — It cannot be, I 
 hope. Yet the pride of greatness and ancestry, and such- 
 like, is so strongly set out in Lady Davers's letter, that I 
 cannot flatter myself to be so happy as all these desirable 
 appearances make for me. Should I be now deceived, I 
 should be worse off than ever. But I shall see what light 
 this new honour will procure me ! — So I'll get ready. But 
 I won't, I think, change my garb. Should I do it, it would 
 look as if I would be nearer on a level with him : and yet, 
 should I not, it might be thought a disgrace to him : but 
 I will, I think, open the portmanteau, and, for the first 
 time since I came hither, put on my best silk night-gown. 
 But then that will be making myself a sort of right to the 
 clothes I had renounced ; and I am not yet quite sure I 
 shall have no other crosses to encounter. So I will go as 
 I am ; for, though ordinary, I am as clean as a penny, 
 though I say it. So I'll e'en go as I am, except he orders 
 otherwise. Yet Mrs. Jewkes says, I ought to dress as fine 
 as I can. — But I say, I think not. As my master is up, 
 and at breakfast, I will venture down to ask him how he 
 will have me be. 
 
 Well, he is kinder and kinder, and, thank God, purely 
 recovered ! — How charmingly he looks, to what he did 
 yesterday ! Blessed be God for it ! 
 
 He arose, and came to me, and took me by the hand, 
 and would set me down by him ; and he said, Mv charm- 
 ing girl seemed going to speak. What would you say ? 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 295 
 
 Sifj said I (a little ashamed), I think it is too great an 
 honour to go into the chariot with you. No, my dear 
 Pamela, said he; the pleasure of your company will be 
 greater than the honour of mine ; and so say no more on 
 that head. 
 
 But, sir, said I, I shall disgrace you to go thus. You 
 would grace a prince, my fair one, said the good, kind, kind 
 gentleman ! in that dress, or any you shall choose : And 
 you look so pretty, that, if you shall not catch cold in that 
 round-eared cap, you shall go just as you are. But, sir, 
 said I, then you'll be pleased to go a bye-way, that it mayn't 
 be seen you do so much honour to your servant. Oh, my 
 good girl ! said he, I doubt you are afraid of yourself being 
 talked of, more than me : for I hope by degrees to take off 
 the world's wonder, and teach them to expect what is to 
 follow, as a due_to my Pamela, 
 
 Oh the dear good man ! There's for you, my dear father 
 and mother ! — Did I not do well now to come back ? — Oh 
 could I get rid of my fears of this sham marriage (for all 
 this is not yet inconsistent with that frightful scheme), I 
 should be too happy ! 
 
 So I came up, with great pleasure, for my gloves j and 
 now wait his kind commands. Dear, dear sir ! said I to 
 myself, as if I was speaking to him, for God's sake let me 
 have no more trials and reverses; for I could not bear it 
 now, I verily think ! 
 
 As last the welcome message came, that my master was 
 ready ; and so I went down as fast as I could ; and he, 
 before all the servants, handed me in, as if I was a lady ; 
 and then came in himself. Mrs. Jewkes begged he would 
 take care he did not catch cold, as he had been ill. And I 
 had the pride to hear his new coachman say, to one of his 
 fellow-servants, They are a charming pair, I am sure ! 'tis 
 pity they should be parted !— Oh, my dear father and mother ! 
 I fear your girl will grow as proud as anything! And, 
 especially, you will think I have reason to guard against it, 
 when you read the kind particulars I am going to relate. 
 
 He ordered dinner to be ready by two ; and Abraham, 
 
296 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 who succeeds John, went behind the coach. He bid Robin 
 drive gently, -and told me, he wanted to talk to me about 
 his sister Davers, and other matters. Indeed, at first setting 
 out he kissed me a little too often, that he did; and I was 
 afraid of Robin's looking back, through the fore-glass, and 
 people seeing us, as they passed;, but he was exceedingly 
 kind to me, in his words, as well. At last, he said. 
 
 You have, I doubt not, read, over and over, my sister's 
 saucy letter ; and find, as I told you, that you are no more 
 obliged to her than I am. You see she intimates, that some 
 people had been with her; and who should they be, but the 
 officious Mrs. Jervis, and Mr. Longman, and Jonathan! 
 and so that has made me take the measures I did in dismiss- 
 ing them my service. — I see, said he, you are going to speak 
 on their behalfs ; but your time is not come to do that, if 
 ever T shall permit it. 
 
 My sister, says he, I have been beforehand with; for I 
 have renounced her. I am sure I have been a kind brother 
 to her ; and gave her to the value of 3000Z. more than her 
 share came to by my father's will, when I entered upon my 
 estate. And the woman, surely, was beside herself with 
 passion and insolence, when she wrote me such a letter; 
 for well she knew I would not bear it. But you must know, 
 Pamela, that she is much incensed, that I will give no ear 
 
 to a proposal of hers, of a daughter of my Lord , who, 
 
 said he, neither in person, or mind, or acquirements, even 
 with all her opportunities, is to be named in a day with my 
 Pamela. But yet you see the plea, my girl, which I made 
 to you before, of the pride of condition, and the world's 
 censure, which, I own, sticks a little too close with me still : 
 for a woman shines not forth to the public as man ; and 
 the world sees not your excellences and perfections : If it 
 did, I should entirely stand acquitted by the severest cen- 
 sures. But it will be taken in the lump ; that here is Mr. 
 
 B , with such and such an estate, has married his 
 
 mother's waiting-maid : not considering there is not a lady 
 in the kingdom that can out-do her, or better support the 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 397 
 
 condition to which she will be raised, if I should marry her. 
 And, said he, putting his arm round me, and again kissing 
 me, I pity my dear girl too, for her part in this censure ; 
 for, here will she have to combat the pride and slights of 
 the neighbouring gentry all around us. Sister Davers, you 
 see, will never be reconciled to you. The other ladies will 
 not visit you ; and you will, with a merit superior to them 
 all, be treated as if unworthy their notice. Should I now 
 marry my Pamela, how will my girl relish all this ? Won't 
 these be cutting things to my fair one? For, as to me, I 
 shall have nothing to do, but, with a good estate in posses- 
 sion, to brazen out the matter of my former pleasantry on 
 this subject, with my companions of the chase, the green, 
 and the assembl^e ; stand their rude jests for once or twice, 
 and my fortune will create me always respect enough, I 
 warrant you. But, I say, what will my poor girl do, as to 
 her part, with )ier own sex ? For some company you must 
 keep. My station will not admit it to be with my servants ; 
 and the ladies will fly your acquaintance ; and still, though 
 my wife, will treat you as my mother's waiting-maid. — 
 What says my girl to this ? 
 
 You may well guess, my dear father and mother, how 
 transporting these kind, these generous and condescending 
 sentiments were to me ! — I thought I had the harmony of 
 the spheres all around me ; and every word that dropped 
 from his lips was as sweet as the honey of Hybla to me. — 
 Oh ! sir, said I, how inexpressibly kind and good Is all this ! 
 Your poor servant has a much greater struggle than this to 
 go through, a more knotty difficulty to overcome. 
 
 What is that ? said he, a little impatiently : I will not 
 forgive your doubts now. — No, sir, said I, I cannot doubt ; 
 but it is, how I shall support, how I shall deserve your good- 
 ness to me.— Dear girl ! said he, and hugged me to his 
 breast, I was afraid you would have made me angry again ; 
 but that I would not be, because I see you have a grateful 
 heart; and this your kind and cheerful return, after such 
 cruel usage as you had experienced in my house, enough to 
 make you detest the place, has made me resolve to bear any- 
 
298 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 thing ill you, but doubts of my honour, at a time when I 
 am pouring out my soul, with a true and aifectionate ardour, 
 before you. 
 
 But, good sir, said I, my greatest concern will be for the 
 rude jests you will have yourself to encounter with, for thus 
 stooping beneath yourself. For, as to me, considering my 
 lowly estate, and little merit, even the slights and reflections 
 of the ladies will be an honour to me : and I shall have the 
 pride to place more than half their ill will to their envy at 
 my happiness. And if I can, by the most cheerful duty, 
 and resigned obedience, have the pleasure to be agreeable to 
 you, I shall think myself but too happy, let the world say 
 what it will. 
 
 He said. You are very good, my dearest girl ! But how 
 will you bestow your time, when you will have no visits to 
 receive or pay ? No parties of pleasure to join in ? No card- 
 tables to employ your winter evenings ; and even, as the 
 taste is, half the day, summer and winter ? And you have 
 ofteiV played with my mother too, and so know how to per- 
 form a part there, as well as in the other diversions : and 
 I'll assure you, my girl, I shall not desire you to live with- 
 out such amusements, as my wife might expect, were I to 
 marry a lady of the first quality. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, you are all goodness ! How shall I bear 
 it ? — But do you think, sir, in such a family as yours, a 
 person whom you shall honour with the name of mistress 
 of it, will not find useful employments for her time, without 
 looking abroad for any others ? 
 
 In the first place, sir, if you will give me leave, I will 
 myself look into such parts of the family economy, as may 
 not be beneath the rank to which I shall have the honour 
 of being exalted, if any such there can be ; and this, I hope, 
 without incurring the ill will of any honest servant. 
 
 Then, sir, I will ease you of as much of your family 
 accounts, as I possibly can, when I have convinced you, 
 that I am to be trusted with them ; and you know, sir mv 
 late good lady made me her treasurer, her almoner, and 
 everything. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 399 
 
 Then, sir, if I must needs be visiting or visited, and the 
 ladies won't honour me so much, or even if they would now 
 and then, I will visit, if your goodness will allow me so to 
 do, the sick poor in the neighbourhood around you ; and 
 administer to their wants and necessities, in such matters 
 as may not be hurtful to your estate, but comfortable to 
 them ; and entail upon you their blessings, and their prayers 
 for your dear health and welfare. 
 
 Then I will assist your housekeeper, as I used to do, in 
 the making jellies, comfits, sweetmeats, marmalades, cordials; 
 and to pot, and candy, and preserve for the uses of the family; 
 and to make, myself, all the fine linen of it for yourself 
 and me. 
 
 Then, sir, if you will sometimes indulge me with your 
 company, I will take an airing in your chariot now and 
 then : and when you shall return home from your diversions 
 on the green, or from the chase, or where you shall please 
 to go, I shall have the pleasure of receiving you with dut)-, 
 and a cheerful delight ; and, in your absence, count the 
 moments till you return ; and you will, maybe, fill up some 
 part of my time, the sweetest by far ! with your agreeable 
 conversation, for an hour or two now and then ; and be 
 indulgent to the impertinent overflowings of my grateful 
 heart, for all your goodness to me. 
 
 The breakfasting-time, the preparations for dinner, and 
 sometimes to entertain your chosen friends, and the company 
 you shall bring home with you, gentlemen, if not ladies, and 
 the supperings, will fill up a great part of the day in a very 
 necessary manner. 
 
 And, maybe, sir, now and then a good-humoured lady 
 will drop in; and, I hope, if they do, I shall so behave 
 myself, as not to add to the disgrace you will have brought 
 upon yourself: for, indeed, I will be very circumspect, and 
 try to be as discreet as I can ; and as humble too, as shall 
 be consistent with your honour. 
 
 Cards, 'tis true, I can play at, in all the usual games that 
 our sex delight in ; but this I am not fond of, nor shall ever 
 desire to play, unless to induce such ladies, as you may wish 
 
300 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 to see, not to abandon your house for want of an amusement 
 they are accustomed to. 
 
 Music, which our good lady taught me, will fill up some 
 intervals, if I should have any. 
 
 And then, sir, you know, I love reading and scribbling; 
 and though all the latter will be employed in the family 
 accounts, between the servants and me, and me and your 
 good self: yet reading, at proper times, will be a pleasure to 
 me, which I shall be unwilling to give up, for the best com- 
 pany in the world, except yours. And oh, sir ! that will 
 help to polish my mind, and make me worthier of your 
 company and conversation ; and, with the explanations you 
 will give me, of what I shall not understand, will be a sweet 
 employment, and improvement too. 
 
 But one thing, sir, I ought not to forget, because it is the 
 chief: My duty to God will, I hope, always employ some 
 good portion of my time, with thanks for His superlative 
 goodness to me ; and to pray for you and myself: for you, 
 sir, for a blessing on you, for your ^reat goodness to such 
 an unworthy creature : for myself, that I maiy be enabled 
 to discharge my duty to you, and be found grateful for all 
 the blessings I shall receive at the hands of Providence, by 
 means of your generosity and condescension. 
 
 With all this, sir, said I, can you think I shall be at a 
 loss to pass my time ? But, as I know, that every slight to 
 me, if I come to be so happy, will be, in some measure, a 
 slight to youj I will beg of you, sir, not to let me go very 
 fine in dress ; but appear only so, as that you may not be 
 ashamed of it after the honour I shall have of being called 
 by your worthy name : for well I know, sir, that nothing so 
 much excites the envy of my own sex, as seeing a person 
 above them in appearance, and in dress. And that would 
 bring down upon me an hundred saucy things, and low-born 
 Irats, and I can't tell what ! 
 
 There I stopped ; for I had prattled a great deal too much 
 so early : and he said, clasping me to him. Why stops my 
 dear Pamela ? — Why does she not proceed ? I could dwell 
 ^pon your words all the daylong; and you shall be the 
 
VIRTUE REJVARDED. 301 
 
 directress of your own pleasures, and your own time, so 
 sweetly do you choose to employ it: and thus shall I find 
 some of my own bad actions atoned for by your exemplary 
 goodness, and God will bless me for your sake. 
 
 Oh, said he, what pleasure you give me in this sweet 
 foretaste of mij happiness ! I will now defy the saucy, busy 
 censurers of the world ; and bid them know ymir excellence, 
 and my happiness, before they, with unhallowed lips, presume 
 to judge of my actions, and your merit! — And let me tell 
 you, my Pamela, that I can add my hopes of a still more 
 pleasing amusement, and what your bashful modesty would 
 not permit you to hint ; and which I will no otherwise touch 
 upon, lest it should seem, to your nicety, to detract from 
 the present purity of my good intentions, than to say, I hope 
 to have superadded to all these, such an employment, as will 
 give me a view of perpetuating my happy prospects, and my 
 family at the same time ; of which I am almost the only 
 male. 
 
 I blushed, I believe ; yet could not be displeased at the 
 decent and charming manner with which he insinuated this 
 distant hope: And, oh! judge for me, how my heart was 
 aiFected with all these things ! 
 
 He was pleased to add another charming reflection, which 
 showed me the noble sincerity of his kind professions. I 
 do own to you, my Pamela, said he, that I love you with a 
 purer flame than ever I knew in my whole life ; a flame to 
 which I was a stranger ; and which commenced for you in 
 the garden; though you, unkindly, by your unseasonable 
 doubts, nipped the opening bud, while it was too tender to 
 bear the cold blasts of slight or negligence. And I know 
 more sincere joy and satisfaction in this sweet hour's con- 
 versation with you, than all the guilty tumults of my former 
 passion ever did, or (had even my attempts succeeded) ever 
 could have afforded me. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, expect not words from your poor servant, 
 equal to these most generous professions. Both the means, 
 and the will, I now see, are given to you, to lay me under 
 an everlasting obligation. How happy shall I be, if, though 
 
3oa PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I cannot be worthy of all this goodness and condescension, 
 I can prove myself not entirely unworthy of it ! But I can 
 only answer for a grateful heart; and if ever I give you 
 cause, wilfully (and you will generously allow for involun- 
 tary imperfections), to be disgusted with me, may I be an 
 outcast from your house and favour, and as much repudiated, 
 as if the law had divorced me from you 1 
 
 But, sir, continued I, though I was so unseasonable as I 
 was in the garden, you would, I flatter myself, had you the7i 
 heard me, have pardoned my imprudence, and owned I had 
 some cause to fear, and to wish to be with my poor father 
 and mother : and this I the rather say, that you should not 
 think me capable of returning insolence for your goodness; 
 or appearing foolishly ungrateful to you, when you was so 
 kind to me. 
 
 Indeed, Pamela, said he, you gave me great uneasiness ; 
 for I love you too well not to be jealous of the least appear- 
 ance of your indifference to me, or preference to any other 
 person, not excepting your parents themselves. This made 
 me resolve not to hear you; for I had not got over my 
 reluctance to marriage; and a little weight, you know, 
 turns the scale, when it hangs in an equal balance. But 
 yet, you see, that though I could part with you, while my 
 anger held, yet the regard I had then newly professed for 
 your virtue, made me resolve not to offer to violate it ; and 
 you have seen likewise, that the painful struggle I under- 
 went when I began to reflect, and to read your moving 
 journal, between my desire to recall you, and my doubt 
 whether you would return (though yet I resolved not to 
 force you to it), had like to have cost me a severe illness : 
 but your kind and cheerful return has dispelled all my fears, 
 and given me hope, that I am not indifferent to you; and 
 you see how your presence has chased away mv illness. 
 
 I bless God for it, said I ; but since you are so good as 
 to encourage me, and will not despise my weakness, I will 
 acknowledge, that I suffered more than I could have 
 imagined, till I experienced it, in being banished your 
 presence in so much anger; and the more still was I 
 
VIRTUE REJVJRDED. 303 
 
 affected^ when you answered the wicked Mrs. Jewkes so 
 generously in my favour, at my leaving your house. For 
 this, sir, awakened all my reverence for you ; and you saw 
 I could not forbear, not knowing what I did, to break 
 boldly in upon you, and acknowledge your goodness on my 
 knees. 'Tis true, my dear Pamela, said he, we have suffi- 
 ciently tortured one another; and the only comfort that 
 can result from it, will be, reflecting upon the matter coolly 
 and with pleasure, when all these storms are overblown 
 (as I hope they now are), and we sit together secured in 
 each other's good opinion, recounting the uncommon gra- 
 dations by which we have ascended to the summit of that 
 felicity, which I hope we shall shortly arrive at. 
 
 Meantime, said the good gentleman, let me hear what 
 my dear girl would have said in her justification, could I 
 have trusted myself with her, as to her fears, and the reason 
 of her wishing herself from me, at a time that I had begun 
 to show my fondness for her, in a manner that I thought 
 would have been agreeable to her and virtue. 
 
 I pulled out of my pocket the gipsy letter ; but I said, 
 before I showed it to him, I have this letter, sir, to show 
 you, as what, I believe, you will allow must have given me 
 the greatest disturbance : but, first, as I know not who is 
 the writer, and it seems to be in a disguised hand, I would 
 beg it as a favour, that, if you guess who it is, which I 
 cannot, it may not turn to their prejudice, because it 
 was written, very probably, with no other view, than to 
 serve me. 
 
 He took it, and read it. And it being signed Somebody, 
 he said. Yes, this is indeed from Somebody; and, disguised 
 as the hand is, I know the writer: Don't you see, by the 
 setness of some of these letters, and a little secretary cut 
 here and there, especially in that c, and that r, that it is 
 the hand of a person bred in the law-way ? Why, Pamela, 
 said he, 'tis old Longman's hand : an officious rascal as he 
 is !— But I have done with him. Oh, sir, said I, it would be 
 too insolent in me to offer (so much am I myself over- 
 whelmed with your goodness), to defend anybody that you 
 
304 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 are angry with : yet, sir, so far as they have incurred your 
 displeasure for my sake, and for no other want of duty or 
 respect, I could wish — But I dare not say more. 
 
 But, said he, as to the letter and the information it con- 
 tains : — Let me know, Pamela, when you received this? 
 On the Friday, sir, said I, that you were gone to the wedding 
 at Stamford. — How could it be conveyed to you, said he, 
 unknown to Mrs. Jewkes, when I gave her such a strict 
 charge to attend you, and you had promised me, that you 
 would not throw yourself in the way of such intelligence? 
 For, said he, when , I went to Stamford, I knew, from a 
 private intimation given me, that there would be an attempt 
 made to see you, or give you a letter, by somebody, if not 
 to get you away ; but was not certain from what quarter, 
 whether from my sister Davers, Mrs. Jervis, Mr. Longman, 
 or John Arnold, or your father; and as I was then but 
 struggling with myself, whether to give way to my honour- 
 able inclinations, or to free you, and let. you go to your 
 father, that I might avoid the danger I found myself in of 
 the former (for I had absolutely resolved never to wound 
 again even your ears with any proposals of a contrary nature) ; 
 that was the reason I desired you to permit Mrs. Jewkes to 
 be so much on her guard till I came back, when I thought 
 I should have decided this disputed point within myself, 
 between my pride and my inclinations. 
 
 This, good sir, said I, accounts well to me for your con- 
 duct in that case, and for what you said to me and Mrs. 
 Jewkes on that occasion : And I see more and more how 
 much I may depend upon your honour and goodness to me. 
 — But I will tell you all the truth. And then I recounted 
 to him thfe whole affair of the gipsy, and how the letter was 
 put among the loose grass, &c. And he said. The man who 
 thinks a thousand dragons sufficient to watch a woman, 
 when her inclination takes a contrary bent, will find all too 
 little ; and she will engage the stones in the street, or the 
 grass in the field, to act for her, and help on her corres- 
 pondence. If the mind, said he, be not engaged, I see there 
 is hardly any confinement sufficient for the body; and you 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 305 
 
 have told me a very pretty story ; and, as you never gave 
 me any reason to question your veracity, even in your 
 severest trials, I make no doubt of the truth of what you 
 have now mentioned : and I will, in my turn, give you such 
 a proof of mine, that you shall find it carry a conviction 
 with it. 
 
 You must know, then, my Pamela, that I had actually 
 formed such a project, so well informed was this old rascally 
 Somelody ! and the time was fixed for the very person de- 
 scribed in this letter to be here ; and I had thought he should 
 have read some part of the ceremony (as little as was pos- 
 sible, to deceive you) in my chamber; and so I hoped to 
 have you mine upon terms that then would have been much 
 more agreeable to me than real matrimony. And I did not 
 in haste intend you the mortification of being undeceived ; 
 so that we might have lived for years, perhaps, very lovingly 
 together; and I had, at the same time, been at liberty to 
 confirm or abrogate it as I pleased. 
 
 Oh. sir, said I, I am out of breath with the thoughts of 
 my danger ! But what good angel prevented the execution 
 of this deep-laid design ? 
 
 Why, your good angel, Pamela, said he ; for when I 
 began. to consider, that it would have made you miserable, 
 and me not happy; that if you should have a dear little 
 one, it would be out of my own power to legitimate it, if 
 I should wish it to inherit my estate; and that, as I am 
 almost the last of my family, and most of what I possess 
 must descend to a strange line, and disagreeable and un- 
 worthy persons; notwithstanding that I might, in this case, 
 have issue of my own body; when I further considered 
 your untainted virtue, what dangers and trials you had 
 undero-one by my means, and what a world of troubles I had 
 involved you in, only because you were beautiful and vir- 
 tuous, which had excited all my passion for you; and 
 reflected also upon your tried prudence and truth! I, 
 though I doubted not effecting this my last plot, resolved 
 to overcome myself; and, however I might suffer in strug- 
 gling with my affection for you, to part with you, rather 
 
 VOL. I. " 
 
3o6 PAMELJ; OR, 
 
 than to betray you under so black a veil. Besides, said 
 he, I remember how much I had exclaimed against and 
 censured an action of this kind, that had been attributed 
 to one of the first men of the law, and of the kingdom, as 
 he afterwards became; and that it was but treading in a 
 path that another had marked out for me ; and, as I was 
 assured, with no great satisfaction to himself, when he came 
 to reflect; my foolish pride was a little piqued with this, 
 because I loved to be, if I went out of the way, my own 
 original, as I may call it. On all these considerations it 
 was, that I rejected this project, and sent word to the 
 person, that I had better considered of the matter, and 
 would not have him come, till he heard further from me : 
 And, in this suspense I suppose, some of your confederates, 
 Pamela (for we have been a couple of plotters, though your 
 virtue and merit have procured you faithful friends and 
 partisans, which my money and promises could hardly do), 
 one way or other got knowledge of it, and gave you this 
 notice ; but, perhaps, it would have come too late, had 
 not your white angel got the better of my black one, and 
 inspired me with resolutions to abandon the project, just 
 as it was to have been put into execution. But yet I 
 own, that, from these appearances, you were but too well 
 justified in your fears, on this odd way of coming at this 
 intelligence ; and I have only one thing to blame you for, 
 that though I was resolved not to hear you in your own 
 defence, yet, as you have so ready a talent at your pen, 
 you might have cleared your part of this matter up to me 
 by a line or two; and when I had known what seeming 
 good grounds you had for pouring cold water on a young 
 flame, that was just then rising to an honourable expan- 
 sion, should not have imputed it, as I was apt to do, to 
 unseasonable insult for my tenderness to you, on one hand ; 
 to perverse nicety, on the other; or to (what I was most 
 alarmed by, and concerned for) prepossession for some other 
 person : And this would have saved us both much fatigue, 
 I of mind, you of body. 
 
 And, indeed, sir, said I, of mind too ; and I could not 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 307 
 
 better manifest this^ than by the cheerfulness with which 
 I obeyed your recalHng me to your presence. 
 
 Ay^ that^ my dear Pamela^, said he, and clasped me in his 
 arms, was the kind, the inexpressibly kind action, that has 
 riveted my affections to you, and obliges me, in this free 
 and unreserved manner, to pour my whole soul into your 
 bosom. 
 
 I said, I had the less merit in this my return, because I 
 was driven by an irresistible impulse to it; and could not 
 help it, if I would. 
 
 This, said he, (and honoured me by kissing my hand), 
 is engaging, indeed : if I may hope, that my Pamela's 
 gentle inclination for her persecutor was the strongest 
 motive to her return ; and I so much value a voluntary 
 love in the person I would wish for my wife, that I would 
 have even prudence and interest hardly named in com- 
 parison with it : And can you return me sincerely the 
 honest compliment I now make you ? — In the choice I have 
 made, it is impossible I should have any view to my in- 
 terest. Love, true love, is the only motive by which Jam 
 induced. And were I not what I am, could you give me 
 the preference to any other you know in the world, not- 
 withstanding what has passed between us ? Why, said I, 
 should your so much obliged Pamela refuse to answer this 
 kind question? Cruel as I have thought you, and dan- 
 gerous as your views to my honesty have been ; you, sir, 
 are the only person living that ever was more than indif- 
 ferent to me : and before I knew this to be what I blush 
 now to call it, I could not hate you, or wish you ill, though, 
 from my soul, the attempts you made were shocking, and 
 most distasteful to me. 
 
 I am satisfied, my Pamela, said he ; nor shall I want to 
 see those papers that you have kindly written for to your 
 father ; though I still wish to see them too, for the sake of 
 the sweet manner in which you relate what has passed, and 
 to have before me the whole series of your sufferings, that 
 I may learn what degree of kindness may be sufficient to 
 recompense you for them. 
 
3o8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 In this manner, my dear father and mother, did your 
 happy daughter find herself blessed by her generous master ! 
 An ample recompense for all her sufferings di^ I think this 
 sweet conversation only. A hundred tender things he ex- 
 pressed besides, that though they never can escape my 
 memory, yet would be too tedious to write down. Oh, how 
 I blessed God, and, I hope, ever shall, for all His gracious 
 favours to His unworthy handmaid ! What a happy change 
 is this ! And who knows but my kind, my generous master, 
 may put it in my power, when he shall see me not quite 
 unworthy of it, to be a means, without injuring him, to 
 dispense around me, to many persons, the happy influences 
 of the condition to which I shall be, by his kind favour, 
 exalted? Doubly blest shall I be, in particular, if I can 
 return the hundredth part of the obligations I owe to 
 such honest good parents, to whose pious instructions and 
 examples, under God, I owe all my present happiness, and 
 future prospects. — Oh the joy that fills my mind on these 
 proud hopes 1 on these delightful prospects ! — It is too 
 mighty for me, and I must sit down to ponder all these 
 things, and to admire an;! bless the goodness of that Provi- 
 dence, which has, through so many intricate mazes, made 
 me tread the paths of innocence, and so amply rewarded 
 me for what it has itself enabled me to do ! All glory to 
 God alone be ever given for it, by your poor enraptured 
 daughter ! 
 
 I will now continue my most pleasing relation. 
 
 As the chariot was returning home from this sweet airing, 
 he said. From all that has passed between us in this pleasing 
 turn, my Pamela will see, and will believe, that the 'trials of 
 her virtue are all over from me : But, perhaps, there will be 
 some few yet to come of her patience and humility. For I 
 have, at the earnest importunity of Lady Darnford, and her 
 daughters, promised them a s'ght of my beloved girl : And 
 so I intend to have their whole family, and Lady Jones, and 
 Mrs. Peters's famil}', to dine with me once in a few days. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 309 
 
 And, since I believe you would hardly choose^ at present, 
 to grace the table on the occasion, till you can do it in your 
 own right, I should be glad you would not refuse coming 
 down to us if I should desire it ; for I would preface our 
 nuptials, said the dear gentleman ! — oh what a sweet word 
 was that ! — with their good opinion of your merits : and to 
 see you, and your sweet manner, will be enough for that 
 purpose ; and so, by degrees, prepare my neighbours for 
 what is to follow : And they already have your character 
 from me, and are disposed to admire you. 
 
 Sir, said I, after all that has passed, I should be unworthy, 
 if I could not say, that I can have no will but yours : And 
 however awkwardly I shall behave in such company, weighed 
 down with the sense of your obligations on one side, and 
 my own unworthiness, with their observations on the other, 
 I will not scruple to obey you. 
 
 I am obliged to you, Pamela, said he, and pray be only 
 dressed as you are; for since they know your condition, and 
 I have told them the story of your present dress, and how 
 you came by it, one of the young ladies begs it as a favour, 
 that they may see you just as you are: and I am the rather 
 pleased it should be so, because they will perceive you owe 
 nothing to dress, but make a much better figure with your 
 own native stock of loveliness, than the greatest ladies 
 arrayed in the most splendid attire, and adorned with the 
 most glittering jewels. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, your goodness beholds your poor servant 
 in a light greatly beyond her merit ! But it must not be 
 expected, that others, ladies especially, will look upon me 
 with your favourable eyes: but, nevertheless, I should be 
 best pleased to wear always this humble garb, till you, for 
 your own sake, shall order it otherwise : for, oh, sir, said I, 
 I hope it will be always my pride to glory most in your 
 goodness ! and it will be a pleasure to me to show every one, 
 that, with respect to my happiness in this life, I am entirely 
 the work of your bounty ; and to let the world see from what 
 a lowly original you have raised me to honours, that the 
 greatest ladies would rejoice in. 
 
310 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Admirable Pamela! said he; excellent girl! — Surely thy 
 sentiments are superior to those of all thy sex ! — I might 
 have addressed a hundred fine ladies; but never, surely, 
 could have had reason to admire one as I do you. 
 
 As, my dear father and mother, I repeat these generous 
 sayings, only because they are the effect of my master's 
 goodness, being far from presuming to think I deserve one 
 of them ; so I hope you will not attribute it to my vanity ; 
 for I do assure you, I think I ought rather to be more 
 humble, as I am more ohliged : for it must be always a sign 
 of a poor condition, to receive obligations one cannot repay ; 
 as it is of a rich mind, when it can confer them without 
 expecting or needing a return. It is, on one side, the state 
 of the human creature, compared, on the other, to the 
 Creator ; and so, with due deference, may his beneficence 
 be said to be God-like, and that is the highest that can be 
 said. 
 
 The chariot brought us home at near the hour of two ; 
 and, blessed be God, my master is pure well, and cheerful ; 
 and that makes me hope he does not repent him of his late 
 generous treatment of me. He handed me out of the 
 chariot, and to the parlour, with the same goodness, that 
 he showed when he put me into it, before several of the 
 servants. Mrs. Jewkes came to inquire how he did. 
 Quite well, Mrs. Jewkes, said he; quite well: I thank God, 
 and this good girl, for it! — I am glad of it, said she; but 
 I hope you are not the worse for my care, and my doctor- 
 ing of you ! — No, but the better, Mrs. Jewkes, said he; you 
 have much'obliged me by both. 
 
 Then he said, Mrs. Jewkes, you and I have used this 
 good girl very hardly.-^ — I was afraid, sir, said she, I should 
 be the subject of her complaints. — I assure you^ said he, 
 she has not opened her lips about you. We have had a 
 quite different subject to talk of; and I hope she will for- 
 give us both : You especially she must ; because you have 
 done nothing but by my orders. But I only mean, that the 
 necessary consequence of those orders has been very grievous 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 311 
 
 to my Pamela: And now comes our part to make her 
 amends, if we can. 
 
 Sir, said she, I always said to madam (as she called me), 
 that you was very good, and very forgiving. No, said he, 
 1 have been stark naught ; and it is she, I hope, will be very 
 forgiving. But all this preamble is to tell you, Mrs. Jewkes, 
 that now I desire you'll study to oblige her, as much as (to 
 obey me) you was forced to disoblige her before. And 
 you'll remember, that in everything she is to be her own 
 mistress. 
 
 Yes, said she, and mine too, I suppose, sir ? Ay, said 
 the generous gentleman, I believe it will be so in a little 
 time. — Then, said she, I know how it will go with me ! And 
 so put her handkerchief to her eyes. — Pamela, said my 
 master, comfort poor Mrs. Jewkes. 
 
 This was very generous, already to seem to put her in 
 my power : and I took her by the hand, and said, 1 shall 
 never take upon me, Mrs. Jewkes, to make a bad use of 
 any opportunities that may be put into my hands by my 
 generous master ; nor shall I ever wish to do you any dis- 
 service, if I might : for I shall consider, that what you have 
 done, was in obedience to a will which it will become mo 
 also to submit to : and so, if the effects of our obedience 
 may be different, yet as they proceed from one cause, that 
 must be always reverenced by me. 
 
 See there, Mrs. Jewkes, said my master, we are both in 
 generous hands ; and indeed, if Pamela did not pardon you, 
 I should think she but half forgave me, because you acted 
 by my instructions. — Well, said she, God bless you both 
 together, since it must be so; and I will double my dili- 
 gence to oblige my lady, as I find she will soon be. 
 
 Oh, my dear father and mother! now pray for me on 
 another score; for fear I should grow>06proud, and be 
 giddy and foolish with all these^prpaiising things, so sooth- 
 ing to the vanity of my years and sex. But even to this 
 hour can I pray, that God would remove from me all these 
 delightful prospects, if they were likely so to corrupt my 
 
Sig, PAMELA; OR, 
 
 mindj as to make me proud and vain^ and not acknowledge, 
 with thankful humility, the blessed Providence which has 
 so visibly conducted me through the dangerous paths I have 
 trod, to this happy moment. 
 
 My master was pleased to say, that he thought I might 
 as well dine with him, since he was alone: But I begged he 
 would excuse me, for fear, as I said, such excess of goodness 
 and condescension, all at once, should turn my head; and 
 that he would, by slower degrees, bring on my happiness, 
 lest I should not know how to bear it. 
 
 Persons that doubt themselves, said he, seldom do amiss : 
 And if there was any fear of what you say, you could not 
 have it in your thoughts : for none but the presumptuous, 
 the conceited, and the thoughtless, err capitally. But, 
 nevertheless, said he, I have such an opinion of your 
 prudence, that I shall generally think what you do right, 
 because it is you that do it. 
 
 Sir, said I, your kind expressions shall not be thrown away 
 upon me, if I can help it; for they will task me with the 
 care of endeavouring to deserve your good opinion, and your 
 approbation, as the best rule of my conduct. 
 
 Being then about to go up stairs. Permit me, sir, said I 
 (looking about me with some confusion, to see that nobody 
 was there), thus on my knees to thank you, as I often 
 wanted to do in the chariot, for all your goodness to me, 
 which shall never, I hope, be cast away upon me. And so 
 I had the boldness to kiss his hand. 
 
 I wonder, since, how I came to be so forward. But what 
 could I do? — My poor grateful heart was like a too full 
 river, which overflows its banks : and it carried away my 
 fear and my shamefacedness, as that does all before it on the 
 surface of its waters 1 
 
 He clasped me in his arms with transport, and conde- 
 scendingly kneeled by me, and kissing me, said. Oh, my dear 
 obliging good girl, on my knees, as you on yours, I vow to 
 you everlasting truth and fidelity ! and may God but bless 
 us both with half the pleasures that seem to lie before us 
 and we shall have no reason to envy the felicity of the 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. ^i^ 
 
 greatest princes !— Oh, sir, said I, how shall I support so much 
 goodness! I am poor, indeed, in everything, compared to 
 you ! and how far, very far, do you, in every geiierous way, 
 leave me behind you ! 
 
 He raised me, and, as I bent towards the door, led me 
 to the stairs foot, and saluting me there again, left me to 
 go up to my closet, where I threw myself on my knees in 
 raptures of joy, and blessed that gracious God, who had 
 thus changed my distress to happiness, and so abundantly 
 rewarded me for all the sufferings I had passed through. — 
 And oh, how light, how very light, do all those sufferings 
 now appear, which then my repining mind made so griev- 
 ous to me! — Hence, in every state of life, and in all the 
 changes and chances of it, for the future, will I trust in 
 Providence, who knows what is best for us, and frequently 
 turns the very evils we most dread, to be the causes of our 
 happiness, and of our deliverance from greater. — My experi- 
 ences, young as I am, as to this great point of reliance on 
 God, are strong, though my judgment in general may be 
 weak and uninformed : but you'll excuse these reflections, 
 because they are your beloved daughter's; and, so far as 
 they are not' amiss, derive themselves from the benefit of 
 yours and my late good lady's examples and instructions. 
 
 I have written a vast deal in a little time; and shall only 
 say, to conclude this delightful Wednesday, That in the 
 afternoon my good master was so well, that he rode out on 
 horseback, and came home about nine at night; and then 
 stepped up to me, and, seeing me with pen and ink before 
 me in my closet, said, I come only to tell you I am very 
 well, my Pamela : and since I have a letter or two to write, I 
 will leave you to proceed in yours, as I suppose that was your 
 employment (for I had put by my papers at his coming up), 
 and so he saluted me, bid me good night, and went down; 
 and I finished up to this place before I went to bed. Mrs. 
 Jewkes told me, if it was more agreeable to me, she would lie 
 in another room ; but I said. No, thank you, Mrs. Jewkes ; 
 pray let me have your company. And she made me a fine 
 courtesy, and thanked me, — How times are altered I 
 
314 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Thursday. 
 
 This morning my master came up to me, and talked with 
 me on various subjects, for a good while together, in the 
 most kind manner. Among other things, he asked me, if I 
 chose to order any new clothes against my marriage. (Oh 
 how my heart flutters when he mentions this subject so 
 freely !) I said, I left everything to his good pleasure, only 
 repeated my request, for the reasons aforegiven, that I might 
 not be too fine. 
 
 He said, I think, my dear, it shall be very private : I hope 
 you are not afraid of a sham marriage ; and pray get the 
 service by heart, that you may see nothing is omitted. I 
 glowed between shame and delight. Oh how I felt my 
 cheeks burn ! 
 
 I said, I feared nothing, I apprehended nothing, but my 
 own unworthiness. Said he, I think it shall be done within 
 these fourteen days, from this day, at this house. Oh how I 
 trembled ! but not with grief, you may believe. — What says 
 ray girl ? Have you to object against any day of the next 
 fourteen : because my affairs require me to go to my other 
 house, and I think not to stir from this till I am happy 
 with you ? 
 
 I have no will but yours, said I (all glowing like the fire, 
 as I could feel) : But, sir, did you say in the house ? Ay, 
 said he; for I care not how privately it be donej and it 
 must be very public if we go to church. It is a holy rite, 
 sir, said I ; and would be better, methinks, in a holy place. 
 
 I see (said he, most kindly) my lovely maid's confusion'; 
 and your trembling tenderness shows I ought to oblige you 
 all I may. Therefore I will order my own little chapel, 
 which has not been used for two generations, for anything 
 but a lumber-room, because our family seldom resided here 
 long together, to be cleared and cleaned, and got ready for 
 the ceremony, if you dislike your own chamber or mine. 
 
 Sir, said I, that will be better than the chamber, and I 
 hope it will never be lumbered again, but kept to the use 
 for which, as I presume, it has been consecrated. Oh yes. 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 3J - 
 
 said he, it has been consecrated, and that several ages ago, 
 in my great great grandfather's time, who built that and 
 the good old house together. 
 
 But now, my good girl, if I do not too much add to your 
 sweet confusion, shall it be in the^r.?; seven days, or the 
 second of this fortnight? I looked down, quite out of 
 countenance. Tell me, said he. 
 
 In the second, if you please, sir, said I.— As you please, 
 said he most kindly; but I should thank you, Pamela, if 
 you would choose the first. I'd rather, sir, if you please, 
 said I, have the second. Well, said he, be it so ; but don't 
 defer it till the last day of the fourteen. 
 
 Pray, sir, said I, since you embolden me to talk on this 
 important subject, may I not send my dear father and 
 mother word of my happiness ?— You may, said he; but 
 charge them to keep it secret, till you or I direct the con- 
 trary. And I told you, I would see no more of your papers ; 
 but I meant, I would not without your consent : but if you 
 will show them to me (and now I have no other motive for 
 my curiosity, but the pleasure I take in reading what you 
 write), I shall acknowledge it as a favour. 
 
 If, sir, said I, you will be pleased to let me write over 
 again one sheet, I will ; though I had relied upon your word, 
 and not written them for your perusal. What is that ? said 
 he : though I cannot consent to it beforehand : for I more 
 desire to see them, because they are your true sentiments at 
 the time, and because they were not written for my perusal. 
 Sir, said I, what I am loath you should see, are very severe 
 reflections on the letter I received by the gipsy, when I 
 apprehended your design of the sham marriage; though 
 there are other things I would not have you see ; but that 
 is the worst. It can't be worse, said he, my dear sauce-box, 
 than I have seen already; and I will allow your treating 
 me in ever so black a manner, on that occasion, because it 
 must have a very black appearance to you. — Well, sir, said 
 I, I think I will obey you before night. But don't alter a 
 word, said he. I won't, sir, replied I, since you order it. 
 While we were talking, Mrs. Jewkes came up, and said 
 
3i<5 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Thomas was returned. Oh, said my master, let him bring 
 up the papers: for he hoped, and so did I, that you had 
 sent them by him. But it was a great balk, when he came 
 up and said. Sir, Mr. Andrews did not care to deliver them ; 
 and would have it, that his daughter was forced to write 
 that letter to him : and, indeed, sir, said he, the old gentle- 
 man took on sadly, and would have it that his daughter was 
 undone, or else, he said, she would not have turned back, 
 when on her way (as I told him she did, said Thomas)> 
 instead of coming to them. I began to be afraid now that 
 all would be bad for me again. 
 
 Well, Tom, said he, don't mince the matter; tell me, 
 before Mrs. Andrews, what they said. Why, sir, both he 
 and Goody Andrews, after they had conferred together upon 
 your letter, madam, came out, weeping bitterly, that grieved 
 my very heart ; and they said. Now all was over with their 
 poor daughter; and either she had written that letter by 
 compulsion, or had yielded to your honour ; so they said ; 
 and was, or would be ruined ! 
 
 My master seemed vexed, as I feared. And I said. Pray, 
 sir, be so good as to excuse the fears of my honest parents 1 
 They cannot know your goodness to me. 
 
 And so (said he, without answering me), they refused to 
 deliver the papers? Yes, and please your honour, said 
 Thomas, though I told them, that you, madam, of your 
 own accord, on a letter I had brought you, very cheerfully 
 wrote what I carried : But the old gentleman said. Why, 
 wife, there are in these papers twenty things nobody should 
 see but ourselves, and especially not the 'squire. Oh the 
 poor girl has had so many stratagems to struggle with ! and 
 now, at last, she has met with one that has been too hard 
 for her. And can it be possible for us to account for her 
 setting out to come to us, and in such post haste, and when 
 she had got above half-way, to send us this letter, and to go 
 back again of her own accord, as you say : when we know 
 that all her delight would have been to come to us and to 
 escape from the perils she had been so long contending with ? 
 And then, and please your honour, he said, he could not 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 317 
 
 bear this; for his daughter was ruined, to be sure^ before 
 now. And so, said Thomas, the good old couple sat them- 
 selves down, and, hand-in-hand, leaning upon each other's 
 shoulder, did nothing but lament. — I was piteously grieved, 
 said he ; but all I could say could not comfort them ; nor 
 would they give me the papers ; though I told them I should" 
 deliver them only to Mrs. Andrews herself. And so, and 
 please your honour, I was forced to come away without 
 them. 
 
 My good master saw me all bathed in tears at this 
 description of your distress and fears for me ; and he said, 
 I would not have you take on so. I am not angry with 
 your father in the main ; he is a good man ; and I would 
 have you write out of hand, and it shall be sent by the post 
 to Mr. Atkins, who lives within two miles of your father, 
 and I'll enclose it in a cover of mine^ in which I'll desire 
 Mr. Atkins, the moment it comes to his hand, to convey it 
 safely to your father or mother : and say nothing of their 
 sending their papers, that it may not make them uneasy ; 
 for I warrt not now to see them on any other score than 
 that of mere curiosity; and that will do at any time. And 
 so saying, he saluted me before Thomas, and with his own 
 handkerchief wiped my eyes ; and said to Thomas, The good 
 old folks are not to be blamed in the main. They don't 
 know my honourable intentions by their dear daughter; 
 whoj Tom, vnll, in a little time, be your mistress; though 
 I shall keep the matter private some days, and would not 
 have it spoken of by my servants out of my house. 
 
 Thomas said, God bless your honour 1 You know best. 
 And I said. Oh, sir, you are all goodness !— How kind is this, 
 to forgive the disappointment, instead of being angry, as 
 I feared you would! Thomas then withdrew. And my 
 master said, I need not remind you of writing out of hand, 
 to make the good folks easy : and I will leave you to your- 
 self for that purpose; only send me down such of your 
 papers, as you are willing I should see, with which I shall 
 entertain niyself for an hour or two. But, one thing, added 
 he, I forgot to tell you : The neighbouring gentry I men- 
 
31 8 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 tioned will be here to-morrow to dine with me, and I have 
 ordered Mrs. Jewkes to prepare for them. And must I, 
 sir, said I, be shown to them ? Oh yes, said he ; that's the 
 chief reason of their coming. And you'll see nobody equal 
 to yourself: don't be concerned. -> 
 
 I opened my papers, as soon as my master had left me ; 
 and laid out those beginning on the Thursday morning he 
 set out for Stamford, ' with the morning visit he made me 
 ' before I was up, and the injunctions of watchfulness, &c., 
 ' to Mrs. Jewkes ; the next day's gipsy affair,' and my reflec- 
 ' tions, in which I called him truly diabolical, and was other- 
 wise very severe, on the strong appearances the matter 
 had then against him. His return on Saturday, with the 
 dread he put me in, on the offering to search me for my 
 papers which followed those he had got by Mrs. Jewkes's 
 means. My being forced to give them up. His carriage 
 to me after he had read them, and questions to me. His 
 great kindness to me on seeing the dangers I had escaped 
 and the troubles T had undergone. And how I unseason- 
 ably, in the midst of his goodness, expressed my desire of 
 being sent to you, having the intelligence of a sham 
 marriage, from the gipsy, in my thoughts. How this 
 enraged him, and made him turn me that very Sunday 
 out of his house, and send me on my way to you. The 
 particulars of my journey, and my grief at parting with 
 him ; and my free acknowledgment to you, that I found, 
 unknown to myself, I had begun to love him, and could 
 not help it. His sending after me, to beg my return ; but 
 yet generously leaving me at my liberty, when he might 
 have forced me to return whether I was willing or not. 
 My resolution to oblige him, and fatiguing journey back. 
 My concern for his illness on my return. His kind recep- 
 tion of me, and showing me his sister Davers's angry letter 
 against his behaviour to me, desiring him to set me free 
 and threatening to renounce him as a brother if he should 
 degrade himself by marrying me. My serious reflections 
 on this letter, &c.' (all which, I hope, with the others, you 
 
VIRTUE REWJRDED. 3x9 
 
 will shortly see). And this carried matters down to Tuesday 
 night last. 
 
 All that followed was so kind on his side, being our 
 chariot conference, as above, on Wednesday morning, and 
 how good he has been ever since, that I thought I would 
 go no further; for I was a little ashamed to be so very 
 open on that tender and most grateful subject ; though his 
 great goodness to me deserves all the acknowledgments I 
 can possibly make. 
 
 And when I had looked these out, I carried them down 
 myself into the parlour to him ; and said, putting them 
 into his hands. Your allowances, good sir, as heretofore; 
 apdif I have been too open and free in my reflections or 
 declarations, let my fears on one side, and my sincerity on 
 the other, be my excuse. You are very obliging, my good 
 girl, said he. You have nothing to apprehend from my 
 thoughts, any more than from my actions. 
 
 So I went up, and wrote the letter to you, briefly 
 acquainting you with my present happiness, and my master's 
 goodness, and expressing the gratitude of heart, which I 
 owe to the kindest gentleman in the world, and assuring 
 you, that I should soon have the pleasure of sending back 
 to you, not only those papers, but all that succeeded them 
 'to this time, as I know you delight to amuse yourself in 
 your leisure hours with my scribble : And I said, carrying 
 it down to my master, before I sealed it, Will you please, 
 sir, to take the trouble of reading what I write to my dear 
 parents ? Thank you, Pamela, said he, and set me on his 
 knee, while he read it ; and seemed much pleased with it ; 
 and giving it me again. You are very happy, said he, my 
 beloved girl, in your style and expressions : and the affec- 
 tionate things you say of me are inexpressibly obliging; 
 and again, with this kiss, said he, do I confirm for truth all 
 that you have promised for my intentions in this letter. — 
 Oh what halcyon days are these ! God continue them !— A 
 change would kill me quite. 
 
 He went out in his chariot in the afternoon; and in the 
 evening returned, and sent me word, he would be glad of 
 
320 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 my company for a little walk in the garden ; and down I 
 went that very moment. 
 
 He came to meet me. So, says he, how does my dear 
 girl do now? — Whom do you think I have seen since I 
 have been out? — I don't know, sir, said I. Why, said he, 
 there is a turning in the road, about five miles off, that 
 goes round a meadow, that has a pleasant foot-way, by the 
 side of a little brook, and a double row of limes on each 
 side, where now and then the gentry in the neighbourhood 
 walk, and angle, -and divert themselves. — I'll show it you 
 next opportunity. — And I stept out of my chariot, to walk 
 across this meadow, and bid Robin meet me with it on the 
 further part of it : And whom should I 'spy there, walking, 
 with a book in his hand, reading, but your humble servant 
 Mr. Williams ! Don't blush, Pamela, said he. — As his back 
 was towards me, I thought I would speak to the man : 
 and, before he saw me, I said. How do you, old acquaint- 
 ance ? (for, said he, you know we were of one college for 
 a twelvemonth). I thought the man would have jumped 
 into the brook, he gave such a start at hearing my voice, 
 and seeing me. 
 
 Poor man ! said I. Ay, said he, but not too much of 
 your poor man, in that soft accent, neither, Pamela. — Said 
 I, I am sorry my voice is so startling to you, Mr. Williams. 
 What are you reading ? Sir, said he, and stammered with 
 the surpriise, it is the French Telemachus ; for I am about 
 perfecting myself, if I can, in the French tongue. — Thought 
 I, I had rather so, than perfecting my Pamela in it. — You 
 do well, replied I. — Don't you think that yonder cloud may 
 give us a small shower ? and it did a little begin to wet. — 
 He said, he believed not much. 
 
 If, said I, you are for the village, I'll give you a cast ; for 
 I shall call at Sir Simon's on my return from the little 
 round I am taking. He asked me if it was not too great a 
 favour ? — No, said I, don't talk of that ; let us walk to the 
 further opening there, and we shall meet my chariot. 
 
 So, Pamela, continued my master, we fell into conver- 
 sation as we walked. He said he was very sorry he had 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 321 
 
 incurred my displeasure ; and the more, as he had been 
 told, by Lady Jones, who had it from Sir Simon's family, 
 that I had a more honourable view than at first was appre- 
 hended. I said. We fellows of fortune, Mr. Williams, take 
 sometimes a little more liberty with the world than we 
 ought to do ; wantoning, very probably, as you contem- 
 plative folks would say, in the sunbeams of a dangerous 
 affluence; and cannot think of confining ourselves to the 
 common paths, though the safest and most eligible, after 
 all. And you may believe I could not very well like to 
 be supplanted in a view that lay next my heart ; and that 
 by an old acquaintance, whose good, before this affair, I 
 was studious to promote. 
 
 I would only say, sir, said he, that my Jirst motive was 
 entirely such as became my function : And, very politely, 
 said my master, he added, And I am very sure, that however 
 inexcusable I might seem in the progress of the matter, 
 yourself, sir, would have been sorry to have it said, you had 
 cast your thoughts on a person, that nobody could have 
 wished for but yourself. 
 
 Well, Mr. Williams, said I, I see you are a man of 
 o-allantry, as well as religion : But what I took most amiss 
 was, that, if you thought me doing a wrong thing, you did 
 not expostulate with me upon it, as your function might 
 have allowed you to do; but immediately determined to 
 counterplot me, and attempt to secure to yourself a prize 
 you would have robbed me of, and that from my own 
 house. But the matter is at an end, and I retain not any 
 malice upon it ; though you did not know but I might, at 
 last, do honourably by her, as I actually intend. 
 
 I am sorry for myself, sir, said he, that I should so un- 
 happily incur your displeasure ; but I rejoice for her sake 
 in your honourable intentions : give me leave only to say, 
 that if you make Miss Andrews your lady, she will do 
 credit to your choice with everybody that sees her, or 
 comes to know her; and, for person and mind both, you 
 may challenge the county. 
 
 In this manner, said my master, did the parson and I 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
322 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 confabulate ; and I set him down at his lodgings in the 
 village. But he kept your secret, Pamela ; and would not 
 own, that you gave any encouragement to his addresses. 
 
 Indeed, sir, said I, he could not say that I did ; and 
 I hope you believe me. I do, I do, said he : but 'tis 
 still my opinion, that if, when I saw plots set up against 
 my plots, I had not discovered the parson as I did, the 
 correspondence between you might have gone to a length 
 that would have put our present situation out of both our 
 powers. 
 
 Sir, said I, when you consider, that my utmost presump- 
 tion could not make me hope for the honour you now 
 seem to design me ; that I was so hardly used, and had no 
 prospect before me but dishonour, you will allow that I 
 should have seemed very little in earnest in my professions 
 of honesty, if I had not endeavoured to get away : but yet 
 I resolved not to think of marriage ; for I never saw the 
 man I could love, till your goodness emboldened me to look 
 up to you. 
 
 I should, my dear Pamela, said he, make a very ill com- 
 pliment to my vanity, if I did not believe you ; though, at 
 the same time, justice calls upon me to say, that it is, some 
 things considered, beyond my merit. 
 
 There was a sweet, noble expression for your poor 
 daughter, my dear father and mother! — And from my 
 master too ! 
 
 I was glad to hear this account of the interview between 
 Mr. Williams and himself ; but I dared not to say so. I 
 hope in time he will be reinstated in his good graces. 
 
 He was so good as to tell me, he had given orders for the 
 chapel to be cleared. Oh how I look forward with inward 
 joy, yet with fear and trembling 1 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 323 
 
 Friday. 
 
 About twelve o'clock came Sir Simon, and his lady and 
 two daughters; and Lady Jones, and a sister-in-law of hers ; 
 and Mr. Peters, and his spouse and niece. Mrs. Jewkes, 
 who is more and more obliging, was much concerned I was 
 not dressed in some of my best clothes, and made me many 
 compliments. 
 
 They all went into the garden for a walk, before dinner ; 
 and, I understood, were so impatient to see me, that my 
 master took them into the largest alcove, after they had 
 walked two or three turns, and stept himself to me. Come, 
 my Pamela, said he, the ladies can't be satisfied without 
 seeing you, and I desire you'll come. I said, I was ashamed; 
 but I would obey him. Said he. The two young ladies are 
 dressed out in their best attire; but they make not such an 
 appearance as my charming girl in this ordinary garb. — Sir, 
 said I, shan't I follow you thither ? For I can't bear you 
 should do me so much honour. Well, said he, I'll go before 
 you. And he bid Mrs. Jewkes bring a bottle of sack, and 
 some cake. So he went down to them. 
 
 This alcove fronts the longest gravel-walk in the garden, 
 so that they saw me all the way I came, for a good way : 
 and my master told me afterwards, with pleasure, all they 
 said of me. 
 
 Will you forgive the little vain slut, your daughter^ if I 
 tell you all, as he was pleased to tell me ? He said, 'spying 
 me first. Look, there, ladies, comes my pretty rustic ! — They 
 all, I saw, which dashed me, stood at the windows, and in 
 the door-way, looking full at me. 
 
 My master told me, that Lady Jones said, She is a 
 charming creature, I see that at this distance. And Sir 
 Simon, it seems, who has been a sad rake in his younger 
 days, swore he never saw so easy an air, so fine a shape, 
 and so graceful a presence. — The Lady Darnford said, I was 
 a sweet girl. And Mrs. Peters said very handsome things. 
 Even the parson said, I should be the pride of the county. 
 Oh, dear sirs ! all this was owing to the light my good 
 
324 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 master's favour placed me in, which made me shine out in 
 their eyes beyond my deserts. He said the young ladies 
 blushed, and envied me. 
 
 When I came near, he saw^ me in a little confusion, and 
 was so kind as to meet me : Give me your hand, said he, 
 my good girl ; you walk too fast (for, indeed, I wanted to 
 be out of their gazing). I did so, with a courtesy, and he 
 led me up the steps of the alcove, and, in a most gentleman- 
 like manner, presented me to the ladies, and they all saluted 
 me, and said. They hoped to be better acquainted with me : 
 and Lady Darnford was pleased to say, I should be the 
 flower of their neighbourhood. Sir Simon said. Good neigh- 
 bour, by your leave ; and saluting me, added. Now will I 
 say, that I have kissed the loveliest maiden in England. 
 But, for all this, methought I owed him a grudge for a tell- 
 tale, though all had turned out so happily. Mr. Peters very 
 gravely followed his example, and said, like a bishop, God 
 bless you, fair excellence ! Said Lady Jones, Pray, dear 
 madam, sit down by me : and they all sat down : But I 
 said, I would stand, if they pleased. No, Pamela, said my 
 master : pray sit down with these good ladies, my neigh- 
 bours : — They will indulge it to you, for mi/ sake, till thev 
 know you better; and for your own, when they are acquainted 
 with you. ■ Sir, said I, I shall be proud to deserve their 
 indulgence. 
 
 They all' so gazed at me, that I could not look up ; for I 
 think it is one of the distinctions of persons of condition, 
 and well-bred people, to put bashful bodies out of counten- 
 ance. Well, Sir Simon, said my master, what say you now 
 to my pretty rustic ? — He swore a great oath, that he should 
 better know what to say to me if he was as young as him- 
 self. Lady Darnford said, You will never leave. Sir Simon. 
 
 Said my master. You are a little confused, my good girl, 
 and out of breath; but I have told all my kind neighbours 
 here a good deal of your story, and your excellence. Yes, 
 said Lady Darnford, my dear neighbour, as I will call vou; we 
 that are here present have all heard of your uncommon storv. 
 Madam, said I, you have then heard what must make your 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 325 
 
 kind allowance for me very necessary. No, said Mrs. Peters, 
 we have heard what will always make you valued as an 
 honour to our sex, and as a worthy pattern for all the young 
 ladies in the county. You are very good, madam, said I, 
 to make me able to look up, and to be thankful for the 
 honour you are pleased to do me. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes came in with the canary, brought by Nan, 
 to the alcove, and some cakes on a silver salver; and I said, 
 Mrs. Jewkes, let me be your assistant; I will serve the 
 ladies with the cake. And so I took the salver, and went 
 round to the good company with it, ending with my master. 
 The Lady Jones said. She never was served with such a 
 grace, and it was giving me too much trouble. O madam, 
 said I, I hope my good master's favour will never make me 
 forget, that it is my duty to wait upoii his friends. — Master, 
 sweet one ! said Sir Simon, I hope you won't always call 
 
 Mr. B by that name, for fear it should become a fashion 
 
 for all our ladies to do the like through the county. I, sir, 
 said I, shall have many reasons to continue this style, which 
 cannot affect your good ladies. 
 
 Sir Simon, said Lady Jones, you are very arch upon us : 
 but I see very well, that it will be the interest of all the 
 gentlemen, to bring their ladies into an intimacy with one 
 that can give them such a good example. I am sure then, 
 madam, said I, it must be after I have been polished and 
 improved by the honour of such an example as yours. 
 
 They all were very good and affable ; and the young Lady 
 Darnford, who had wished to see me in this dress, said, I 
 beg your pardon, dear miss, as she called me ; but I had 
 heard how sweetly this garb became you, and was told the 
 history of it ; and I begged it, as a favour, that you might 
 oblige us with your appearance in it. I am much obliged 
 to your ladyship, said I, that your kind prescription was so 
 agreeable to my clioice. Why, said she, was it your choice 
 then ?— I am glad of that : though I am sure your person 
 must give, and not take, ornament from any dress. 
 
 You are verv kind, madam, said I : but there will be the 
 less reason toVear I should forget the high obligations I 
 
326 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 should have to the kindest of gentlemen, when I can delight 
 to show the humble degree from which his goodness had 
 raised me. — My dear Pamela, said my master, if you proceed 
 at this rate, I must insist upon your first seven days. You 
 know what I mean. Sir, said I, you are all goodness ! 
 
 They drank a glass of sack each, and Sir Simon would 
 make me do so too, saying, It will be a reflection, madam, 
 Vipon all the ladies, if you don't do as they. No, Sir Simon, 
 said I, that can't be, because the ladies journey hither makes 
 a glass of canary a proper cordial for them : but I won't 
 refuse; because I will do myself the honour of drinking 
 good health to you, and to all this worthy company. 
 
 Said good Lady Darnford, to my master, I hope, sir, we 
 shall have Mrs. Andrews's company at table. He said, very 
 obligingly. Madam, it is her time now ; and I will leave it 
 to her choice. If the good ladies, then, will forgive me, sir, 
 said I, I had rather be excused. They all said, I must not 
 be excused. I begged I might. Your reason for it, my 
 dear Pamela ? said my master : since the ladies request it, 
 I wish you would oblige them. Sir, replied I, your goodness 
 will make me, every day, worthier of the honour the ladies 
 do me ; and when I can persuade myself that I am more 
 worthy of it than at present, I shall with great joy embrace 
 all the opportunities they will be' pleased to give me. 
 
 Mrs. Peters whispered Lady Jones, as my master told me 
 afterwards : Did you ever see such excellence, such prudence, 
 and discretion ? Never in my life, said the other good lady. 
 She will adorn, she was pleased to say, her distinction. Ay, 
 says Mrs. Peters, she would adorn any station in life. 
 
 My good master was highly delighted, generous gentle- 
 man as he is ! with the favourable opinion of the ladies ; 
 and I took the more pleasure in it, because their favour 
 seemed to lessen the disgrace of his stooping so much 
 beneath himself. 
 
 Lady Darnford said. We will not oppress you ; though 
 we could almost blame your too punctilious exactness : but 
 if we excuse Miss Andrews from dinner, we must insist upon 
 her company at the card-table, and at a dish of tea ; for we 
 
VIRTUE RElFylRDED. 
 
 327 
 
 intend to pass the whole day with you, sir^ as we told you. 
 What say you to that, Pamela? said my master. Sir, 
 replied I, whatever you and the ladies please, I will cheer- 
 fully do. They said, I was very obliging. But Sir Simon 
 rapt out an oath, and said. That theij might dine together, 
 if they would ; but he would dine with me, and nobody 
 else : for, said he, I say, sir, as Parson Williams said (by 
 which I found my master had told them the story), You 
 must not think you have chosen one that nobody can like 
 but yourself. 
 
 The young ladies said. If I pleased they would take a 
 turn about the garden with me. I answered, I would very 
 gladly attend them ; and so we three, and Lady Jones's 
 sister-in-law, and Mr. Peters's niece, walked together. They 
 were very affable, kind, and obliging ; and we soon entered 
 into a good deal of familiarity ; and I found Miss Darnford 
 a very agreeable person. Her sister was a little more on the 
 reserve ; and I afterwards heard, that, about a year before, 
 she would fain have had my master make his addresses to 
 her : but though Sir Simon is reckoned rich, she was not 
 thought sufficient fortune for him. And now, to have him 
 look down so low as me, must be a sort of mortification 
 to a poor young lady! — And I pitied her. — Indeed I did! 
 — I wish all young persons of my sex could be as happy 
 as I am like to be. 
 
 My master told me afterwards, that I left the other 
 ladies, and Sir Simon and Mr. Peters, full of my praises : 
 so that they could hardly talk of anything else; one 
 launching out upon my complexion, another upon my eyes, 
 my hand, and, in short, for you'll think me sadly proud, 
 upon my whole person and behaviour; and they all mag- 
 nified my readiness and obligingness in my answers, and 
 the like: And I was glad of it, as I said, for my good 
 master's sake, who seemed quite pleased and rejoiced. God 
 bless him for his goodness to me ! 
 
 Dinner not being ready, the young ladies proposed a 
 tune upon the spinnet. I said, I believed it was not m 
 tune. Thev said, they knew it was bu^ a few months ago. 
 
328 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 If it isj said I, I wish I had known it; though indeed, 
 ladies, added I, since you know my story, I must own, that 
 my mind has not been long in tune, to make use of it. So 
 they would make me play upon it, and sing to it; which I 
 did, a song my dear good lady made me learn, and used to 
 be pleased with, and which she brought with her from 
 Bath : and the ladies were much taken with the song, and 
 were so kind as to approve my performance: And Miss 
 Darnford was pleased to compliment me, that I had all the 
 accomplishments of my sex. I said, I had had a good lady, 
 in my master's mother, who had spared no pains nor cost 
 
 to improve me. She said, she wished Mr. B could be 
 
 prevailed upon to give a ball on an approaching [happy 
 occasion, that we might have a dancing-match, &c. — But 
 I can't say I do ; though I did not say so : for these occa- 
 sions, I think, are too solemn for the principals, at least 
 of our sex, to take part in, especially if they have the same 
 thoughts of that solemnity that I have : For, indeed, 
 though I have before me a prospect of happiness, that may 
 be envied by ladies of high rank, yet I must own to you, 
 my dear parents, that I have something very awful upon 
 my mind, when I think of the matter ; and shall, more and 
 more, as it draws nearer and nearer. This is the song : 
 
 I. 
 
 Go, happy paper, gently steal, 
 
 And underneath her pillow lie ; 
 There, in soft dreams, my love reveal. 
 That love which I must still conceal. 
 
 And, wrapt in awful silence, die. 
 
 II. 
 
 Should flames be doom'd thy hapless fate, 
 
 To atoms thou wouldst quickly turn ; 
 My pains may bear a longer date ; 
 For should I live, and should she hate, 
 
 In endless torments I should burn. 
 
 HI. 
 
 Tell fair Aurelia, she has charms, 
 Might in a hermit stir desire. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 329 
 
 T' attain the heav'n that's in her arms, 
 I'd quit the world's alluring harms, 
 And to a cell, content, retire. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Of all that pleas'd my ravish'd eye, 
 
 Her beauty should supply the place ; 
 Bold Raphael's strokes, and Titian's dye. 
 Should but in vain presume to vie 
 
 With her inimitable face. 
 
 No more I'd wish for Thoebus' rays, 
 
 To gild the object of my sight ; 
 Much less the taper's fainter blaze : 
 Her eyes should measure out my days ; 
 And when she slept, it should be night. 
 
 About four o'clock. 
 My master just came up to me^ and said, If you should 
 see Mr. Williams below, do you think, Pamela, you should 
 not be surprised ? — No, sir, said I, I hope not. Why 
 should I ? Expect, said he, a stranger then, when you 
 come down to us in the parlour ; for the ladies are prepar- 
 ing themselves for the card-table, and they insist upon 
 your company. — You have a mind, sir, said I, I believe, to 
 try all my courage. Why, said he, does it want courage 
 to see him ? No, sir, said I, not at all. But I was griev- 
 ously dashed to see all those strange ladies and gentlemen ; 
 and now to see Mr. Williams before them, as some of them 
 refused his application for me, when I wanted to get away, 
 it will a little shock me, to see them smile, in recollecting 
 what has passed of that kind. Well, said he, guard your 
 heart against surprises, though you shall see, when you 
 come down, a man that I can allow you to love dearly; 
 though hardly preferably to me. 
 
 This surprises me much. I am afraid he begins to be 
 jealouso f me. What will become of me (for he looked 
 very seriously), if any turn should happen now ! — My heart 
 
330 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 aches! I know not what's the matter. But I will go 
 down as brisk as I can, that nothing may be imputed to 
 me. Yet I wish this Mr. Williams had not been there 
 now, when they are all there; because of their fleers at 
 him and me. Otherwise I should be glad to see the poor 
 gentleman; for, indeed, I think him a good man, and he 
 has suffered for my sake. 
 
 So, I am sent for down to cards. I'll go : but wish I 
 may continue their good opinions of me: for I shall be 
 very awkward. My master, by his serious question, and 
 bidding me guard my heart against surprises, though I 
 should see, when I came down, a man he can allow me to 
 love dearly, though hardly better than himself, has quite 
 alarmed me, and made me sad! — I hope he loves me! — 
 But whether he does or not, I am in for it now, over head 
 and ears, I doubt, and can't help loving him; 'tis a folly 
 to deny it. But to be sure I can't love any man preferably 
 to him. I shall soon know what he means. 
 
 Now, my dear mother, must I write to yoii. Well might 
 my good master say so mysteriously as he did, about guard- 
 ing my heart against surprises. I never was so surprised 
 in my life ; and never could see a man I loved so dearly ! — 
 Oh my dear mother, it was my dear, dear father, and not 
 Mr. Williams, that was below ready to receive and to bless 
 your daughter! and both my master and he enjoined me 
 to write how the whole matter was, and what my thoughts 
 were on this joyful occasion. 
 
 I will take the matter from the beginning, that Providence 
 directed his feet to this house, to this time, as I have had it 
 from Mrs. Jewkes, from my master, my father, the ladies, 
 and my own heart and conduct, as far as I know of both ; 
 because they command it, and you will be pleased with my 
 relation : and so, as you know how I came by the connec- 
 tion, will make one uniform relation of it. 
 
 It seems, then, my dear father and you were so uneasy 
 to know the truth of the story which Thomas had told you 
 
FIRTUE REWARDED. 331 
 
 that fearing I was b.-trayed, and quite undone, he got leave 
 of absence, and set out the day after Thomas was there; 
 and so, on Friday morning, he got to the neighbouring 
 town; and there he heard, that the gentry in the neigh- 
 bourhood were at my master's, at a great entertainment. 
 He put on a clean shirt and neckloth (which he brought 
 in his pocket) at an alehouse there, and got shaved ; and 
 so, after he had eaten some bread and cheese, and drank a 
 can of ale, he set out for my master's house, with a heavy 
 heart, dreading for me, and in much fear of being brow- 
 beaten. He had, it seems, asked, at the alehouse, what 
 family the 'squire had down here, in hopes to hear some- 
 thing of me : And they said, A housekeeper, two maids, and 
 at present, two coachmen, and two grooms, a footman, and 
 a helper. Was that all ? he said. They told him, there 
 was a young creature there, belike who was, or was to be, his 
 mistress, or somewhat of that nature ; but had been his 
 mother's waiting-maid. This, he said, grieved his heart, 
 and confirmed his fears. 
 
 So he went on, and about three o'clock in the afternoon 
 came to the gate; and, ringing there. Sir Simon's coachman 
 went to the iron gate ; and he asked for the housekeeper ; 
 though, from what I had written, in his heart he could not 
 abide her. She sent for him in, little thinking who he 
 was, and asked him, in the little hall, what his business 
 with her was ? — Only, madam, said he, whether I cannot 
 speak one word with the 'squire ? No, friend, said she ; 
 he is engaged virith several gentlemen and ladies. Said he, 
 I have business with his honour of greater consequence 
 to me than either life or death ; and tears stood in his 
 eyes. 
 
 At that she went into the great parlour, where my master 
 was talking very pleasantly with the ladies; and she said. 
 Sir, here is a good tight old man, that wants to see you on 
 business of life and death, he says, and is very earnest. Ay, 
 said he, who can that be ? — Let him stay in the little hall^ 
 and I'll come to him presently. They all seemed to stare ; 
 and Sir Simon said. No more nor less, I daresay, my good 
 
^■^■2, PAMELA; OR, 
 
 friend, but a bastard-child. If it is, saiJ Lady Jones, bring 
 it in to us. I will, said he. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes tells me, my master was much surprised 
 when he saw who it was ; and she much more, when my 
 dear father said, — Good God 1 give me patience I but, as 
 great as you are, sir, I must ask for my child ! and burst 
 out into tears. (Oh what trouble have I given you both !) 
 My master said, taking him by the hand, Don't- be uneasy, 
 Goodman Andrews; your daughter is in the way to be 
 happy. 
 
 This alarmed my dear father, and he said. What 1 then, 
 is she dying? And trembled, he could scarce stand. My 
 master made him sit down, and sat down by him, and said, 
 No ; God be praised ! she is very well : And pray be com- 
 forted ; I cannot bear to see you thus apprehensive ; but 
 she has written you a letter to assure you, that she has 
 reason to be well satisfied, and happy. 
 
 Ah, sir ! said he, you told me once sVie was in London, 
 waiting on a bishop's lady, when all the time she was a 
 severe prisoner here. — Well, that's all over now, Goodman 
 Andrews, said my master : but the times are altered ; for 
 now the sweet girl has taken me prisoner; and in a few 
 ' days I shall put on the most agreeable fetters that ever man 
 wore. 
 
 Oh, sir ! said he, you are too pleasant for my griefs. My 
 heart's almost broke. But may I not see my poor child ? 
 You shall presently, said he; for she is coming down to us; 
 and since you won't believe 7ne, I hope you will her. 
 
 I will ask you, good sir, said he, but one question till 
 then, ^that I may know how to look upon her when I see 
 her. Is she honest ? Is she virtuous ? — As the new-born 
 babe, Mr. Andrews, said my good master; and in twelve 
 days time, I hope, will be my wife. 
 
 Oh flatter me not, good your honour, said he: It cannot 
 be 1 it cannot be ! — I fear you have deluded her with strange 
 hopes ; and would make me believe impossibilities ! — Mrs. 
 Jewkes, said he, do you tell my dear Pamela's good father, 
 when I go out, all you know concerning me, and your 
 
VIRTUE REIFARDED. 333 
 
 mistress that is to be. Meantime, make much of him, and 
 set out what you have; and make him drink a glass of what 
 he likes best. If this be wine, added he, fill me a bumper. 
 
 She did so ; and he took my father by the hand, and said, 
 Believe me, good man, and be easy ; for I can't bear to see 
 you tortured in this cruel suspense : Your dear daughter is 
 the beloved of my soul. I am glad you are come : for you'll 
 see us all in the same story. And here's your dame's health ; 
 and God bless you both, for being the happy means of pro- 
 curing for me so great a blessing! And so he drank a 
 bumper to this most obliging health. 
 
 What do I hear? It cannot surely be! said my father. 
 And your honour is too good, I hope, to mock a poor old 
 man. — This ugly story, sir, of the bishop, runs in my head. 
 — But you say I shall see my dear child — And I shall see 
 her honest. — If not, poor as I am, I would not own her. 
 
 My master bid Mrs. Jewkes not to let me know yet, that 
 my father was come; and went to the company, and said, 
 I have been agreeably surprised : Here is honest old Good- 
 man Andrews come full of grief to see his daughter ; for he 
 fears she is seduced ; and tells me, good honest man, that, 
 poor as he is, he will not own her, if she be not virtuous. 
 Oh, said they all, with one voice almost. Dear sir ! shall we 
 not see the good old man you have so praised for his plain 
 good sense, and honest heart ? If, said he, I thought Pamela 
 would not be too much affected with the surprise, I would 
 make you all witness to their first interview; for never did 
 daughter love a father, or a father a daughter, as they two 
 do one another. Miss Darnford, and all the ladies, and the 
 gentlemen too, begged it might be so. But was not this 
 very cruel, my dear mother ? For well might they think I 
 should not support myself in such an agreeable surprise. 
 
 He said, kindly, I have but one fear, that the dear girl 
 may be too much affected. Oh, said Lady Darnford, we'll 
 all help to keep up her spirits. Says he, I'll go up, and 
 prepare her ; but won't tell her of it. So he came up to 
 me, as I have said, and amused me about Mr. Williams, to 
 half prepare me for some surprise; though that could not 
 
334 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 have been anything to this : and he left me, as I said, in 
 that suspense, at his mystical words, saying. He would send 
 to me, when they were going to cards. 
 
 My master went from me to my father, and asked if 
 he had eaten anything. No, said Mrs. Jewkes ; the good 
 man's heart is so full, he cannot eat, nor do anything, till 
 he has seen his dear daughter. That shall soon be, said my 
 master. I will have you come in with me ; for she is going 
 to sit down with my guests, to a game at quadrille ; and I 
 will send for her down. Oh, sir, said my father, don't, 
 don't let me; I am not fit to appear before your guests; 
 let me see my daughter by myself, I beseech you. Said he. 
 They all know your honest character, Goodman Andrews, 
 and long to see you, for Pamela's sake. 
 
 So he took my father by the hand, and led him in 
 against his will, to the company. They were all very good. 
 My master kindly said. Ladies and gentlemen, I present to 
 you one of the honestest men in England, my good Pamela's 
 father. Mr. Peters went to him, and took him by the hand, 
 and said. We are all glad to see you, sir; you are the 
 happiest man in the world in a daughter ; whom we never 
 saw before to-day, but cannot enough admire. 
 
 Said my master. This gentleman, Goodman Andrews, is 
 the minister of the parish; but is not young enough for 
 Mr. Williams. This airy expression, my poor father said, 
 made him fear, for a moment, that all was a jest. — Sir 
 Simon also took him by the hand, and said. Ay, you have a 
 sweet daughter. Honesty ; we are all in love with her. And 
 the ladies came, and said very fine things : Lady Darnford 
 particularly. That he might think himself the happiest man 
 in England, in such a daughter. If, and please you, 
 madam, said he, she be but virtuous, 'tis all in all : For all 
 the rest is accident. But I doubt his honour has been too 
 much upon the jest with me. No, said Mrs. Peters, we are 
 
 all witnesses, that he intends very honourably by her. It is 
 
 some comfort, said he, and wiped his eyes, that such good 
 ladies say so — But I wish I could see her. 
 
 They would have had him sit down by them ; but he 
 
FIRTUE REWARDED. 335 
 
 would only sit behind the door, in the corner of the room, 
 so that one could not soon see him as one came in ; because 
 the door opened against him, and hid him almost. The 
 ladies all sat down; and my master said, Desire Mrs. 
 Jewkes to step up, and tell Mrs. Andrews the ladies wait 
 for her. So down I came. >v 
 
 Miss Darnford rose, and met me at the door, and said, 
 Well, Miss Andrews, we longed for your company. I did 
 not see my dear father ; and it seems his heart was too full 
 to speak ; and he got up, and sat down three or four times 
 successivelv, unable to come to me, or to say anything. 
 The ladies looked that way : but I would not, supposing it 
 was Mr. Williams. And they made me sit down between 
 Lady Darnford and Lady Jones ; and asked me, what we 
 should play at ? I said, At what your ladyships please. I 
 wondered to see them smile, and look upon me, and to that 
 corner of the room ; but I was afraid of looking that way, 
 for fear of seeing Mr. Williams ; though my face was that 
 way too, and the table before me. 
 
 Said my master. Did you send your letter away to the 
 post-house, my good girl, for your father ? To be sure, sir, 
 said I, I did not forget that : I took the liberty to desire 
 Mr. Thomas to carry it. What, said he, I wonder, will the 
 good old couple say to it? Oh, sir, said I, your goodness will 
 be a cordial to their dear honest hearts ! At that, my dear 
 father, not able to contain himself, nor yet to stir from the 
 place, gushed out into a flood of tears, which he, good soul ! 
 had been struggling with, it seems ; and cried out, Oh my 
 dear child ! 
 
 I knew the voice, and, lifting up my eyes, and seeing my 
 father, gave a spring, overturned the table, without regard 
 to the company, and threw myself at his feet : Oh my father ! 
 my father ! said I, can it be ?— Is it you ? Yes, it is ! it is ! 
 
 — Oh bless your happy daughter 1 I would have said, and 
 
 down I sunk. 
 
 My master seemed concerned— I feared, said he, that the 
 surprise would be too much for her spirits; and all the 
 ladies ran to me, and made me drink a glass of water ; and 
 
33(? PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I found myself encircled in the arms of my dearest father. 
 — Oh tell me, said I, everything ! How long have you been 
 here? When did you come? How does my honoured 
 mother ? And half a dozen questions more, before he could 
 arlswer one. 
 
 They permitted me to retire with my father ; and then I 
 poured forth all my vows and thanksgivings to God for this 
 additional blessing; and confirmed all my master's good- 
 ness to his scarce-believing amazement. And we kneeled 
 together, blessing God, and one another, for several ecstatic 
 minutes : and my master coming in soon after, my dear 
 father said, Oh, sir, what a change is this ! May God reward 
 and bless you, both in this world and the next ! 
 
 May God bless us all ! said he. But how does my sweet 
 girl ? I have been in pain for you — I am sorry I did not 
 apprise you beforehand. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, it was you ; and all you do must be good — 
 But this was a blessing so unexpected ! 
 
 Well, said he, you have given pain to all the company. 
 They will be glad to see you, when you can ; for you have 
 spoiled all their diversion; and yet painfully delighted them 
 at the same time. Mr. Andrews, added he, do you make 
 this house your own; and the longer you stay, the more 
 welcome you'll be. After you have a little composed your- 
 self, my dear girl, step in to us again. I am glad to see you 
 so well already. And so he left us. 
 
 See you, my dear father, said I, what goodness there is in 
 this once naughty master 1 Oh pray for him ! and pray for 
 me, that I may deserve it ! 
 
 How long has this happy change been wrought, my dear 
 child i — Oh, said I, several happy days ! — I have written 
 down everything ; and you'll see, from the depth of misery, 
 what God has done for your happy daughter ! 
 
 Blessed be His name ! said he. But do you say he will 
 marry you ? Can it be, that such a brave gentleman will 
 make a lady of the child of such a poor man as I ? Oh the 
 divine goodness ! How will your poor dear mother be able 
 to support these happy tidings ! I will set out to-morroy^ 
 
VIRTUE REWJRDED. 337 
 
 to acquaint her with them : for I am but half happy, till 
 the dear good woman shares them with me !— To be sure, 
 my dear child, we ought to go into some far country to hide 
 ourselves, that we may not disgrace you by our poverty ! 
 
 Oh, my dear father, said I, now you are unkind for the 
 first time! Your poverty has been my glory, and my 
 riches j and I have nothing to brag of, but that I ever 
 thought it an honour, rather than a disgrace ; because you 
 were always so honest, that your child might well boast of 
 such a parentage ! 
 
 In this manner, my dear mother, did we pass the happy 
 moments, till Miss Darnford came to me, and said, How 
 do you do, dear madam ? I rejoice to see you so well ! 
 Pray let us have your company. And yours too, good Mr. 
 Andrews, taking his hand. 
 
 This was very obliging, I told her ; and we went to the great 
 parlour ; and my master took my father by the hand, and 
 made him sit down by him, and drink a glass of wine with 
 him. Meantime, I made my excuses to the ladies, as well 
 as I could, which they readily granted me. But Sir Simon, 
 after his comical manner, put his hands on my shoulders : 
 Let me see, let me see, said he, where your wintrs grow; for 
 I never saw anybody fly like you. — Why, said he, you have 
 broken Lady Jones's shins with the table. Show her else, 
 madam. 
 
 His pleasantry made them laugh. And I said, I was verv 
 sorry for my extravagancy : and if it had not been my 
 master's doings, I should have said, it was a fault to 
 permit me to be surprised, and put out of myself, before 
 such good company. They said. All was very excusable ; 
 and they were glad I suflfered no more by it. 
 
 They were so kind as to excuse me at cards, and played by 
 themselves ; and I went by my master's commands and sat 
 on the other side, in the happiest place I ever was blest with,' 
 between two of the dearest men in the world to me, and each 
 holding one of my hands : — my father, every now and then, 
 with tears, lifting up his eyes, and saying, Could I ever have 
 
 hoped this ! 
 
 VOL. I. *■ 
 
338 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I asked him^ If he had been so kind as to bring the papers 
 with him ? He said, He had ; and looked at me, as who 
 should say, Must I give them to you now ? — I said. Be pleased 
 to let me have them. He pulled them from his pocket ; and 
 I stood up, and, with my best duty, gave them into my 
 master's hands. He said, Thank you, Pamela. Your father 
 shall take all with him, to see what a sad fellow I have been, 
 as well as the present happier alteration. But I must have 
 them all again, for the writer's sake. 
 
 The ladies and gentlemen would make me govern the tea- 
 table, whatever I could do ; and Abraham attended me, to 
 serve the company. My master and my father sat together, 
 and drank a glass or two of wine instead of tea, and Sir 
 Simon joked with my master, saying, I warrant you would 
 not be such a woman's man, as to drink tea, for ever so 
 much, with the ladies. But your time's coming, and I doubt 
 not you'll be made as comfortable as I. 
 
 My master was very urgent with them to stay supper ; 
 and at last they complied, on condition that I would grace 
 the table, as they were pleased to call it. I begged to be 
 excused. My master said, Don't be excused, Pamela, since 
 the ladies desire it : And besides, said he, we won't part with 
 your father ; and so you may as well stay with us. 
 
 I was in hopes my father and I might sup by ourselves, or 
 only with Mrs. Jewkes. And Miss Darnford, who is a most 
 obliging young lady, said. We will not part with you, indeed 
 we won't. 
 
 When supper was brought in. Lady Darnford took me by 
 the hand, and said to my master. Sir, by your leave; and 
 would have placed me at the upper end of the table. Pray, 
 pray, madam, said I, excuse me ; I cannot do it, indeed I 
 cannot. Pamela, said my master, to the great delight of my 
 good father, as I could see by his looks, oblige Lady Darnford, 
 since she desires it. It is but a little before your time, you 
 know. 
 
 Dear, good sir, said I, pray don't command it ! Let me 
 sit by my father, pray! Why, said Sir Simon, here's ado 
 indeed ! Sit down at the upper end, as you should do • and 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 339 
 
 your father shall sit by you, there. This put my dear father 
 upon difficulties. And my master said, Come, I'll place you 
 all : and so put Lady Darnford at the upper end. Lady 
 Jones at her right hand, and Mrs. Peters on the other; and 
 he placed me between the two young ladies; but very 
 genteelly put Miss Darnford below her younger sister; 
 saying. Come, miss, I put you here, because you shall hedge 
 in this little cuckow ; for I take notice, with pleasure, of 
 your goodness to her ; and, besides, all you very young 
 ladies should sit together. This seemed to please both sisters ; 
 for had the youngest miss been put there, it might have 
 piqued her, as matters have been formerly, to be placed below 
 me ; whereas Miss Darnford giving place to her youngest 
 sister, made it less odd she should to me; especially with 
 that handsome turn of the dear man, as if I was a cuckow, 
 and to be hedged in. 
 
 My master kindly said. Come, Mr. Andrews, you and I 
 will sit together. And so took his place at the bottom of 
 the table, and set my father on his right hand; and Sir 
 Simon would sit on his left. For, said he, parson, I think 
 the petticoats should sit together; and so do you sit down 
 by that lady (his sister). A boiled turkey standing by me, 
 my master said, Cut up that turkey, Pamela, if it be not too 
 strong work for you, that Lady Darnford may Jiot have too 
 much trouble. So I carved it in a trice, and helped the 
 ladies. Miss Darnford said, I would give something to be 
 so dexterous a carver. O madam, said I, my late good 
 lady would always make me do these things, when she 
 entertained her female friends, as she used to do on parti- 
 cular days. 
 
 Ay, said my master, I remember my poor mother would 
 often say, if I, or anybody .at table, happened to be a little 
 out in carving, I'll send up for my Pamela, to show you how 
 to carve. Said Lady Jones, Mrs. Andrews has every accom- 
 plishment of her sex. She is quite wonderful for her years. 
 Miss Darnford said, And I can tell you, madam, that she 
 plays sweetly upon the spinnet, and sings as sweetly to it ; 
 for she has a fine voice. Foolish ! said Sir Simon ; who. 
 
34° PAMELA; OR, 
 
 that hears her speak, knows not that? And who that sees 
 her fingers, believes not that they were made to touch any 
 key ? O parson ! said he, 'tis well you're by, or I should 
 have had a blush from the ladies, I hope not. Sir Simon, 
 said Lady Jones ; for a gentleman of your politeness would 
 not say anything that would make ladies blush. — No, no, 
 said he, for the world : but if I had, it would have been, as 
 the poet says, 
 
 ' They blush, because they understand.' 
 
 When the company went away. Lady Darnford, Lady 
 Jones, and Mrs. Peters, severally invited my master, and me 
 with him, to their houses ; and begged he would permit me, 
 at least, to come before we left those parts. And they said, 
 We hope, when the happy knot is tied, you will induce Mr. 
 
 B to reside more among us. We were always glad, said 
 
 Lady Darnford, when he was here ; but now shall have 
 double reason. Oh what grateful things were these to the 
 ears of my good father 1 
 
 When the company was gone, my master asked my father 
 if he smoked ? He answered. No. He made us both sit 
 down by him, and said, I have been telling this sweet girl, 
 that in fourteen days, and two of them are gone, she must 
 fix on one to make me happy. And have left it to her to 
 choose either one of the first or last seven. My father held 
 up his hands, and eyes ; God bless your honour ! said he, is 
 all I can say. Now, Pamela, said my master, taking my 
 hand, don't let a little wrong-timed bashfulness take place, 
 without any other reason, because I should be glad to go to 
 Bedfordshire as soon as I could ; and I would not return till 
 I carry my servants there a mistress, who should assist me to 
 repair the mischiefs she has made in it. 
 
 I could not look up for confusion. And my father said. 
 My dear child, I need not, I am sure, prompt your obedi- 
 ence in whatever will most oblige so good a gentleman. 
 What says my Pamela ? said my master : She does not use 
 to be at a loss for expressions. Sir, said I, were I too sudden 
 it would look as if I doubted whether you would hold in 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 341 
 
 your mind, and was not willing to give you time for re- 
 flection : but otherwise, to be sure I ought to resign myself 
 implicitly to your will. 
 
 Said he, I want not time for reflection : for I have often 
 told you, and that long ago, I could not live without you : 
 and my pride of condition made me both tempt and terrify 
 you to other terms; but your virtue was proof against all 
 temptations, and was not to be awed by terrors : Wherefore, 
 as I could not conquer my passion for you, I corrected my- 
 self, and resolved, since you would not be mine upon my 
 terms, you should upon your own : and now I desire you 
 not on any other, I assure you : and I think the sooner it is 
 done the better. What say you. Mi*. Andrews? Sir, said 
 he, there is so much goodness on your side, and, blessed be 
 God 1 so much prudence on my daughter's, that I must be 
 quite silent. But when it is done, I and my poor wife shall 
 have nothing to do, but to pray for you both, and to look 
 back, with wonder and joy, on the ways of Providence. 
 
 This, said my master, is Friday night; and suppose, my 
 girl, it be next Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday 
 morning? — Say, my Pamela. 
 
 Will you, sir, said I, excuse me till to-morrow for an 
 answer ? I will, said he ; and touched the bell, and called for 
 Mrs. Jewkes. Where, said he, does Mr. Andrews lie to- 
 night? You'll take care of him. He'& a very good man; 
 and will bring a blessing upon every house he sets his 
 foot in. 
 
 My dear father wept for joy ; and I could not refrain keep- 
 ing him company. And my master, saluting me, bid us 
 good-night, and retired. And I waited upon my dear father, 
 and was so full of prattle, of my master's goodness, and my 
 future prospects, that I believed afterwards I was turned all 
 into tongue : but he indulged me, and was transported with 
 joy; and went to bed, and dreamed of nothing but Jacob's 
 ladder, and angels ascending and descending, to bless him 
 and his daughter. 
 
343 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Saturday. 
 
 I AROSE early in the morning; but found my father was up 
 before me, and was gone to walk in the garden. I went to 
 him : and with what delight, with what thankfulness, did we 
 go over every scene of it, that had before been so dreadful to 
 me ! The fish pond, the back-door, and every place. Oh 
 what reason had we for thankfulness and gratitude 1 
 
 About seven o'clock my good master joined us, in his 
 morning gown and slippers ; and looking a little heavy, I 
 said, Sir, I fear you had not good rest last night. That is 
 your fault, Pamela, said he. After I went from you, I must 
 needs look into your papers, and could not leave them till I 
 had read them through ; and so 'twas three o'clock before I 
 went to sleep. I wish, sir, said I, you had had better 
 entertainment. The worst part of it, said he, was what I 
 had brought upon myself; and you have not spared me. 
 Sir, said I — He interrupting me, said. Well, I forgive you. 
 You had too much reason for it. But I find, plainly enough, 
 that if you had got away, you would soon have been Williams's 
 wife : and I can't see how it could well have been otherwise. 
 Indeed, sir, said I, I had no notion of it, or of being any- 
 body's. I believe so, said he ; but it must have come as a 
 thing of course ; and I see your father was for it. Sir, said 
 he, I little thought of the honour your goodness would con- 
 fer upon her ; and I thought that would be a match above 
 what we could do for her, a great deal. But when I found 
 she was not for it, I resolved not to urge her ; but leave all 
 to her own prudence. 
 
 I see, said he, all was sincere, honest, and open ; and I 
 speak of it, if it had been done, as a thing that could hardly 
 well be avoided; and I am quite satisfied. But, said he, 
 I must observe, as I have a hundred times, with admiration, 
 what a prodigious memory, and easy and happy manner of 
 narration, this excellent girl has ! And though she is full of 
 her pretty tricks and artifices, to escape the snares I had 
 laid for her, yet all is innocent, lovely, and uniformly 
 beautiful. You are exceedingly happy in a daughter ; and 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 343 
 
 I hope I shall be so in a wife.— Or, said my father, may she 
 not have that honour ! I fear it not, said he ; and I hope I 
 shall deserve it of her. 
 
 But, Pamela, said my master, I am sorry to find in some 
 parts of your journal, that Mrs. Jewkes carried her orders 
 a little too far : and I the more take notice of it, because 
 you have not complained to me of her behaviour, as she 
 might have expected for some parts of it ; though a good 
 deal ■wa.B occasioned by my strict orders. — But she had the 
 insolence to strike my girl, I find. Sir, said I, I was a little 
 provoking, I believe ; but as we forgave one another, I was 
 the less entitled to complain of her. 
 
 Well, said he, you are very good ; but if you have any 
 particular resentment, I will indulge it so far, as that she 
 shall hereafter have nothing to do where you are. Sir, 
 said I, you are so kind, that I ought to forgive everybody ; 
 and when I see that my happiness is brought about by the 
 very means that I thought then my greatest grievance, I 
 ought to bless those means, and forgive all that was dis- 
 agreeable to me at the same time, for the great good that 
 hath issued from it. — That, said he, and kissed me, is 
 sweetly considered ! and it shall be my part to make vou 
 amends for what you have suffered, that you may still think 
 lighter of the one, and have cause to rejoice in the other. 
 
 My dear father's heart was full; and he said, with his 
 hands folded, and lifted up. Pray, sir, let me go — let me 
 go — to my dear wife, and tell her all these blessed things, 
 while my heart holds; for it is ready to burst with joy! 
 Good man ! said my master — I hope to hear this honest 
 heart of yours speaking at your lips. I enjoin you, Pamela, 
 to continue your relation, as you have opportunity; and 
 though your father be here, write to your mother, that this 
 wondrous story be perfect, and we, your friends, may 
 read and admire you more and more. Ay, pray, pray do, 
 my child, said my father; and this is the reason that I 
 write on, my dear mother, when I thought not to do it, 
 because my father could tell you all that passed while he 
 was here. 
 
344 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 My master took notice of my psalm/and was pleased to 
 commend it ; and said, That I had very charitably turned 
 the last verses, which, in the original, were full of heavy 
 curses, to a wish that showed I was not of an implacable 
 disposition: though my then usage might have excused it, 
 if I had. But, said he, I think you shall sing it to me to- 
 morrow. 
 
 After we have breakfasted, added he, if you have no 
 objection, Pamela, we'll take an airing together ; and it 
 shall be in the coach, because we'll have your father's com- 
 pany. He would have excused himself; but my master 
 would have it so : but he was much ashamed, because of 
 the meanness of his appearance. 
 
 My master would make us both breakfast with him on 
 chocolate; and he said, I would have you, Pamela, begin to 
 dress as you used to do; for now, at least, you may call 
 your two other lundles your own ; and if you want anything 
 against the approaching occasion, private as I design it, I'll 
 send to Lincoln for it, by a special messenger. I said. My 
 good lady's bounty, and his own, had set me much above 
 my degree, and I had very good things of all sorts ; and I 
 did not desire any other, because I would not excite the 
 censure of the ladies. That would be a different thing, he 
 was pleased to say, when he publicly owned his nuptials, 
 after we came to the other house. But, at present, if I was 
 satisfied, he would not make words with me. 
 
 I hope, Mr. Andrews, said he, to my father, you'll not 
 leave us till you see the affair over, and then you'll be sure I 
 mean honourably : and, besides, Pamela will be induced to 
 set the day sooner. Oh, sir, said he, I bless God I have no 
 reason to doubt your meaning honourably : and I hope you'll 
 excuse me, if I set out on Monday morning, very early, to 
 my dear wife, and make her as happy as I am. 
 
 Why, Pamela, says my good master, may it not be per- 
 formed on Tuesday ? And then your father, maybe, will 
 stay. — I should have been glad to have had it to-morrow, 
 added he ; but I have sent Monsieur Colbrand for a licence, 
 that you may have no scruple unanswered ; and he can't 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 345 
 
 very well be back before to-morrow night, or Monday 
 morning. 
 
 This was most agreeable news. I said. Sir, I know my 
 dear father will want to be at home : and as you was so 
 good to give me a fortnight from last Thursday, I should be 
 glad you would be pleased to indulge me still to some day 
 in the second seven. 
 
 Well, said he, I will not be too urgent ; but the sooner 
 you fix, the better. Mr. Andrews, we must leave something 
 tO'these Jephthah's daughters, in these cases, he was pleased 
 to say : I suppose the little bashful folly, which, in the 
 happiest circumstances, may give a kind of regret to quit 
 the maiden state, and an awkwardness at the entrance into 
 a new one, is a reason with Pamela ; and so she shall name 
 her day. Sir, said he, you are all goodness. 
 
 I went up soon after, and new dressed myself, taking 
 possession, in a happy moment, I hope, of my two bundles, 
 as my good master was pleased to call them (alluding to 
 my former division of those good things my lady and him- 
 self bestowed upon me) ; and so put on fine linen, silk shoes, 
 and fine white cotton stockings, a fine quilted coat, a deli- 
 cate green Man tea silk gown and coat, a French necklace, 
 and a laced cambric handkerchief, and clean gloves ; and, 
 taking my fan in my hand, I, like a little proud hussy, looked 
 in the glass, and thought myself a gentlewoman once more ; 
 but I forgot not to return due thanks, for being able to put 
 on this dress with so much comfort. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes would help to dress me, and complimented 
 me highly, saying, among other things. That now I looked 
 like a lady indeed : and as, she said, the little chapel was 
 ready, and divine service would be read in it to-morrow, she 
 wished the happy knot might then be tied. Said she. Have 
 you not seen the chapel, madam, since it has been cleaned 
 out ? No, said I ; but are we to have service in it to-morrow, 
 do you say?— I am glad of that; for I have been a sad 
 heathen lately, sore against my will !— But who is to officiate? 
 —Somebody, replied she, Mr. Peters will sen'd. You tell 
 me very good news, said I, Mrs. Jewkes : I hope it will 
 
346 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 never be a lumber-room again. — Ay, said she, I can tell you 
 more good news; for the two Misses Darnford, and Lady 
 Jones, are to be here at the opening of it; and will stay and 
 dine with you. My master, said I, has not told me that. 
 You must alter your style, madam, said she : It must not 
 be master now, sure ! — Oh, returned I, this is a language I 
 shall never forget: he shall always be my master; and I 
 shall think myself more and more his servant. 
 
 My poor father did not know I went up to dress myself; 
 and he said his heart misgave him when he saw me first, for 
 fear I was made a fool of, and that here was some fine lady 
 that was to be my master's true wife. And he stood in 
 admiration, and said. Oh, my dear child, how well will you 
 become your happy condition ! Why you look like a lady 
 already ! I hope, my dear father, said I, and boldly kissed 
 him, I shall always be your dutiful daughter, whatever my 
 condition be. 
 
 My master sent me word he was ready; and when he 
 saw me, said. Dress as you will, Pamela, you're a charming 
 girl 1 and so handed me to the coach, and would make my 
 father and me sit both on the foreside, and sat backwards, 
 over against me; and bid the coachman drive to the meadow; 
 that is, where he once met Mr. Williams. 
 
 The conversation was most agreeable to me, and to my 
 dear father, as we went ; and he more and more exceeded 
 in goodness and generosity; and, while I was gone up to 
 dress, he had presented my father with twenty guineas; 
 desiring him to buy himself and my mother such apparel as 
 they should think proper ; and lay it all out : but I knew 
 not this till after we came home; my father having had no 
 opportunity to tell me of it. 
 
 He was pleased to inform me of the chapel being got in 
 tolerable order; and said^ it looked very well ; and against 
 he came down next, it should be all new white-washed, and 
 painted and lined ; and a new pulpit-cloth, cushion, desk, 
 &c., and that it should always be kept in order for the 
 future. He told me the two Misses Darnford, and Lady 
 Jones, would dine with him on Sunday: And, with their 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 347 
 
 servants and mine, said he, we shall make a tolerable con- 
 gregation. And, added he, have I not well contrived to 
 show you that the chapel is really a little house of God, and 
 has been consecrated, before we solemnise our nuptials in 
 it? — Oh, sir, replied I, your goodness to me is inexpressible! 
 Mr. Peters, said he^ offered to come and officiate in it ; but 
 would not stay to dine with me, because he has company at 
 his own house : and so I intend that divine service shall be 
 performed in it by one to whom I shall make some yearly 
 allowance, as a sort of chaplain. — You look serious, Pamela, 
 added he : I know you think of your friend Williams. 
 Indeed, sir, said I, if you won't be angry, I did. Poor man ! 
 I am sorry I have been the cause of his disobliging you. 
 
 When we came to the meadow, where the gentry have 
 their walk sotnetimes, the coach stopt, and my master 
 alighted, and led me to the brook-side, and it is a very 
 pretty summer walk. He asked my father. If he chose to 
 walk out, or go on in the coach to the farther end ? He, 
 poor man, chose to go on in the coach, for fear, he said, 
 any gentry should be walking there ; and he told me, he was 
 most of the way upon his knees in the coach, thanking God 
 for His gracious mercies and goodness; and begging a bless- 
 ing upon my good master and me. 
 
 I was quite astonished, when we came into the shady 
 walk, to see Mr. Williams there. See there, said my master, 
 there's poor Williams, taking his solitary walk again, with 
 his book. And, it seems, it was so contrived ; for Mr. Peters 
 had been, as I since find, desired to tell him to be in that 
 walk at such an hour in the morning. 
 
 So, old acquaintance, said my master, again have I met 
 you in this place ? What book are you now reading ? He 
 said, it was Boileau's Lutrin. Said my master. You see I 
 have brought with me my little fugitive, that would have 
 been: While you are perfecting yourself in French, I am 
 trying to learn English ; and hope soon to be master of it. 
 
 Mine, sir, said he, is a very beautiful piece of French : 
 but your English- has no equal. 
 
 You are very polite, Mr. Williams, said my master : And 
 
348 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 he that does not think as you do, deserves no share in her. 
 Why, "Pamela, added he, very generously, why so strange, 
 where you have once been so familiar? I do assure you 
 both, that I mean not, by this interview, to insult Mr. 
 Williams, or confound you. Then I said, Mr. Williams, I 
 am very glad to see you well ; and though the generous 
 favour of my good master has happily changed the scene, 
 since you and I last saw one another, I am nevertheless very 
 glad of an opportunity to acknowledge, with gratitude, your 
 good intentions, not so much to serve me, as me, but as a 
 person that then had great reason to believe herself in dis- 
 tress. And I hope, sir, added I, to my master, your good- 
 ness will permit me to say this. 
 
 You, Pamela, said he, may make what acknowledgments 
 you please to Mr. Williams's good intentions; and I would 
 have you speak as you think: but I do not apprehend 
 myself to be quite so much obliged to those intentions. 
 
 Sir, said Mr. Williams, I beg leave to say, I knew well, 
 that, by education, you was no libertine ; nor had I reason 
 to think you so by inclination; and, when you came to 
 reflect, I hoped you would not be displeased with me. And 
 this was no small motive to me, at first, to do as I did. 
 
 Ay, but Mr. Williams, said my master, could you think 
 I should have had reason to thank you, if, loving one person 
 above all her sex, you had robbed me of her, and married 
 her yourself? — And then, said he, you are to consider, that 
 she was an old acquaintance of mine, and a quite new one 
 to you ; that I had sent her down to my own house, for 
 better securing her j and that you, who had access to my 
 house, could not eiFect your purpose, without being guilty, 
 in some sort, of a breach of the laws of hospitality and 
 friendship. As to my designs upon her, I own they had not 
 the best appearance ; but still I was not answerable to Mr. 
 Williams for those; much less could you be excused to 
 invade a property so very dear to me, and to endeavour to 
 gain an interest in her affections, when you could not be 
 certain that matters would not turn out as they have 
 actually done. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 349 
 
 I own, said he, that some parts of my conduct seem 
 exceptionable, as you state it. But, sir, I am but a young 
 man. I meant no harm. I had no interest, I am sure, to 
 incur your displeasure ; and when you think of everything, 
 and the inimitable graces of person, and perfections of mind, 
 that adorn this excellent lady (so he called me), you will, 
 perhaps, find your generosity allow something as an extenua- 
 tion of a fault, which your anger would not permit as an 
 excuse. 
 
 I have done, said my master ; nor did I meet you here 
 to be angry with you. Pamela knew not that she should 
 see you : and now you are both present, I would ask you, 
 Mr. Williams, if, now you know my honourable designs 
 towards this good girl, you can really be almost, I will not 
 say quite, as well pleased with the friendship of my wife, as 
 you could be with the favour of Mrs. Andrews ? 
 
 Sir, said he, I will answer you truly. I think I could 
 have preferred, with her, any condition that could have 
 befallen me, had I considered only myself. But, sir, I was 
 very far from having any encouragement to expect her 
 favour; and I had much more reason to believe, that, if 
 she could have hoped for your goodness, her heart would 
 have been too much pre-engaged to think of anybody 
 else. And give me leave further to say, sir, that, though 
 I tell you sincerely my thoughts, were I only to consider 
 myself; yet, when I consider her good, and her merit, I 
 should be highly ungenerous, were it put to my choice, if 
 I could not wish her in a condition so much superior to 
 what I could raise her to, and so very answerable to her 
 merit. 
 
 Pamela, said my master, you are obliged to Mr. Williams, 
 and ought to thank him : he has distinguished well. But, 
 as for me, who had like to have lost you by his means, I am 
 glad the matter was not left to his choice. Mr. Williams, 
 added he, I give you Pamela's hand, because I know it will 
 be pleasing to her, in token of her friendship and esteem for 
 you ; and I give you mine, that I will not be your enemy : 
 but yet I must say, that I think I owe this proper manner 
 
350 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 of your thinking more to your disappointment, than to the 
 generosity you talk of. 
 
 Mr. Williams kissed my hand, as my master gave it him ; 
 and my master said, Sir, you will go home and dine with 
 me, and I'll show you my little chapel ; and do you, Pamela, 
 look upon yourself at liberty ta number Mr. Williams in the 
 list of your friends. 
 
 How generous, how noble, was this ! Mr. Williams (and 
 so had I) had tears of pleasure in his eyes. I was silent: 
 But Mr. Williams said. Sir, I shall be taught, by your gene- 
 rosity, to think myself inexcusably wrong, in every step I 
 took, that could give you offence ; and my future life shall 
 show my respectful gratitude. 
 
 We walked on till we came to the coach, where was my 
 dear father. Pamela, said my master, tell Mr. Williams 
 who that good man is. O Mr. Williams ! said I, it is my 
 dear father ! and my master was pleased to say. One of the 
 honestest men in England : Pamela owes everything that 
 she is to be, as well as her being, to him ; for, I think, she 
 would not have brought me to this, nor made so great 
 resistance, but for the good lessons, and religious education, 
 she had imbibed from him. 
 
 Mr. Williams said, taking my father's hand. You see, 
 good Mr. Andrews, with inexpressible pleasure, no doubt, 
 the fruits of your pious care ; and now are in a way, with 
 your beloved daughter, to reap the happy effects of it. — I 
 am overcome, said my dear father, with his honour's good- 
 ness : But I can only say, I bless God, and bless him. 
 
 Mr. Williams and I being nearer the coach than my 
 master, and he offering to draw back, to give way to him, 
 he kindly said. Pray, Mr. Williams, oblige Pamela with your 
 hand j and step in yourself. He bowed, and took my hand ; 
 and my master made him step in, and sit next me, all that 
 ever he could do ; and sat himself over against him, next my 
 father, who sat against me. 
 
 And he said, Mr. Andrews, I told you yesterday that the 
 divine you saw was not Mr. Williams ; I now tell you, this 
 gentleman is : and though I have been telling him, I think 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 351 
 
 iH)t mi/self obliged to his intentions ; yet I will own that 
 Pamela and you are ; and though I won't promise to love 
 him^ I would have you. 
 
 Sir, said Mr. Williams, you have a way of overcoming, 
 that hardly all my reading affords an instance of; and it is 
 the more noble, as it is on this side, as I presume, the happy 
 ceremony, which, great as your fortune is, will lay you under 
 an obligation to so much virtue and beauty, when the lady 
 becomes yours ; for you will then have a treasure that princes 
 might envy you. 
 
 Said my generous master (God bless him !), Mr. Williams, 
 it is impossible that you and I should long live at variance, 
 when our sentiments agree so well together, on subjects the 
 most material. 
 
 I was quite confounded ; and my master, seeing it, took 
 my hand, and said. Look up, my good girl ; and collect 
 yourself. — Don't injure Mr. Williams and me so much, as 
 to think we are capping compliments, as we used to do 
 verses at school. I dare answer for us both, that we say not 
 a syllable we don't think. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, how unequal am I to all this goodness ! 
 Every moment that passes adds to the weight of the obliga- 
 tions you oppress me with. 
 
 Think not too much of that, said he most generously. 
 Mr. Williams's compliments to you have great advantage 
 of mine : For, though equally sincere, I have a great deal 
 to say, and to do, to compensate the suiFerings I have 
 made you undergo ; and, at laSt, must sit down dissatisfied, 
 because those will never be balanced by all I can do for 
 you. 
 
 He saw my dear father quite unable to support these 
 affecting instances of his goodness ; and he let go my hand, 
 and took his ; and said, seeing his tears, I wonder not, my 
 dear Pamela's father, that your honest heart springs thus 
 to your eyes, to see all her trials at an end. I will not pre- 
 tend to say, that I had formerly either power or will to act 
 thus : But since I began to resolve on the change you see, 
 I have reaped so much pleasure in it, that my own interest 
 
352 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 will keep me steady : For, till within these few days, I knew 
 not what it was to be happy. 
 
 Poor Mr. Williams, with tears of joy in his eyes, said, 
 How happily, sir, have you been touched by the divine 
 grace^ before you have been hurried into the commission 
 ■ of sins, that the deepest penitence could hardly have atoned 
 for ! — God has enabled you to stop short of the evil ; and 
 you have nothing to do, but to rejoice in the good, which 
 now will be doubly so, because you can receive it without 
 the least inward reproach. 
 
 You do well, said he, to remind me, that I owe all this 
 to the grace of God. I bless. Him for it ; and I thank this 
 good man for his excellent lessons to his daughter ; I thank 
 her for following them : and I hope, from her good example, 
 and your friendship, Mr. Williams, in time, to be half as 
 good as my tutoress : and that, said he, I believe you'll own, 
 will make me, without disparagement to any man, the best 
 fox-hunter in England. — Mr. Williams was going to speak : 
 And he said. You put on so grave a look, Mr. Williams, 
 that, I believe, what I have said, with you practical good 
 folks, is liable to exception : but I see we are become quite 
 grave ; and we must not be too serious neither. 
 
 What a happy creature, my dear mother, is your Pamela ! 
 — Oh may my thankful heart, and , the good use I may be 
 enabled to make of the blessings before me, be a means to 
 continue this delightful prospect to a long date, for the sake 
 of the dear good gentleman, who thus becomes the happy 
 instrument, in the hand of Providence, to bless all he smiles 
 upon ! To be sure, I shall never enough acknowledge the 
 value he is pleased to express for my unworthiness, in that 
 he has prevented my wishes, and, unasked, sought the 
 occasion of being reconciled to a good man, who, for my 
 sake, had incurred his displeasure; and whose name he 
 could not, a few days before, permit to pass through my lips ! 
 But see the wonderful ways of Providence ! The very things 
 that I most dreaded his seeing or knowing, the contents of 
 my papers, have, as I hope, satisfied all his scruples, and 
 been a means to promote my happiness. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 353 
 
 Henceforth let not us poor short-sighted mortals pretend 
 to rely on our own wisdom ; or vainly think, that we are 
 absolutely to direct for ourselves. I have abundant reason, 
 I am sure, to say, that, when I was most disappointed, I 
 was nearer my happiness : for had I made my escape, which 
 was so often my chief point in view, and what I had placed 
 my heart upon, I had escaped the blessings now before me, 
 and fallen, perhaps headlong, into the miseries I would have 
 avoided. And yet, after all, it was necessary I should take 
 the steps I did, to bring on this wonderful turn : oh the un- 
 searchable wisdom of God ! — And how much ought I to 
 adore the divine goodness, and humble myself, who am made 
 a poor instrument, as I hope, not only to magnify His 
 graciousness to this fine gentleman and myself, but also to 
 dispense benefits to others ! Which God of His mercy grant! 
 
 In the agreeable manner I have mentioned, did we pass 
 the time in our second happy tour ; and I thought Mrs. 
 Jewkes would have sunk into the ground, when she saw Mr. 
 Williams brought in the coach with us, and treated so 
 kindly. We dined together in a most pleasant, easy, and 
 frank manner ; and I found I need not, from niy master's 
 generosity, to be under any restraint, as to my conduct to 
 this good clergyman : For he, so often as he fancied I was 
 reserved, moved me to be free with him, and to him; and 
 several times called upon me to help my father and Mr. 
 Williams ; and seemed to take great delight in seeing me 
 carve, as, indeed, he does in everything I do. 
 
 After dinner, we went and looked into the chapel, which 
 is a very pretty one, and very decent ; and, when finished 
 as he designs it, against his next coming down, will be a 
 very pretty place. 
 
 My heart, my dear mother, when I first set my foot in it, 
 throbbed a good deal, with awful joy, at the thoughts of the 
 solemnity, which, I hope, will in a few days he performed 
 here. And when I came up towards the little pretty altar- 
 piece, while they were looking at a communion-picture, and 
 saying it was prettily done, 1 gently stept into a corner, out 
 
 VOL. I. ^ 
 
354 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 of sight, and poured out my soul to God on my knees, in 
 supplication and thankfulness, that, after having been so 
 long absent from divine service, the first time I entered into 
 a house dedicated to His honour, should be with such blessed 
 prospects before me ; and begging of God to continue me 
 humble, and to make me not unworthy of His mercies ; and 
 that He would be pleased to bless the next author of my 
 happiness, my good master, 
 
 I heard my master say, Where's Pamela ? And so I 
 broke off sooner than I would, and went up to him. 
 
 He said, Mr. Williams, I hope I have not so offended you 
 by my conduct past (for really it is what I ought to be 
 ashamed of), as that you will refuse to officiate, and to give 
 us your instructions here to-morrow. Mr. Peters was so 
 kind, for the first time, to offer it ; but I knew it would be 
 inconvenient for him ; and, besides, I was willing to make 
 this request to you an introduction to our reconciliation. 
 
 Sir, said he, most willingly, and most gratefully, will I 
 obey you : Though, if you expect a discourse, I am wholly 
 unprepared for the occasion. I would not have it, replied 
 he, pointed to any particular occasion ; but if you have one 
 upon the text — There is more joy in Heaven over one sinner 
 that repenteth, than over ninety-nine just persons that need no 
 repentance ; and if it makes me not such a sad fellow as to 
 be pointed at by mine and the ladies' servants we shall have 
 here, I shall be well content. 'Tis a general subject, added 
 he, makes me speak of that ; but any one you please will 
 do ; for you cannot make a bad choice, I am sure. 
 
 Sir, said he, I have one upon that text; but I am ready 
 to think, that a thanksgiving one, which I made on a great 
 mercy to himself, if I may be permitted to make my own 
 acknowledgments of your favour the subject of a discourse, 
 will be suitable to my grateful sentiments. It is on the 
 text — Now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace; for mine 
 eyes have seen thy salvation. 
 
 That text, said I, will be a very suitable one for me. Not 
 so, Pamela, said my master ; because I don't let you depart 
 in peace ; but I hope you will stay here with content. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 355 
 
 Oh but, sir, said I, I have seen God's salvation ! — I am sure, 
 added I, if anybody ever had reason, I have to say, with the 
 blessed Virgin, My soul doth magnify the Lord; for He hath 
 regarded the low estate of His handmaiden— and exalted one 
 of low degree. 
 
 Said my good father, I am sure, if there were time for it, 
 the book of Ruth would afford a fine subject for the honour 
 done my dear child. 
 
 Why, good Mr. Andrews, said my master, should you say 
 so ? — I know, that story, and Mr. Williams will confirm 
 what I say, that my good girl here will confer at least as 
 much honour as she will receive. 
 
 Sir, said I, you are inexpressibly generous; but I shall 
 never think so ? Why, my Pamela, said he, that's another 
 thing: it will be best for me to think you will ; and it will 
 be kind in you to think you shan't; and then we shall 
 always have an excellent rule to regulate our conduct by to 
 one another. , 
 
 Was not this finely, nobly, wisely said, my dear mother ? 
 — Oh what a blessed thing it is to be matched to a man of 
 sense and generosity 1 — How edifying ! How ! — But_ what 
 shall I say ? — I am at loss for words. 
 
 Mr. Williams said, when we came out of the little chapel, 
 he would go home, and look over his discourses, for one for 
 the next day. My master said, I have one thing to say be- 
 fore you go — When my jealousy, on account of this good 
 girl, put me upon such a vindictive conduct to you, you 
 know I took a bond for the money I had caused you to be 
 troubled for : I really am ashamed of the matter ; because I 
 never intended, when I presented it to you, to have it again, 
 you may be sure : But I knew not what might happen be- 
 tween you and her, nor how far matters might have gone 
 between you ; and so I was willing to have that in awe over 
 you. And I think it is no extraordinary present, therefore, 
 to give you up your bond again cancelled. And so he took 
 it from his pocket, and gave it him. I think, added he, all 
 the charges attending it, and the trouble you had, were 
 defrayed by my attorney ; I ordered that they should. They 
 
35^ PAMELA; OR, 
 
 were, sir, said he ; and ten thousand thanks to you for this 
 goodness, and the kind manner in which you do it. — If you 
 will go, Mr. Williams, said he, shall my chariot carry you 
 home ? No, sir, answered he, I thank you. My time will 
 be so well employed all the way, in thinking of your favours, 
 that I choose to meditate upon them, as I walk home. 
 
 My dear father was a little uneasy about his habit, for 
 appearing at chapel next day, because of Misses Darnford 
 and the servants, for fear, poor man, he should disgrace my 
 master; and he told me, when he was mentioning this, of 
 my master's kind present of twenty guineas for clothes, for 
 you both ; which made my heart truly joyful. But oh ! to 
 be sure, I can never deserve the hundredth part of his good- 
 ness ! — It is almost a hard thing to lie under the weight of 
 such deep obligations on one side, and such a sense of one's 
 own unworthiness on the other. — Oh ! what a Godlike power 
 is that of doing good ! — I envy the rich and the great for 
 nothing else. 
 
 My master coming to us just then, I said. Oh ! sir, will 
 your bounty know no limits ? My dear father has told me 
 what you have given him. — A trifle, Pamela, said he, a little 
 earnest only of my kindness. — Say no more of it. But did 
 I not hear the good man expressing some sort of concern 
 for somewhat? Hide nothing from me, Pamela. Only, 
 sir, said I, he knew not how to absent himself from divine 
 service, and yet is afraid of disgracing you by appearing. 
 
 Fie, Mr, Andrews ! said he, I thought you knew that the 
 outward appearance was nothing. I wish I had as good a 
 habit inwardly as you have. But I'll tell you, Pamela, your 
 father is not so much thinner than I am, nor much shorter ; 
 he and I will walk up together to my wardrobe ; though it 
 is not so well stored here, as in Bedfordshire. 
 
 And so, said he, pleasantly, don't you pretend to come 
 near us, till I call for you ; for you must not yet see how 
 men dress and undress themselves. Oh, sir, said my father, 
 I beg to be excused. I am sorry you were told. So am 
 not I, said my master : Pray come along with me. 
 
 He carried him upstairs, and showed him several suits 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 357 
 
 and would have had him take his choice. My poor father 
 was quite confounded: for' my master saw not any he 
 thought too good, and ray father none that he thought bad 
 enough. And my good master, at last (he fixed his eye 
 upon a fine drab, which he thought looked the plainest), 
 would help him to try the coat and waistcoat on himself; 
 and, indeed, one would not have thought it, because my 
 master is taller, and rather plumper, as I thought : but, as 
 I saw afterwards, they fitted him very well : And being 
 plain, and lined with the same colour, and made for travel- 
 ling in a coach, pleased my poor father much. He gave 
 him the whole suit, and, calling up Mrs. Jewkes, said. Let 
 these clothes be well aired against to-morrow morning. 
 Mr. Andrews brought only with him his common apparel, 
 not thinking to stay Sunday with us. And pray see for 
 some of my stockings, and whether any of my shoes will fit 
 him : And see also for some of my linen ; for we have 
 put the good man quite out of his course, by keeping him 
 Sunday over. He was then pleased to give him the silver 
 buckles out of his own shoes. So, my good mother, you 
 must expect to see my dear father a great beau. Wig, 
 said my master, he wants none; for his own venerable 
 white locks are better than all the perukes in England. — 
 But I am sure I have hats enough somewhere. — I'll take 
 care of everything, sir, said Mrs. Jewkes. — And my poor 
 father, when he came to me, could not refrain tears. I 
 know not how, said he, to comport myself under these great 
 favours. Oh my child, it is all owing to the divine goodness, 
 and your virtue. 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 This blessed day all the family seemed to take delight to 
 equip themselves for the celebration of the Sabbath in the 
 little chapel ; and Lady Jones and Mr. Williams came in 
 her chariot, and the two Misses Darnford in their own. 
 And we breakfasted together in a most agreeable manner. 
 My dear father appeared quite spruce and neat, and was 
 
358 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 greatly caressed by the three ladies. As we were at break- 
 fast, my master told Mr. Williams, We must let the Psalms 
 alone, he doubted, for want of a clerk : but Mr. Williams 
 said. No, nothing should be wanting that he could supply. 
 My father said, If it might be permitted him, he would, as 
 well as he was able, perform that office ; for it was always 
 what he had taken delight in. And as I knew he had learnt 
 psalmody formerly, in his youth, and had constantly prac- 
 tised it in private, at home, on Sunday evenings (as well 
 as endeavoured to teach it in the little school he so unsuc- 
 cessfully set up, at the beginning of his misfortunes, before 
 he took to hard labour), I was in no pain for his undertak- 
 ing it in this little congregation. They seemed much 
 pleased with this ; and so we went to chapel, and made a 
 pretty tolerable appearance; Mrs. Jewkes, and all the ser- 
 vants, attending, but the cook: And I never saw divine 
 service performed with more solemnity, nor assisted at with 
 greater devotion and decency ; my master. Lady Jones, and 
 the two misses, setting a lovely example. 
 
 My good father performed his part with great applause, 
 making the responses, as if he had been a practised parish- 
 clerk ; and giving the xxiiid psalm,* which consisting of 
 
 * The Lord is only my support, 
 
 And He that doth me feed : 
 How can I then lack anything 
 
 Whereof I stand in need ? 
 In pastures green He feedeth me, ' 
 
 Where I do safely lie ; 
 And after leads me to the streams. 
 
 Which run most 'pleasantly. 
 
 And when I find myself near lost. 
 
 Then home He doth me take ; 
 Conducting me in His right paths, 
 
 E'en for His own name's sake. 
 And tho' I were e'en at death's door. 
 
 Yet would I fear no ill : 
 For both Thy rod and shepherd's crook 
 
 Afford me comfort still. 
 
 Thou hast my table richly spread 
 In presence of my foe : 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 359 
 
 but three staves, we had it all ; and he read the Hne, and 
 began the tune with a heart so entirely affected with the 
 duty, that he went through it distinctly, calmly, and fer- 
 vently at the same time; so that Lady Jones whispered 
 me. That good man were fit for all companies, and present 
 to every laudable occasion : and Miss Darnford said, God 
 bless the dear good man ! — You must think how I rejoiced 
 in my mind. 
 
 I know, my dear mother, you can say most of the 
 shortest psalms by heart; so I need not transcribe it, espe- 
 cially as your chief treasure is a Bible; and a worthy trea- 
 sure it is. I know nobody makes more or better use of it. 
 
 Mr. Williams gave us an excellent discourse on liberality 
 and generosity, and the blessings attending the right use 
 of riches, from the xith chapter of Proverbs, ver. 24, 35. 
 There is that scattereth, and yet increaseth; and there is 
 that withholdeth more than is meet, hut it tendeth to poverty. 
 The liberal soul shall be made fat : And he that watereth, 
 shall be watered also himself. And he treated the subject 
 in so handsome a manner, that my master's delicacy, who, 
 at first, was afraid of some personal compliments, was not 
 offended. Mr. Williams judiciously keeping to generals; 
 and it was an elegant and sensible discourse, as my master 
 said. 
 
 My father was in the clerk's place, just under the desk; 
 and Lady Jones, by her footman, whispered him to favour 
 us with another psalm, when the sermon was ended. He 
 thinking, as he said afterwards, that the former was rather 
 of the longest, chose the shortest in the book, which you 
 know is the cxviith.* 
 
 Thou hast my head with balm refresh'd, 
 
 My cup doth overflow. 
 And finally, while breath doth last, 
 
 Thy grace shall me defend : 
 And in the house of God will I 
 
 My life for ever spend. 
 
 * O all ye nations of the world, 
 Praise ye the Lord always : 
 
360 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 My master thanked Mr. Williams for his excellent dis- 
 course, and so did the ladies ; as also did I most heartily : 
 and he was pleased to take my dear father by the hand, 
 as did also Mr. Williams, and thanked him. The ladies, 
 likewise^ made him their compliments} and the servants 
 all looked upon him with countenances of respect and 
 pleasure. 
 
 At dinner, do what I could, I was forced to take the 
 upper end of the table; and my master sat at the lower 
 end, between Mr. Williams and my father. And he said, 
 Pamela, you are so dexterous, that I think you may help 
 the ladies yourself; and I will help my two good friends. 
 I should have told you, though, that I dressed myself in a 
 flowered satin, that was my lady's, and looked quite fresh 
 and good, and which was given me, at first, by my master ; 
 and the ladies, who had not seen me out of my homespun 
 before, made me abundance of fine compliments, as soon 
 as they saw me first. 
 
 Talking of the psalms just after dinner, my master was 
 very naughty, if I may so say : For he said to my father, 
 Mr. Andrews, I think in the afternoon, as we shall have 
 only prayers, we may have one longer psalm; and what 
 think you of the cxxxviith ? Oh, good sir ! said I, pray, 
 pray, not a word more ! Say what you will, Pamela, said 
 he, you shall sing it to us, according to your own version, 
 before these good ladies go away. My father smiled, but 
 was half concerned for me; and said. Will it bear, and 
 please your honour? — Oh ay, said he, never fear it; so 
 long as Mrs. Jewkes is not in the hearing. 
 
 This excited all the ladies' curiosity; and Lady Jones 
 said. She would be loath to desire to hear anything that 
 would give me concern; but should be glad I would give 
 leave for it. Indeed, madam, said I, I must beg you 
 
 And all ye people everywhere 
 
 Set forth His noble praise. 
 For great His kindness is to us ; 
 
 His truth doth not decay : 
 Wherefore praise ye the Lord our God ; 
 
 Praise ye the Lord alway. 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 361 
 
 won't insist upon it. I cannot bear it. — You shall see it, 
 indeed, ladies, said my master; and pray, Pamela, not 
 always as yoii please, neither. — Then, pray, sir, said I, not in 
 my hearing, I hope. — Sure, Pamela, returned he, you would 
 not write what is not fit to be heard! — But, sir, said I, 
 there are particular cases, times, and occasions, that may 
 make a thing passable at one time, that would not be 
 tolerable at another. Oh, said he, let me judge of that, as 
 well as you, Pamela. These ladies know a good part of 
 your story ; and, let me tell you, what they know is more 
 to your credit than mine ; so that if I have no averseness 
 to reviving the occasion, you may very well bear it. Said 
 he, I will put you out of your pain, Pamela : here it is : 
 and took it out of his pocket. 
 
 I stood up, and said, Indeed, sir, I can't bear it j I hope 
 you'll allow me to leave the room a minute, if you will read 
 it. Indeed but I won't, answered he. Lady Jones said. 
 Pray, good sir, don't let us hear it, if Mrs. Andrews be so 
 unwilling. Well, Pamela, said my master, I will put it to 
 your choice, whether I shall read it now, or you will sing 
 it by and by. That's very hard, sir, said I. It must be 
 one, I assure you, said he. Why then, sir, replied I, you 
 must do as you please ; for I cannot sing it. 
 
 Well, then, said my master, I find I must read it ; and 
 yet, added he, after all, I had as well let it alone, for it is 
 no great reputation to myself. Oh then, said Miss Darn- 
 ford, pray let us hear it, to choose. 
 
 Why then, proceeded he, the case was this: Pamela, I 
 find, when she was in the time of her confinement (that is, 
 added he, when she was taken prisoner, in order to make 
 me one; for that is the upshot of the matter), in the 
 Journal she kept, which was intended for nobody's perusal 
 but her parents, tells them, that she was importuned, one 
 Sunday, by Mrs. Jewkes, to sing a psalm ; but her spirits 
 not permitting, she declined it: But after Mrs. Jewkes 
 was gone down, she says, she recollected, that the cxxxviith 
 psalm was applicable to her own case; Mrs. Jewkes hav-^ 
 
363 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ing often, on other days, in vain, besought her to sing a 
 song : That thereupon she turned it more to her own sup- 
 posed case ; and believing Mrs. Jewkes had a design against 
 her honour, and looking upon her as her, gaoler, she thus 
 gives her version of this psalm. But pray, Mr. Williams, 
 do you read one verse of the common translation, and I 
 will read one of Pamela's. Then Mr. Williams, pulling 
 out his little pocket Common Prayer-book, read the first 
 two stanzas : 
 
 I. 
 
 When we did sit in Babj'lon, 
 
 The rivers round about ; 
 Then in remembrance of Sion, 
 
 The tears for grief burst out. 
 
 II. 
 
 We hang'd our harps and instruments 
 
 The willow trees upon : 
 For in that place, men, for that use, 
 
 Had planted many a one. 
 
 My master then read : 
 
 When sad I sat in B ^n hall. 
 
 All guarded round about, 
 And thought of ev'ry absent friend, 
 
 The tears for grief burst out. 
 
 II. 
 
 My joys and hopes all overthrown. 
 
 My heart-strings almost broke. 
 Unfit my mind for melody. 
 
 Much more to bear a joke. 
 
 The ladies said. It was very pretty ; and Miss Darnford, 
 That somebody else had more need to be concerned than 
 the versifier. 
 
 I knew, said my master, I should get no credit by 
 showing this. But let us read on, Mr. Williams. So 
 Mr. Williams read : 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 363 
 
 III. 
 
 Then they, to whom we pris'ners were, 
 
 Said to us tauntingly. 
 Now let us hear your Hebrew songs, 
 
 And pleasant melody. 
 
 Now this, said my master, is very'near ; and read : 
 
 III. 
 
 Then she, to whom I prisoner was, 
 
 Said to me tauntingly, 
 Now cheer your heart, and sing a song, 
 
 And tune your mind to joy. 
 
 Mighty sweet, said Mr. Williams. But let us see how 
 the next verse is turned. It is this : 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alas ! said we ; who can once frame 
 
 His heavy heart to sing 
 The praises of our living God, 
 
 Thus under a strange king ? 
 
 Why, said my master, it is turned with beautiful simpli- 
 city, thus : 
 
 IV. 
 
 Alas ! said I, how can I frame 
 
 My heavy heart to sing, 
 Or tune my mind, while thus enthrall'd 
 
 By such a wicked thing ? 
 
 Very pretty, said Mr. Williams. Lady Jones said. Oh, 
 dear madam ! could you wish that we should be deprived 
 of this new instance of your genius and accomplishments ? 
 
 Oh ! said my dear father, you will make my good child 
 proud. No, said my master very generously, Pamela can't 
 be proud. For no one is proud to hear themselves praised, 
 but those who are not used to it. — But proceed, Mr. 
 Williams. He read : 
 
 But yet, if I Jerusalem 
 Out of my heart let slide ; 
 
3^4 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Then let my fingers quite forget 
 The warbling harp to guide. 
 
 Well, now, said my master, for Pamela's version : 
 
 But yet, if from ray innocence 
 
 I ev'n in thought should slide, 
 Then let my fingers quite forget 
 
 The sweet spinnet to guide. 
 
 Mr. Williams read : 
 
 VI. 
 
 And let my tongue, within my mouth. 
 
 Be ty'd' for ever fast. 
 If I rejoice, before I see 
 
 Thy full deliv'rance past. 
 
 This, also, said my master, is very near : 
 
 VI. 
 
 And let my tongue, within my mouth, 
 
 Be lock'd for ever fast. 
 If I rejoice, before I see 
 
 My full deliv'rance past. 
 
 Now, good sir, said I, oblige me ; don't read any further : 
 pray don't ! Oh pray, madam, said Mr. Williams, let me 
 beg to have the rest read ; for I long to know whom you 
 make the Sons of Edom, and how you turn the Psalmist's 
 execrations against the insulting Babylonians. 
 
 Well, Mr. Williams, replied I, you should not have said 
 so. Oh, said my master, that is one of the best things of 
 all. Poor Mrs. Jewkes stands for Edom's Sons; and we 
 must not lose this, because I think it one of my Pamela's 
 excellences, that, though thus oppressed, she prays for no 
 harm upon the oppressor. Read, Mr. Williams, the next 
 stanza. So he read : 
 
 VII. 
 
 Therefore, O Lord ! remember now 
 The cursed noise and cry, 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 365 
 
 That Edom's sons against us made, 
 When they ras'd our city. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Remember, Lord, their cruel words, 
 
 When, with a mighty sound. 
 They cried, Down, yea down with it, 
 
 Unto the very ground ! 
 
 Well, said my master, heie seems, in what I am going to 
 read, a little bit of a curse indeed, but I think it makes no 
 ill figure in the comparison. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And thou. Almighty ! recompense 
 
 The evils I endure 
 From those who seek my sad disgrace, 
 
 So causeless, to procure. 
 
 And now, said he, for Edom's Sons. Though a little 
 severe in the imputation. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Remember, Lord, this Mrs. Jewkes, 
 
 When with a mighty sound. 
 She cries, Down with her chastity, 
 
 Down to the very ground ! 
 
 Sure, sir, said I, this might have been spared! But the 
 ladies and Mr. Williams said. No, by no means ! And I see 
 the poor wicked woman has no favourers among them. 
 
 Now, said my master, read the Psalmist's heavy curses : 
 and Mr. Williams read : 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ev'n so shalt thou, O Babylon ! 
 
 At length to dust be brought : 
 And happy shall that man be call'd. 
 
 That our revenge hath wrought. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yea, blessed shall that man be call'd 
 That takes thy little ones, 
 
366 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 And dasheth them in pieces small 
 Against tlie very stones. 
 
 Thus he said, very kindly, has my Pamela turned these 
 lines: 
 
 IX. 
 Ev'n so shalt thou, O wicj^ed one ! 
 ^t length to shame be brought ; 
 And happy shall all tVose be call'd, 
 That my deliv'rance wrought. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yea, blessed s'iall the man be call'd 
 
 That shap^es thee of thy evil. 
 And saves me from thy vile attempts, 
 
 And \hee, too, from the d 1. 
 
 I fancy this ble§^ed man, said my master, smiling, was, at 
 that time, hoped to be you, Mr. Williams, if the truth was 
 known. Sir, said he, whoever it was intended for then, it 
 caX 6e nobody but your good self now. 
 
 I could hardly hold up my head for the praises the kind 
 ladies were pleased to heap upon me. I am sure, by this, 
 they are very partial in my favour ; all because my master 
 is so good to me, and loves to hear me praised; for I see 
 no such excellence in these lines, as they would make me 
 believe^ besides what is borrowed from the Psalmist. 
 
 We all, as before, and the cook-maid too, attended the 
 prayers of the church in the afternoon; and my dear father 
 concluded with the following stanzas of the cxlvth psalm; 
 suitably magnifying the holy name of God for all mercies ; 
 but did not observe, altogether, the method in which they 
 stand ; which was the less necessary, he thought, as he gave 
 out the lines. 
 
 The Lord is just in all His ways : 
 
 His works are holy all : 
 And He is near all those that do 
 
 In truth upon Him call. 
 
 He the desires of all them 
 That fear Him, will fulfil ; 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 367 
 
 And He will hear them when they cry, 
 And save them all He will. 
 
 The eyes of all do wait on Thee ; 
 
 Thou dost them all relieve : 
 And Thou to each sufficient food. 
 
 In season due, dost give. 
 
 Thou openest Thy plenteous hand. 
 
 And bounteously dost fill 
 All things whatever, that do live, 
 
 With gifts of Thy good will. 
 
 My thankful mouth shall gladly speak 
 
 The praises of the Lord : 
 All flesh, to praise His holy name, 
 
 For ever shall accord. 
 
 We walked in the garden till tea was ready ; and as he 
 went by the back-door, my master said to me. Of all the 
 flowers in the garden, the sunflower is the fairest ! — Oh, sir, 
 said Ij let that be now forgot 1 Mr. Williams heard him 
 say so, and seemed a little out of countenance : Whereupon 
 my master said,' I mean not to make you serious, Mr. 
 Williams; but we see how strangely things are brought 
 about. I see other scenes hereabouts, that, in my Pamela's 
 dangers^ give me more cause of concern, than anything 
 you ever did should give you. Sir, said he, you are very 
 generous. 
 
 My master and Mr. Williams afterwards walked together 
 for a quarter of an hour ; and talked about general things, 
 and some scholastic subjects; and joined us, very well 
 pleased with one another's conversation. 
 
 Lady Jones said, putting herself on one side of me, as 
 my master was on the other, But pray, sir, when is the 
 happy time to be ? We want it over, that we may have 
 you with us as long afterwards as you can. Said my 
 master, I would have it to-morrow, or next day at farthest, 
 if Pamela will : for I have sent for a license, and the mes- 
 senger will be here to-night, or early in the morning, I 
 hope. But, added he, pray, Pamela, do not take beyond 
 Thursday. She was pleased to say, Sure it will not be 
 
368 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 delayed by you^ madam, more than needs! — ^Well, said he, 
 now you are on my side, I will leave you with her to settle 
 it: and, I hope, she will not let little bashful niceties be 
 important with her; and so he joined the two misses. 
 
 Lady Jones told me, I was to blame, she would take 
 upon her to say, if I delayed it a moment; because she 
 understood Lady Davers was very uneasy at the prospect, 
 that it would be so; and if anything should happen, it 
 would be a sad thing! — Madam, said I, when he was 
 pleased to mention it to me first, he said it should be in 
 fourteen days; and afterwards, asked me if I would have 
 it in the first or the second seven ? I answered — for how 
 could I do otherwise ? — In the second. He desired it might 
 not be the last day of the second seven. Now, madam, 
 said I, as he was then pleased to speak his mind, no doubt, 
 I would not, for anything, seem too forward. 
 
 Well, but, said she, as he now urges you in so genteel 
 and gentlemanly a manner for a shorter day, I think, if I 
 was in your place, I would agree to it. She saw me hesi- 
 tate and blush, and said. Well, you know best; but I say 
 only what I would do. I said, I would consider of it; and 
 if I saw he was very earnest, to be sure I should think I 
 ought to oblige him. 
 
 Misses Darnford were begging to be at the wedding, and 
 to have a ball : and they said. Pray, Mrs. Andrews, second 
 our requests, and we shall be greatly obliged to you. 
 Indeed, ladies, said I, I cannot promise that, if I might. — 
 Why so ? said they. — Because, answered I, I know not 
 what! But I think one may, with pleasure, celebrate an 
 anniversary of one's nuptials ; but the day itself. — Indeed, 
 ladies, I think it is too solemn a business, for the parties 
 of our sex to be very gay upon : it is a quite serious and 
 awful affair : and I am sure, in your own cases, you would 
 be of my mind. Why, then, said Miss Darnford, the 
 more need one has to be as light-hearted and merry as 
 one can. 
 
 I told you, said my master, what sort of an answer you'd 
 have from Pamela. The younger miss said. She never heard 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 369 
 
 of such grave folks in her life, on such an occasion : Why, 
 sir, said she, I hope you'll sing psalms all day, and miss will 
 fast and pray 1 Such sackcloth and ashes doings, for a wed- 
 ding, did I never hear of! — She spoke a little spitefully, I 
 thought; and I returned no answer. I shall have enough 
 to do, I reckon, in a while, if I am to answer every one that 
 will envy me ! 
 
 We went in to tea ; and all that the ladies could prevail 
 upon my master for, was a dancing match before he left this 
 county : But Miss Darnford said, it should then be at their 
 house ; for, truly, if she might not be at the wedding, she 
 would be affronted, and come no more hither, till we had 
 been there. 
 
 When they were gone, my master would have had my 
 father stay till the affair was over ; but he begged he might 
 set out as soon as it wa.s light in the morning ; for, he said, 
 my mother would be doubly uneasy at his stay; and he 
 burned with impatience to let her know all the happy things 
 that had befallen her daughter. When my master found 
 him so desirous to go, he called Mr. Thomas, and ordered 
 him to get a particular bay horse ready betimes in the 
 morning, for my father, and a portmanteau, to put his 
 things in ; and to attend him a day's journey : And if, 
 said he, Mr. Andrews chooses it, see him safe to his own 
 home : And, added he, since that horse will serve you, Mr. 
 Andrews, to ride backwards and forwards, to see us, when 
 we go into Bedfordshire, I make you a present of it, with 
 the accoutrements. And, seeing my father going to speak, 
 he added, I won't be said nay. Oh how good was this ! 
 
 He also said a great many kind things at supper-time, 
 and gave him all the papers he had of mine; but desired, 
 when he and my mother had read them, that he would 
 return them to him again. And then he said. So affection- 
 ate a father and daughter may, perhaps, be glad to be alone 
 together; therefore remember me to your good wife, and 
 tell her, it will not be long, I hope, before I see you to- 
 gether, on a visit to your daughter, at my other house: and 
 so I wish you good-night, and a good journey, ij^^ou go 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
37° PAMELA; OR, 
 
 before I see you. And then he shook hands, and left my 
 dear father almost unable to speak, through the sense of 
 his favours and goodness. 
 
 You may believe, my dear mother, how loath I was to 
 part with my good father; and he was also unwilling to 
 part with me; but he was so impatient to see you, and tell 
 you the blessed tidings, with which his heart overflowed, 
 that I could hardly wish to detain him. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes brought two bottles of cherry-brandy, and 
 two of cinnamon-water, and some cake; and they were 
 put up in the portmanteau, with my father's newly pre- 
 sented clothes; for he said, he would not, for anything, 
 be seen in them in his neighbourhood, till I was actually 
 known, by everybody, to be married; nor would he lay 
 out any part of the twenty guineas till then neither, for 
 fear of reflections ; and then he would consult me as to 
 what he would buy. Well, said I, as you please, my dear 
 father ; and I hope now we shall often have the pleasure 
 of hearing from one another, without needing any art or 
 contrivances. 
 
 He said, he would go to bed betimes, that he might be 
 up as soon as it was light ; and so he took leave of me, and 
 said, he would not love me, if I got up in the morning to 
 see him go ; which would but make us both loath to part, 
 and grieve us both all day. 
 
 Mr. Thomas brought him a pair of boots, and told him, 
 he would call him up at peep of day, and put up every- 
 thing over night; and so I received his blessing, and his 
 prayers, and his kind promises of procuring the same from 
 you, my dear mother ; and went up to my closet with a 
 heavy heart, and yet a half-pleased one, if I may so say ; 
 for that, as he must go, he was going to the best of wives, 
 and with the best of tidings. But I begged he would not 
 work so hard as he had done ; for I was sure my master 
 would not have given him twenty guineas for clothes, if he 
 had not designed to do something else for him; and that he 
 should be the less concerned at receiving benefits from my 
 good master, because he, who had so many persons to emplov 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 371 
 
 in his large possessions, could make him serviceable, to a 
 degree equivalent, without hurting anybody else. 
 
 He promised me fairj and, pray, dear mother, see he 
 performs.. I hope my master will not see this: for I will 
 not send it you, at present, till I can send you the best oi 
 news; and the rather, as my dear father can supply the 
 greatest part of what I have written, since the papers he 
 carries you, by his own observation. So good-night, my 
 dear mother : And God send my father a safe journey, and 
 a happy meeting to you both ! 
 
 Monday. 
 
 Mr. Colbrand being returned, my master came up to me 
 to my closet, and brought me the license. Oh how my heart 
 fluttered at the sight of it ! Now, Pamela, said he, tell me, 
 if you can oblige me with the day. Your word is all that's 
 wanting. I made bold to kiss his dear hand ; and, though 
 unable to look up, said — I know not what to say, sir, to all 
 your goodness : I would not, for any consideration, that 
 you should believe me capable of receiving negligently an 
 honour, that all the duty of a long life, were it to be lent 
 me, will not be sufficient to enable me to be grateful for. 
 I ought to resign myself, in everything I may or can, 
 implicitly to your will. But — But what? said he, with a 
 kind impatience. — Why, sir, said I, when from last Thursday 
 you mentioned four days, I had reason to think that term 
 your choice; and my heart is so wholly yours, that I am 
 afraid of nothing, but that I may be forwarder than you 
 wish. Impossible, my dear creature! said he, and folded 
 me in his arms : Impossible ! If this be all, it shall be set 
 about this moment, and this happy day shall make you 
 mine !— Fll send away instantly, said the dear gentleman ; 
 and was going. 
 
 I said. No, pray, sir, pray, sir, hear me !— Indeed it cannot 
 be to-day !— Cannot ! said he.— No, indeed, sir ! said I— And 
 was ready to sink to see his generous impatience. Why. 
 
373 PAMELA; OB, 
 
 flattered you then my fond heart, replied he, with the hope 
 that" it might? — Sir, said I, I will tell you what I had 
 thought, if you'll vouchsafe me your attention. Do then, 
 said he. 
 
 I have, sir, proceeded I, a great desire, that, whenever the 
 day is, it may be on a Thursday : On a Thursday my dear 
 father and mother were married; and, though poor, they 
 are a very happy pair. — On a Thursday your poor Pamela 
 was born. On a Thursday my dear good lady took me from 
 my parents into her protection. On a Thursday, sir, you 
 caused me to be carried away to this place, to which I now, 
 by God's goodness and your favour, owe so amazingly all 
 my present prospects ; and on a Thursday it was, you named 
 to me, that fourteen days from that you would confirm my 
 happiness. Now, sir, if you please to indulge my super- 
 stitious folly, you will greatly oblige me. I was sorry, sir, 
 for this reason, when you bid me not defer till the last day 
 of the fourteen, that Thursday in next week was that last 
 day. 
 
 This, Pamela, is a little superstitious, I must needs say ; 
 and I think you should begin now to make another day in 
 the week a happy one ; as for example ; on a Monday, may 
 you say, my father and mother concluded to be married on 
 the Thursday following. On a Monday, so many years ago, 
 my mother was preparing all her matters to be brought 
 to bed on the Thursday following. On a Monday, several 
 weeks ago, it was that you had but two days more to stay, 
 till you was carried away on Thursday. On a Monday, I 
 myself, said he, well remember, it was that I wrote you the 
 letter, that prevailed on you so kindly to return to me ; 
 and on the same day you did return to my house here; 
 which I hope, my girl, will be as propitious an era as any 
 you have named : And now, lastly, will you say, which will 
 crown the work ; And, on a Monday I was married. — Come, 
 come, my dear, added he, Thursday has reigned long enough 
 o'conscience ; let us now set Monday in its place, or at least 
 on an equality with it, since you see it has a very good title, 
 and as we now stand in the week before us, claims, priority : 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 373 
 
 And then, I hope, we shall make Tuesday, Wednesday, 
 Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, as happy days as Monday 
 and Thursday ; and so, by God's blessing, move round, as 
 the days move, in a delightful circle, till we are at a loss 
 what day to prefer to the rest. 
 
 Oh how charmingly was this said ! — And how sweetly kind ! 
 
 Indeed, sir, said I, you rally my folly very agreeably ; but 
 don't let a little matter stand in the way, when vou are 
 so generously obliging in a greater : indeed I like Thursday 
 best, if I may choose. 
 
 Well, then, said he, if you can say you have a better 
 reason than this, I will oblige you ; else I'll send away for 
 the parson this moment. 
 
 And so, I protest, he was going! — Dear sirs, how I 
 trembled 1 Stay, stay, sir, said I : we have a great deal to 
 say first ; I have a deal of silly prate to trouble you with ! — 
 Well, say then, in a minute, replied he, the most material : 
 for all we have to say may be talked of while the parson is 
 coming. — Oh, but indeed, and indeed, said I, it cannot be 
 to-day ! — Well, then, shall it be to-morrow ? said he. — 
 Why, sir, if it must not be on a Thursday, you have given 
 so many pleasant distinctions for a Monday, that let it then 
 be next Monday. — What ! a week still ? said he. Sir, 
 answered I, if you please; for that will be, as you enjoined, 
 within the second seven days. Why, girl, said he, 'twill be 
 seven months till next Monday. Let it, said he, if not 
 to-morrow, be on Wednesday; I protest I will stay no 
 longer. 
 
 Then, sir, returned I, please to defer it, however, for one 
 day more, and it will be my beloved Thursday ! If I con- 
 sent to defer it till then, may I hope, my Pamela, said he, 
 that next Thursday shall certainly be the happy day ?— Yes, 
 sir, said I : and I am sure I looked very foolishly ! 
 
 And yet, my dear father and mother, why should I, with 
 such a fine gentleman ? And whom I so dearly love ? And 
 so much to my honour too? But there is something greatly 
 awful upon my mind, in the solemn circumstance, and a 
 change of condition never to be recalled, though all the 
 
374 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 prospects are so desirable. And I can but wonder at the 
 thoughtless precipitancy with which most young folks run 
 into this important change of life ! 
 
 So now, my dear parents, have I been brought to fix so 
 near a day as next Thursday ; and this is Monday. Oh dear, 
 it makes one out of breath almost to think of it! This, 
 though, was a great cut off; a whole week out of ten days. 
 I hope I am not too forward ! I'm sure, if it obliges my 
 dear master, I am justified ; for he deserves of me all things 
 in my poor power. 
 
 After this, he rode out on horseback, attended by Abra- 
 ham, and did not return till night. How by degrees things 
 steal upon one ! I thought even this small absence tedious ; 
 and the more, as we expected him home to dinner. — I wish 
 I may not be too fond, and make him indifferent : But yet, 
 my dear father and mother, you were always fond of one 
 another, and never indifferent, let the world run as it would. 
 
 When he returned, he said, he had had a pleasant ride, 
 and was led out to a greater distance than he intended. 
 At supper he told me, tha.t he had a great mind Mr. 
 Williams should marry us ; because, he said, it would show 
 a thorough reconciliation on his part. But, said he, most 
 generously, I am apprehensive, from what passed between 
 you, that the poor man will take it hardly, and as a sort of 
 insult, which I am not capable of. What says my girl ? — 
 Do you think he would ? I hope not, sir, said I : As to 
 what he may think, I can't answer ; but as to any reason 
 for his thoughts, I can: For indeed, sir, said I, you have 
 been already so generous, that he cannot, I think, mistake 
 your goodness. 
 
 He then spoke with some resentment of Lady Davers's 
 behaviour, and I asked, if anything new had occurred? 
 Yes, said he ; I have had a letter delivered me from her 
 impertinent husband, professedly at her instigation, that 
 amounted to little less than a piece of insolent bravery, on 
 supposing I was about to marry you. I was so provoked, 
 added he, that after I had read it, I tore it in a hundred 
 pieces, and scattered them in the air, and bid the man who 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 375 
 
 brought it let his master know what I had done with his 
 letter ; and so would not permit him to speak to me, as he 
 would fain have done. — I think the fellow talked somewhat of 
 his lady coming hither; but she shall not set her foot within 
 my doors ; and I suppose this treatment will hinder her. 
 
 I was much concerned at this : And he said, Had I a 
 hundred sisters, Pamela, their opposition should have no 
 weight with me : and I did not intend you should know it ; 
 but you can't but expect a little difficulty from the pride of 
 my sister, who have suffered so much from that of her 
 brother ; arid we are too nearly allied in mind, as well as 
 blood, I find. — But this is not her business: And if she 
 would have made it so, she should have done it with more 
 decency. Little occasion had she to boast of her birth, that 
 knows not what belongs to good manners. 
 
 I said, I am very sorry, sir, to be the unhappy occasion 
 of a misunderstanding between so good a brother and so 
 worthy a sister. Don't say so, Pamela, because this is an 
 unavoidable consequence of the happy prospect before us. 
 Only bear it well yourself, because she is my sister; and 
 leave it to me to make her sensible of her own rashness. 
 
 If, sir, said I, the most lowly behaviour, and humble 
 deportment, and in everything showing a dutiful regard to 
 good Lady Davers, will have any weight with her ladyship, 
 assure yourself of all in my power to mollify her. No, 
 Pamela, returned he; don't imagine, when you are my 
 wife, I will suffer you to do anything unworthy of that 
 character. I know the duty of a husband, and will protect 
 your gentleness to the utmost, as much as if you were a 
 princess by descent. 
 
 You are inexpressibly good, sir, said I ; but I am far from 
 taking a gentle disposition to show a meanness of spirit : 
 And this is a trial I ought to expect; and well I may bear 
 it, that have so many benefits to set against it, which all 
 spring from the same cause. 
 
 Well, said he, all the matter shall be this : We will talk 
 of our marriage as a thing to be done next week. I find I 
 
376 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 have spies upon me wherever I go, and whatever I do : But 
 now, I am on so laudable a pursuit, that I value them not, 
 nor those who employ them. I have already ordered my 
 servants to have no conference with anybody for ten or 
 twelve days to come. And Mrs. Jewkes tells me every one 
 names Thursday come se'nnight for our nuptials. So I will 
 get Mr. Peters, who wants to see my little chapel, to assist 
 Mr. Williams, under the notion of breakfasting with me 
 next Thursday morning, since you won't have it sooner ; 
 and there will nobody else be wanting; and I will beg of 
 Mr. Peters to keep it private, even from his own family, for 
 a few days. Has my girl any objection ? 
 
 Oh, sir, answered I, you, are so generous in all your ways, 
 I can have no objections! — But I hope Lady Davers and 
 you will not proceed to irreconcileable lengths ; and when 
 her ladyship comes to see you, and to tarry with you, two 
 or three weeks, as she used to do, I will keep close up, so as 
 not f o disgust her with the sight of ilie. 
 
 Well, Pamela, said he, we will talk of that afterwards. 
 You must do then as I shall think fit : And I shall be able 
 to judge what both you and I ought to do. But what still 
 aggravates the matter is, that she should instigate the titled 
 ape her husband to write to me, after she had so little suc- 
 ceeded herself. I wish I had kept his letter, that I might 
 have shown you how a man, that generally acts like a fool, 
 can take upon him to write like a lord. But I suppose it is 
 of my sister's penning, and he, poor man ! is the humble 
 copier. 
 
 Tuesday. 
 Mr. Thomas is returned from you, my dear father, with 
 the good news of your health, and your proceeding in your 
 journey to my dear mother, where I hope to hear soon you 
 are arrived. My master has just now been making me play 
 upon the spinnet, and sing to it; and was pleased to com- 
 mend me for both. But he does so for everything I do, so 
 partial does his goodness make him to^imt. j 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 377 
 
 One o'clock. 
 
 We are just returned from an airing in the chariot ; and 
 I have been delighted with his conversation upon English 
 authors, poets particularly. He entertained me also with 
 a description of some of the curiosities he had seen in Italy 
 and France, when he made what the polite world call the 
 grand tour. He said he wanted to be at his other seat, for 
 he knew not well how to employ himself here, having not 
 proposed to stay half the time: And when I get there, 
 Pamela, said he, you will hardly be troubled with so much 
 of my company, after we have settled ; for I have a great 
 many things to adjust: And I must go to London j for I 
 have accounts that have run on longer than ordinary with 
 my banker there. And I don't know, added he, but the 
 ensuing winter I may give you a little taste of the diversions 
 of the town for a month or so. I said, his will and pleasure 
 should determine mine; and I never would, as near as I 
 could, have a desire after those, or any other entertainments 
 that were not in his own choice. 
 
 He was pleased to say, I make no doubt but that I shall 
 be very happy in you ; and hope you will be so in me : For, 
 said he, I have no very enormous vices to gratify; though I 
 pretend not to the greatest purity, neither, my girl. Sir, 
 said I, if you can account to your own mind, I shall always 
 be easy in whatever you do. But our greatest happiness 
 here, sir, continued I, is of very short duration ; and this 
 life, at the longest, is a poor transitory one ; and I hope we 
 shall be so happy as to be enabled to look forward, with 
 comfort, to another, where our pleasures will be everlasting. 
 
 You say well, Pamela; and I shall, by degrees, be more 
 habituated to this way of thinking, as I more and more 
 converse with you ; but, at present, you must not be over 
 serious with me all at once: though I charge you never 
 forbear to mingle your sweet divinity in our conversation, 
 whenever it can be brought in i propos, and with such a 
 cheerfulness of temper, as shall not throw a gloomy cloud 
 over our innoceni nj lyments. 
 
378 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I was abashed at this, and silent, fearing I had offended : 
 But he said, If you attend rightly to what I said, I need 
 not tell you again, Pamela, not to be discouraged from 
 suggesting to me, on every proper occasion, the pious im- 
 pulses of your own amiable mind. Sir, said I, you will be 
 always indulgent, I make no doubt, to my imperfections, 
 so long as I mean well. 
 
 My master made me dine with, him, and would eat 
 nothing but what I helped him to ; and my heart is, every 
 hour, more and more enlarged with his goodness and con- 
 descension. But still, what ails me, I wonder! A strange 
 sort of weight hangs upon my mind, as Thursday draws 
 on, which makes me often sigh involuntarily, and damps, 
 at times, the pleasures of my delightful prospects ! — I hope 
 this is not ominous ; but only the foolish weakness of an 
 over-thoughtful mind, on an occasion the most solemn and 
 important of one's life, next to the last scene, which shuts 
 up all. 
 
 I could be very serious : But I will commit all my ways to 
 that blessed Providence, which hitherto has so wonderfully 
 conducted me through real evils to this hopeful situation. 
 
 I only fear, and surely I have great reason, that I shall 
 be too unworthy to hold the affections of so dear a gentle- 
 man ! — God teach me humility, and to know my own 
 demerit ! And this will be, next to His grace,, my surest 
 guard, in the state of life to which, though most unworthy, 
 lam going to be exalted. And don't cease your prayers 
 for me, my dear parents ; for, perhaps, this new condition 
 may be subject to still worse hazards than those I have 
 escaped ; as would be the case, were conceitedness, vanity, 
 and pride, to take hold of my frail heart; and if I was, for 
 my sins, to be left to my own conduct, a frail bark in a 
 tempestuous ocean, without ballast, or other pilot than my 
 own inconsiderate will, uiut my master said, on another 
 occasion. That those who doubted most, always erred least; 
 and I hope I shall always doubt my own strength, my own 
 worthiness. 
 
 I will not trouble you with twenty sweet agreeable things 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 379 
 
 that passed in conversation with my excellent benefactor ; 
 nor with the civilities of M. Colbrand, Mrs. Jewkes, and" 
 all the servants, who seem to be highly pleased with me^ 
 and with my conduct to them : And as my master, hitherto, 
 finds no fault that I go too low, nor they that I carry it too 
 high, I hope I shall continue to have everybody's good- 
 will : But yet will I not seek to gain any one's by little 
 meannesses or debasements ! but aim at an uniform and 
 regular conduct, willing to conceal involuntary errors, as I 
 would have my own forgiven ; and not too industrious to 
 discover real ones, or to hide such, if any such should appear, 
 as might encourage bad hearts, or unclean hands, in material 
 cases, where my master should receive damage, or where 
 the morals of the transgressors should appear wilfully and 
 habitually corrupt. In short, I will endeavour, as much as 
 I can, that good servants shall find in me a kind encourager ; 
 indifferent ones be made better, by inspiring them with a 
 laudable emulation ; and bad ones, if not too bad in nature, 
 and quite irreclaimable, reformed by kindness, expostulation, 
 and even proper menaces, if necessary ; but most by a good 
 example : All this if God pleases. 
 
 Wednesday. ■■ 
 Now, my dear parents, I have but this one day between me 
 and the most solemn rite that can be performed. My heart 
 cannot yet shake off this heavy weight. Sure I am ungrate- 
 ful to the divine goodness, and the favour of the best of 
 benefactors !— Yet I hope I am not !— For, at times, my 
 mind is all exultation, with the prospect of what good to- 
 morrow's happy solemnity may possibly, by the leave of my 
 generous master, put it in my power to do. Oh how shall 
 I find words to express, as I ou|!it, my thankfulness, for all 
 the mercies before me ! 
 
380 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Wednesday evening. 
 Mr dear master is all love and tenderness ! , He sees my 
 weakness, and generously pities and comforts me ! I begged 
 to be excused supper; but he brought me down himself 
 from my closet, and placed me by him, bidding Abraham 
 not wait. I could not eat, and yet I tried, for fear he 
 should be angry. He kindly forbore to hint anything of 
 the dreadful, yet delightful to-morrow ! and put, now and 
 then, a little bit on my plate, and guided it to my mouth. 
 I was concerned to receive his goodness with so ill a grace. 
 Well, said he, if you won't eat with me, drink at least with 
 me : I drank two glasses by his over-persuasions, and said, 
 I am really ashamed of myself. Why, indeed, said he, my 
 ^ dear girl, I am not a very dreadful enemy, I hope ! I can- 
 not bear anything that is the least concerning to you. Oh, 
 sir! said I, all is owing to the sense I have of my own 
 unworthiness ! — To be sure, it cannot be anything else. 
 
 He rung for the things to be taken away ; and then 
 reached a chair, and sat down by me, and put his kind 
 arms about me, and said the most generous and affecting 
 things that ever dropt from the honey-flowing mouth of 
 love. All I have not time to repeat : some I will. And 
 oh ! indulge your foolish daughter, who troubles you with 
 her weak nonsense j because what she has to ,say, is so 
 affecting to her ; and because, if she went to bed, instead 
 of scribbling, she could not sleep. 
 
 This sweet confusion and thoughtfulness in my beloved 
 Pamela, said the kind man, on the near approach of our 
 happy union, when I hope all doubts are cleared up, and" 
 nothing of dishonour is apprehended, show me most abun- 
 dantly, what a wretch I was to attempt such purity with 
 a worse intention : — No wonder, that one so virtuous 
 should find herself deserted of life itself on a violence so 
 dreadful to her honour, and seek a refuge in the shadow of 
 death. — But now, my dearest Pamela, that you have seen 
 a purity on my side, as nearly imitating your own, as 
 our sex can show to yours ; and since I have, all the day 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 381 
 
 long, suppressed even the least intimation of the coming 
 day, that I might not alarm your tender mind ; why all 
 this concern, why all this affecting, yet sweet confusion? 
 You have a generous friend, my dear girl, in me; a pro- 
 tector now, not a violator of your innocence : Why then, 
 once more I ask, this strange perplexity, this sweet con- 
 fusion ? 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, and hid my face on his arm ; expect not 
 reason from a foolish creature; you should have still in- 
 dulged me in my closet : I am ready to beat myself for this 
 ungrateful return to your goodness. But I know not what ! 
 — I am, to be sure, a silly creature ! Oh had you but suffered 
 me to stay by myself above, I should have made myself 
 ashamed of so culpable a behaviour ! — But goodness added 
 to goodness every moment^ and the sense of my own un- 
 worthiness, quite overcome my spirits. 
 
 Now, said the generous man, will I, though reluctantly, 
 make a proposal to my sweet girl. — If I have been too press- 
 ing for the day : If another day will still be more obliging : 
 If you have fears you will not then have ; you shall say but 
 the word, and I'll submit. Yes, my Pamela ; for though I 
 have, these three days past, thought every tedious hour a 
 day, till Thursday comes, if you earnestly desire it, I will 
 postpone it. Say, my. dear gir], freely say; but accept not 
 my proposal, without great reason, which yet I will not 
 ask for. 
 
 Sir, said I, I can expect nothing but superlative goodness, 
 I have been so, long used to it from you. This is a most 
 generous instance of it ; but I fear— yes, I fear it will be 
 too much the same thing, some days hence, when the 
 happy, yet, fool that I am ! dreaded time, shall be equally 
 
 near ! 
 
 Kind, lovely charmer ! said he, now do I see you are to 
 be trusted with power, from the generous use you make of 
 it i_Not one offensive word or look, from me, shall wound 
 your nicest thoughts; but pray try to subdue this over- 
 scrupulousness, and unseasonable timidity. I persuade 
 myself you .will if you can. 
 
38a PAMELA; OR, 
 
 Indeed^ sir, I will, said I ; for I am quite ashamed of 
 myself;, with all these lovely views before me ! — The honours 
 you do me, the kindness you show me ! — I cannot forgive 
 myself! For, oh! if I know the least of this idle foolish 
 heart of mine, it has not a misgiving thought of your good- 
 ness ; and I should abhor it, if it were capable of the least 
 affectation. — But, dear good sir, leave me a little to myself, 
 and I will take myself to a severer task than your goodness 
 will let you do : and I will present my heart before you, a 
 worthier offering to you, thai} at present its wayward follies 
 will let it seem to be. — But one thing is, one has no kind 
 friend of one's own sex, to communicate one's foolish 
 thoughts to, and to be strengthened by their comfortings ! 
 But I am left to myself; and, oh ! what a weak silly thing 
 I am ! 
 
 He kindly withdrew, to give me time to recollect myself; 
 and in about half an hour returned : arid then, that he 
 might not begin at once upon the subject, and say, at the 
 same time, something agreeable to me, said, Your father 
 and mother have had a great deal of talk by this tiriie about 
 you, Pamela. Oh, sir, returned I, your goodness has made 
 them quite happy 1 But I can't help being concerned about 
 Lady Davers. 
 
 He said, I am vexed I did not hear the footman out; 
 because it runs in my head he talked somewhat about her 
 coming hither. She will meet with but an indifferent recep- 
 tion from me, unless she comes resolved to behave better 
 than she writes. 
 
 Pray, sir, said I, be pleased to bear jwith my good lady, 
 for two reasons. What are they? said he. Why, first, 
 sir, answered I, because she is your sister ; and, to be sure, 
 may very well think, what all the world will, that you have 
 much undervalued yourself in making me happy. And 
 next, because, if her ladyship finds you out of temper with 
 her, it will still aggravate her more against me; and every 
 time that any warm words you may have between you 
 come into her mind, she will disdain me more. 
 
 Don't concern yourself about it, said he; for we have 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 383 
 
 more proud ladles than she in our other neighbourhood, 
 who, perhaps, have still less reason to be punctilious about 
 their descent, and yet will form themselves upon her 
 example, and say, Why, his own sister will not forgive him, 
 nor visit him ! And so, if I can subdue her spirit, which 
 is more than her husband ever could, or indeed anybody 
 else, it is a great point gained : And, if she gives me reason, 
 I'll try for it, I assure you. 
 
 Well, but, my dear girl, continued he, since the subject 
 is so important, may I not say one word about to-morrow ? 
 — Sir, said I, I hope I shall be less a fool : I have talked as 
 harshly to my heart, as Lady Davers can do; and the 
 naughty thing suggests to me a better, and more grateful 
 behaviour. 
 
 He smiled, and kissing me, said, I took notice, Pamela, 
 of what you observed, that you have none of your own sex 
 with you ; I think it is a little hard upon you ; and I should 
 have liked you should have had Miss Darnford ; but then 
 her sister must have been asked ; and I might as well make 
 a public wedding: which, you know, would have required 
 clothes and other preparations. Besides, added he, a foolish 
 proposal was once made me of that second sister, who has 
 two or three thousand pounds more than the other, left her 
 by a godmother, and she can't help being a little piqued ; 
 though, said he, it was a proposal they could not expect 
 should succeed : for there is nothing in her person nor 
 mind ; and her fortune, as that must have been the only 
 inducement, would not do by any means; and so I dis- 
 couraged it at once. 
 
 r am thinking, sir, said I, of another mortifying thing 
 too ; that were you to marry a lady of birth and fortune 
 answerable to your own, all the eve to the day would be 
 taken up in reading, signing, and sealing of settlements, 
 and portion, and such like: But now the poor Pamela 
 brings you nothing at all : And the very clothes she wears, 
 so very low is she, are entirely the effects of your bounty, 
 and that of your good mother: This makes me a little 
 sad: For, alas! sir, I am so much oppressed by your 
 
384 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 favours, and the sense of the obligations I lie under, that I 
 cannot look up with the confidence that I otherwise should 
 on this awful occasion. 
 
 There is, my dear Pamela, said he, where the power is 
 wanting, as much generosity in the will as in the action. 
 To all that know your story, and your merit, it will appear 
 that I cannot recompense you for what I have made you 
 suffer. You have had too many hard struggles and exer- 
 cises ; and have nobly overcome : and who shall grudge you 
 the reward of the hard-bought victory ? — This affair is so 
 much the act of my own will, that I glory in being capable 
 of distinguishing so much excellence; and my fortune is 
 the more pleasureable to me, as it gives me hope, that I 
 may riiake you some part of satisfaction for what you have 
 undergone. 
 
 This, sir, said I, is all goodness, unmerited on my side ; 
 and makes my obligations the greater. I can onjy wish 
 for more worthiness. — But how poor is it to offer nothing 
 but words for such generous deeds 1 — And to say, / wish ! 
 — For what is a wish, but the acknowledged want of power 
 to oblige, and a demonstration of one's poverty in every- 
 thing but will ? 
 
 And that, my dear girl, said he, is everything : 'Tis all I 
 want: 'Tis all that Heaven itself requires of us: But no 
 more of these little doubts, though they are the natural 
 impulses of a generous and grateful heart: I want not to 
 be employed in settlements. Those are for such to regard, 
 who make convenience and fortune the prime considera- 
 tions. I have possessions ample enough for us both ; and 
 you deserve to share them with me; and you shall do it, 
 with as little reserve, as if you had brought me what the 
 world reckons an equivalent : for, as to my own opinion, you 
 bring me what is infinitely more valuable, an experienced 
 truth, a well-tried virtue, and a wit and behaviour more than 
 equal to the station you will be placed in : To say nothing 
 of this sweet person, that itself might captivate a monarch ; 
 and of the meekness of temper, and sweetness of disposition, 
 which make you superior to all the women I ever saw. 
 
VIRTUE REWJRDED. 385 
 
 Thus kind and soothing, and honourably affectionate, 
 was the dear gentleman, to the unworthy, doubting, yet 
 assured Pamela; and thus patiently did he indulge, and 
 generously pardon, my impertinent weakness. He offered 
 to go himself to Lady Jones in the morning, and reveal the 
 matter to her, and desire her secrecy and presence ; but I 
 said. That would disoblige the young Ladies Darnford. 
 No, sir, said I, I will cast myself upon your generous 
 kindness; for why should I fear the kind protector of my 
 weakness, and the guide and director of my future steps ? 
 
 You cannot, said he, forgive Mrs. Jewkes ; for she must 
 know it ; and suffer her to be with you ? Yes, sir, said I, 
 I can. She is very civil to me now: and her former 
 wickedness I will forgive, for the sake of the happy fruits 
 that have attended it ; and because you mention her. 
 
 Well, said he, I will call her in, if you please. — As you 
 please, sir, said L And he rung for her ; and when she 
 came in^ he said, Mrs. Jewkes, I am going to entrust you 
 with a secret. Sir, answered she, I will be sure to keep it 
 as such. Why, said he, we intend to-morrow, privately as 
 possible, for our wedding-day ; and Mr. Peters and Mr. 
 Williams are to be here, as to breakfast with me, and to 
 show Mr. Peters my little chapel. As soon as the cere- 
 mony is over, we will take a little airing in the chariot, as 
 we have done at other times ; and so it will not be won- 
 dered that we are dressed. And the two parsons have pro- 
 mised secrecy, and will go home. I believe you can't well 
 avoid letting one of the maids into the secret ; but that Pll 
 leave to you. 
 
 Sir, replied she, we all concluded it would be in a few 
 days 1 and I doubt it won't be long a secret. No, said he, 
 I don't desire it should ; but you know we are not pro- 
 vided for a public wedding, and I shall declare it when we 
 go to Bedfordshire, which won't be long. But the men, 
 who lie in the outhouses, need not know it; for, by 
 some means or other, my sister Davers knows all that 
 
 passes. 
 
 Do you know, sir, said she, that her ladyship intends to 
 VOL. I. 2 « 
 
385 PAMELA; OB, 
 
 be down here with you in a few days ? Her servant told 
 me so, who brought you the letter you were angry at. 
 
 I hope^ said he, we shall be set out for t'other house 
 first j and shall be pleased she loses her labour. Sir, con- 
 tinued she, her ladyship proposes to be here time enough 
 to hinder your nuptials, which she takes, as we did, will 
 be the latter end of next week. Well, said he, let her 
 come : but yet I desire not to see her. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes said to me. Give me leave, madam, to wish 
 you all manner of happiness : But I am afraid I have too 
 well obeyed his honour, to be forgiven by you. Indeed, 
 Mrs. Jewkes, returned I, you will be more your own enemy 
 than I will be. I will look all forward: and shall not 
 presume, so much as by a whisper, to set my good master 
 against any one he pleases to approve of : And as to his old 
 servants, I shall always value them, and never offer to 
 dictate to his choice, or influence it by my own caprices. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes, said my master, you find you have no cause 
 to apprehend anything. My Pamela is very placable ; and 
 as we have both been sinners together, we must both be 
 included in one act of grace. 
 
 Such an example of condescension, as I have before me, 
 Mrs. Jewkes, said I, may make you very easy; for I must 
 be highly unworthy, if I did not forego all my little resent- 
 ments, if I had any, for the sake of so much goodness to 
 myself. 
 
 You are very kind, madam, said she ; and you may de- 
 pend upon it, I will atone for all my faults, by my future 
 duty and respect to you, as well as to my master. 
 
 That's well said on both sides, said he : but, Mrs. Jewkes, 
 to assure you, that my good girl here has no malice, she 
 chooses you to attend her in the morning at the ceremony, 
 and you must keep up her spirits. — I shall, replied she, be 
 very proud of the honour: But I cannot, madam, but 
 wonder to see you so very low-spirited, as you have been 
 these two or three days past, with so much happiness before 
 you. 
 
 Why, Mrs. Jewkes, answered I, there can be but one 
 
FIRTUE REJVARDED. 387 
 
 reason given ; and that is, that I am a sad fool !— But, 
 indeed, I am not ungrateful neither : nor would I put on 
 a foolish affectation : But my heart, at times, sinks within 
 me ; I know not why, except at my own unworthiness, and 
 because the honour done me is too high for me to support 
 myself under, as I should do. It is an honour, Mrs. Jewkes, 
 added I, I was not born to ; and no wonder, then, I behave 
 so awkwardly. She made me a fine compliment upon it, 
 and withdrew, repeating her promises of care, secrecy, &c. 
 
 He parted from me with very great tenderness ; and 
 I came up and set to writing, to amuse my thoughts, and 
 wrote thus far. And Mrs. Jewkes being come up, and it 
 being past twelve, I will go to bed ; but not one wink, I 
 fear, shall I get this night. — I could beat myself for anger. 
 Sure there is nothing ominous in this strange folly ! — But 
 I suppose all young maidens are the same, so near so great 
 a change of condition, though they carry it off more dis- 
 creetly than I. 
 
 Thursday, six o'clock in the morningf. 
 
 I MIGHT as well have not gone to bed last night, for what 
 sleep I had. Mrs. Jewkes often was talking to me, and 
 said several things that would have been well enough from 
 'anybody else of our sex ; but the poor woman has so little 
 purity of heart, that it is all say from her, and goes no 
 farther than the ear. 
 
 I fancy my master has not slept much neither; for I 
 heard him up, and walking about his chamber, ever since 
 break of day. To be sure, good gentleman 1 he must have 
 some concern, as well as I ; for here he is going to marry 
 a poor foolish unworthy girl, brought up on the charity, 
 as one may say (at least bounty), of his worthy family ! 
 And this foolish girl must be, to all intents and purposes, 
 after twelve o'clock this day, as much his wife as if he 
 were to marry a duchess! — And here he must stand the 
 shocks of common reflection ! The great Mr. B has 
 
388 PAMELA; OR, ■ 
 
 done finely ! he has married his poor servant wench ! will 
 some say. The ridicule and rude jests of his equals, and 
 companions too, he must stand : And the disdain of his 
 relations, and indignation of Lady Davers, his lofty sister ! 
 Dear good gentleman ! he will have enough to do, to be 
 sure ! Oh how shall I merit all these things at his hand ! I 
 can only do the best I can ; and pray to God to reward 
 him ; and resolve to love him with a pure heart, and serve 
 him with a sincere obedience. I hope the dear gentleman 
 will continue to love me for this ; for, alas ! I have nothing 
 else to offer ! ^^ut, as I can hardly expect so great a bless- 
 ing, if I can be secure from his contempt, I shall not be 
 unfortunate; and must bear his indifference, if his rich 
 friends should inspire him with it, and proceed with doing 
 my duty with cheerfulness. 
 
 Half an hour past eight o'clock. 
 My good dear master, my kind friend, my generous bene- 
 factor, my worthy protector, and, oh 1 all the good words 
 in one, my affectionate husband, that is soon to be — (be 
 curbed in, my proud heart, know thyself, and be conscious 
 of thy unworthiness !) — has just left me, with the kindest, 
 tenderest expressions, and gentlest behaviour, that ever 
 blest a happy maiden. He approached me with a sort of 
 reined-in rapture. My Pamela ! said he, may I just ask 
 after your employment ? Don't let me chide my dear girl 
 this day, however. The two parsons will be here to break- 
 fast with us at nine ; and yet you are not a bit dressed ! 
 Why this absence of mind, and sweet irresolution? 
 
 Why, indeed, sir, said I, I will set about a reformation 
 this instant. He saw the Common Prayer-book lying in 
 the window. I hope, said he, my lovely maiden has been 
 conning the lesson she is by and by to repeat. Have you 
 not, Pamela? and clasped his arms about me, and kissed 
 me. Indeed, sir, said I, I have been reading over the 
 solemn service. — And what thinks my fairest (for so he 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 389 
 
 called me) of it ?— Oh, sir, 'tis very awful, and makes one 
 shudder, to reflect upon it !— No wonder, said he, it should 
 affect my sweet Pamela : I have been looking into it this 
 morning, and I can't say but I think it a solemn, but very 
 suitable service. But this I tell my dear love, continued 
 he, and again clasped me to him, there is not a tittle in it 
 that I cannot joyfully subscribe to : And that, my dear 
 Pamela, should make you easy, and join cheerfully in it 
 with me. I kissed his dear hand : Oh my generous, kind 
 protector, said I, how gracious is it to confirm thus the 
 doubting mind of your poor servant ! which apprehends 
 nothing so much as her own unworthiness of the honour 
 and blessing that await her! — He was pleased to say, I 
 know well, my dearest creature, that, according to the 
 liberties we people of fortune generally give ourselves, I 
 have promised a great deal, when I say so. But I would 
 not have said it, if, deliberately, I could not with all my 
 heart. So banish from your mind all doubt and uneasiness ; 
 let a generous confidence in me take place; and let me see 
 it does, by your cheerfulness in this day's solemn business ; 
 and then I will love you for ever ! 
 
 May God Almighty, sir, said I, reward all your goodness 
 to me ! — That is all I can say. But, oh ! how kind it is in 
 you, to supply the want of the presence and comfortings 
 of a dear mother, of a loving sister, or of the kind com- 
 panions of my own sex, which most maidens have, to soothe 
 their anxieties on the so near approach of so awful a solem- 
 nity ! — You, sir, are all these tender relations in one to me ! 
 Your condescensions and kindness shall, if possible, embolden 
 me to look up to you without that sweet terror, that must 
 confound poor bashful maidens, on such an occasion, when 
 they are surrendered up to a more doubtful happiness, and 
 to half-strange men, whose good faith, and good usage of 
 them, must be less experienced, and is all involved in the 
 dark bosom of futurity, and only to be proved by the 
 
 event. ' 
 
 This, my dear Pamela, said he, is most kindly said ! It 
 shows me that you enter gratefully into my intention. For 
 
390 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 I would, by my conductj supply all these dear relations to 
 ^you; and I voluntarily promise, from my heart, to you, 
 what I think I could not, with such assured resolutions 
 of performance, to the highest-born lady in the kingdom. 
 For let me tell my sweet girl, that, after having been long 
 tossed by the boisterous winds of a more culpable passion, 
 I have now conquered it, and am not so much the victim 
 of your beauty, all charming as you are, as of your virtue ; 
 and therefore may more boldly promise for myself, having 
 so stable a foundation for my affection ; which, should this 
 outward beauty fail, will increase with your virtue, and 
 shine forth the brighter, as that is more illustriously dis- 
 played by the augmented opportunities which the condition 
 you are now entering into will afford you. — Oh, the dear 
 charming man ! how nobly, how encouragingly kind, was 
 all this ! 
 
 I could not suitably express myself: And he said, I see 
 my girl is at a loss for words ! I doubt not your kind accept- 
 ance of my declarations. And when I have acted too 
 much the part of a libertine formerly, for you to look back 
 without some anxiety, I ought not, being now happily 
 convicted, to say less. — But why loses my girl her time?" 
 I will now only add, that I hope for many happy years 
 to make good, by my conduct, what so willingly flows from 
 my lips. 
 
 He kissed me again, and said. But, whatever you do, 
 Pamela, be cheerful ; for else, maybe, of the small com- 
 pany we shall have, some one, not knowing how to account 
 for your too nice modesty, will think there is some other 
 person in the world, whose addresses would be still more 
 agreeable to you. 
 
 This he said with an air of sweetness and pleasantry ; 
 but it alarmed me exceedingly, and made me resolve to 
 appear as calm and cheerful as possible. For this was, 
 indeed, a most affecting expression, and enough to make 
 me, if anything can, behave as I ought, and to force my 
 idle fears to give way to hopes so much better grounded. 
 — And I began almost, on this occasion, to wish Mr. 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 391 
 
 Williams were not to marry me, lest I should behave like 
 a fool;, and so be liable to an imputation, which I should 
 be. most unworthy, if I deserved. 
 
 So I set about dressing me instantly ; and he sent Mrs. 
 Jewkes to assist me. But I am never long a dressing, when 
 I set about it ; and my master has now given me a hint, 
 that will, for half an hour more, at least, keep my spirits in 
 a brisk circulation. Yet it concerns me a little too, lest he 
 should have any the least shadow of a doubt, that I am not, 
 mind and person, entirely his. 
 
 And so being now ready, and not called to breakfast, I 
 sat down and wrote thus far. 
 
 I might have mentioned, that I dressed myself in a rich 
 white satin night-gown, that had been my good lady's, and 
 my best head-clothes, &c. I have got such a knack of 
 writing, that when I am by myself, I cannot sit without a 
 pen in my hand. — But I am now called to breakfast. I 
 suppose the gentlemen are come. — Now, courage, Pamela ! 
 Remember thou art upon thy good behaviour! — Fie upon 
 it ! my heart begins to flutter again ! — Foolish heart ! He 
 still ! Never, sure, was any maiden's perverse heart under 
 so little command as mine ! — It gave itself away, at first, 
 without my leave ; it has been, for weeks, pressing me with 
 its wishes; and yet now, when it should be happy itself, 
 and make me so, it is throb, throb, throb, like a little fool ! 
 and filling me with such unseasonable misgivings, as abate 
 the rising comforts of all my better prospects. 
 
 Thursday, near three o'clock. 
 I THOUGHT I should havc found no time nor heart to write 
 again this day. But here are three gentlemen come, unex- 
 pectedly, to dine with my master; and so I shall not 
 appear. He has done all he could, civilly, to send them 
 away; but they will stay, though I believe he had rather 
 they would not. And so I have nothing to do but to write 
 
39^ PAMELA; OR, 
 
 till I go to dinner myself with Mrs. Jewkes : for my master 
 was not prepared for this company ; and it will be a little 
 latish to-day. So I will begin with my happy story where 
 I left off. 
 
 When I came down to breakfast, Mr. Peters and Mr. 
 Williams were both there. And as soon as my master 
 heard me coming down, he met me at the door, and led me 
 in with great tenderness. He had kindly spoken to them, 
 as he told me afterwards, to mention no more of the matter 
 to me, than needs must. I paid my respects to them, I be- 
 lieve a little awkwardly, and was almost out of breath : but 
 said, I had come down a little too fast. 
 
 When Abraham came in to wait, my master said (that 
 the servants should not mistrust), 'Tis well, gentlemen, you 
 came as you did ; for my good girl and I were going to take 
 an airing till dinner-time. I hope you'll stay and dine with 
 me. Sir, said Mr. Peters, we won't hinder your airing. I 
 only came, having a little time upon my hands, to see your 
 chapel ; but must be at home at dinner ; and Mr. Williams 
 will dine with me. Well then, said my master, we will pur- 
 sue our intention, and ride out for an hour or two, as soon 
 as I have shown Mr. Peters my little chapel. Will you, 
 Pamela, after breakfast, walk with us to it ? If,if, said I, 
 and had like to have stammered, foolish that I was ! if 
 you please, sir. I could look none of them in the face. 
 Abraham looking at me; Why, child, said my master, you 
 have hardly recovered your fright yet : how came your foot 
 to slip ? 'Tis well you did not hurt yourself. Said Mr. 
 Peters, improving the hint. You ha'n't sprained your ankle, 
 madam, I hope. No, sir, .said I, I believe not; but 'tis a 
 little painful to me. And so it was ; for I meant my fool- 
 ishness ! Abraham, said my master, bid Robin put the 
 horses to the coach, instead of the chariot ; and if these 
 gentlemen will go, we can set them down. No matter, sir, 
 said Mr. Peters: I had as lieve walk, if Mr. Williams 
 chooses it. Well then, said my master, let it be the chariot, 
 as I told him. 
 
 T could eat nothing, though I attempted it; and my hand 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 393 
 
 shook so, I spilled some of my chocolate, and so put it 
 down again; and they were all very good, and looked 
 another way. My master said^ when Abraham was out, I 
 have a quite plain ring here^ Mr. Peters : And I hope the 
 ceremony will dignify the ring; and that I shall give my 
 girl reason to think it, for that cause, the most valuable one 
 that can be presented her. Mr. Peters said, he was sure 
 I should value it more than the richest diamond in the 
 world. 
 
 I had bid Mrs. Jewkes not to dress herself, lest she should 
 give cause of mistrust ; and she took my advice. 
 
 When breakfast was over, my master said, before Abra- 
 ham. Well, gentlemen, we will step into the chapel ; and 
 you must give me your advice, as to the alterations I design. 
 I am in the more haste, because the survey you are going to 
 take of it, for the alterations, will take up a little time ; and 
 we shall have but a small space between that and dinner, 
 for the little tour I design to make. — Pamela, you'll give us 
 your opinion, won't you? Yes, sir, said I; I'll come 
 after you. 
 
 So they went out, and I sat down in the chair again, and 
 fanned myself: I am sick at heart, said I, I think, Mrs. 
 Jewkes. Said she. Shall I fetch you a little cordial ? — No, 
 said I, I am a sad fopl ! I want spirits, that's all. She took 
 her smelling-bottle, .and would have given it me: but I 
 said. Keep it in your hand ; may be I shall want it : but I 
 hope not. 
 
 She gave me very good words, and begged me to go : 
 And I got up ; but my knees beat so against one another, I 
 was forced to sit down again. But, at last, I held by her 
 arm, and passing by Abraham, I said. This ugly slip, coming 
 down stairs, ha§ made me limp, though ; so I must hold by 
 you, Mrs. Jewkes. Do you know what alterations there are 
 to be in the chapel, that we must all give our opinions of 
 
 them ? 
 
 Nan, she told me, was let into the secret ; and she had 
 ordered her to stay at the chapel door, to see that nobody 
 came in. My dear master came to me, at entering the 
 
394 TAMELA; OR, 
 
 chapel, and took my hand^ and led me up to the altar. 
 Remember, my dear girl, whispered he, and be cheerful. I 
 am, I will, sir, said I ; but I hardly 'knew what I said ; and 
 so you may believe, when I said to Mrs. Jewkes, Don't 
 leave me; pray, Mrs. Jewkes, don't leave me; as if I had 
 all confidence in her, and none where it was most due. So 
 she kept close to me. God forgive me ! but I never was so 
 absent in my life, as at first ; even till Mr. Williams had 
 gone on in the service, so far as to the awful words about 
 requiring us, as we should answer at the dreadful day of 
 judgment; and then the solemn words, and my master's 
 whispering. Mind this, my dear, made me start. Said he, 
 still whispering, Know you any impediment? I blushed, 
 and said softly. None, sir, but my great unworthiness. 
 
 Then followed the sweet words, Wilt thou have this woman 
 to thy wedded wife ? &c., and I began to take heart a little, 
 when my dearest master answered, audibly, to this question. 
 / will. But I could only make a courtesy, when they asked 
 me ; though, I am sure, my heart was readier than my 
 speech, and answered to every article of obey, serve, love, 
 and honour. 
 
 Mr. Peters gave me away ; and I said, after Mr. Williams, 
 as well as I could, as my dear master did with a much better 
 grace, the words of betrothment; and the ceremony of the 
 ring passing next, I received the dear favour at his worthy 
 hands with a most gratefuf heart; and he was pleased to 
 say afterwards in the chariot, that when he had done saying. 
 With this ring I thee wed. Sec, I made a courtesy, and said. 
 Thank you, sir. Maybe I did ; for I am sure it was a most 
 grateful part of the service, and my heart was overwhelmed 
 with his goodness, and the tender grace wherewith he per- 
 formed it. I was very glad, that the next part was the 
 prayer, and kneeling; for I trembled so, I could hardly 
 stand, betwixt fear and joy. 
 
 The joining of our hands afterwards, the declaration 
 of our being married to the few witnesses present ; for, 
 reckoning Nan, whose curiosity would not let her stay at 
 the door, there were but Mr. Peters, Mrs. Jewkes, and she ; 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 395 
 
 the blessing, the psalm, and the subsequent prayers, and the 
 concluding exhortation ; were so many beautiful, welcome, 
 and lovely parts of this divine office, that my heart began 
 to be delighted with them; and my spirits to be a little 
 freer. 
 
 And thus, my dearest, dear parents, is your happy, happy, 
 thrice happy Pamela, at last married ; and to whom ? — 
 Why, to her beloved, gracious master! the lord of her 
 wishes ! And thus the dear, once naughty assailer of her 
 innocence, by a blessed turn of Providence, is become the 
 kind, the generous protector and rewarder of it. God be 
 evermore blessed and praised ! and make me not wholly 
 unworthy of such a transcendent honour! — And bless and 
 reward the dear, dear, good gentleman, who has thus exalted 
 his unworthy servant, and given her a place, which the 
 greatest ladies would think themselves happy in ! 
 A 
 
 My master saluted me most ardently, and said, God give 
 you, my dear love, as much joy on this occasion as I have ! 
 And he presented me to Mr, Peters, who saluted me ; and 
 said, You may excuse me, dear madam, for I gave you 
 away, and you are my daughter. And Mr. Williams 
 modestly withdrawing a little way; Mr. Williams, said 
 my master, pray accept my thanks, and wish your sister joy. 
 So he saluted me too ; and said, Most heartily, madam, I do. 
 And I will say, that to see so much innocence and virtue 
 so eminently rewarded, is one of the greatest pleasures I 
 have ever known. This my master took very kindly. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes would have kissed my hand at the chapel- 
 door ; but I put my arms about her neck, for I had got a 
 new recruit of spirits just then ; and kissed her, and said. 
 Thank you, Mrs. Jewkes, for accompanying me. I have 
 behaved sadly. No, madam, said she, pretty well, pretty 
 
 well! 
 
 Mr. Peters walked out with me ; and Mr. Williams and 
 my master came out after us, talking together. 
 
 Mr. Peters, when we came into the parlour, said, I once 
 more, madam, must wish you joy on this happy occasion. I 
 
396 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 wish every day may add to your comforts ; and may you 
 very long rejoice in one another ! for you are the loveliest 
 couple I ever saw joined, I told him^ I was highly obliged 
 to his kind opinion, and good wishes ; and hoped my future 
 conduct would not make me unworthy of them. 
 
 My good benefactor came in with Mr. Williams : So, my 
 dear life, said he, how do you do ? A little more composed, 
 
 I hope. Well, you see this is not so dreadful an affair as 
 
 you apprehended. 
 
 Sir, said Mr. Peters, very kindly, it is a very solemn 
 circumstance ; and I love to see it so reverently and awfully 
 entered upon. It is a most excellent sign ; for the most 
 thoughtful beginnings make the most prudent proceedings. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes, of her own accord, came in with a large 
 silver tumbler, filled with sack, and a toast, and nutmeg, 
 and sugar; and my master said. That's well thought of, 
 Mrs. Jewkes ; for we have made but sorry breakfasting. 
 And he would make me take some of the toast ; as they all 
 did, and drank pretty heartily : and I drank a little, and it 
 cheered my heart, I thought, for an hour after. 
 
 My master took a fine diamond ring from his finger, and 
 presented it to Mr. Peters, who received it very kindly. 
 And to Mr. Williams he said. My old acquaintance, I have 
 reserved for you, against a variety of solicitations, the living 
 I always designed for you ; and I beg you'll prepare to take 
 possession of it ; and as the doing it may be attended with 
 some expense, pray accept of this towards it ; and so he 
 gave him (as he told me afterwards it was) a bank-note 
 of 50^. 
 
 So did this generous good gentleman bless us all, and me 
 in particular ; for whose sake he was as bounteous as if he 
 had married one of the noblest fortunes. 
 
 So he took his leave of the gentlemen, recommending 
 secrecy again, for a few days, and they left him ; and none 
 of the servants suspected anything, as Mrs. Jewkes believes. 
 And then I threw myself at his feet, blessed God, and 
 blessed him for his goodness ; and he overwhelmed me with 
 kindness, calling me his sweet bride, and twenty lovely 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 397 
 
 epithets, that swell my grateful heart beyond the power of 
 utterance. 
 
 He afterwards led me to the chariot ; and we took a 
 delightful tour round the neighbouring villages; and he 
 did all he could to dissipate those still perverse anxieties 
 that dwell upon my mind, and, do what I can, spread too 
 thoughtful an air, as he tells me, over my countenance. 
 
 We came home again by half an hour after one ; and he 
 was pleasing himself with thinking, not to be an hour out 
 of my company this blessed day, that (as he was so good as 
 to say) he might inspire me with a familiarity that should 
 improve my confidence in him, when he was told, that a 
 footman of Sir Charles Hargrave had been here, to let 
 him know, that his master, and two other gentlemen, were 
 on the road to take a dinner with him, in their way to 
 Nottingham. 
 
 He was heartily vexed at this, and said to me, he should 
 have been glad of their companies at any other time ; but 
 that it was a barbarous intrusion now; and he wished they 
 had been told he would not be at home at dinner: And 
 besides, said he, they are horrid drinkers ; and I shan't 
 be able to get them away to-night, perhaps ; for they have 
 nothing to do, but to travel round the country, and beat 
 up their friends' quarters all the way ; and it is all one to 
 them, whether they stay a night or a month at a place. 
 But, added he, I'll find some way, if I can, to turn them 
 off, after dinner. — Confound them, said he, in a violent 
 pet, that they should come this day, of all the days in the 
 year ! 
 
 We had hardly alighted, and got in, before they came : 
 Three mad rakes they seemed to be, as I looked through 
 the window, setting up a hunting note, as soon as they 
 came to the gate, that made the courtyard echo again; 
 and smacking their whips in concert. 
 
 So I went up to my chamber, and saw (what made my 
 heart throb) Mrs. Jewkes's officious pains to put the room 
 in order for a guest, that, however welcome, as now my 
 duty teaches me to say, is yet dreadful to me to think of. 
 
398 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 So I took refuge in my closet, and had recourse to pen and 
 inji, for my amusement, and to divert ray anxiety of mind. 
 — If one's heart is so sad, and one's apprehensions so great, 
 where one so extremely loves, and is so extremely obliged ; 
 what must be the case of those poor maidens, who are forced, 
 for sordid views, by their tyrannical parents or guardians, 
 to marry the man they almost hate, and, perhaps, to 
 the loss of the man they most love 1 Oh, that is a sad 
 thing, indeed ! — And what have not such cruel parents to 
 answer for ! And what do not such poor innocent victims 
 suffer ! — But, blessed be God, this lot is far from being 
 mine ! 
 
 My good master (for I cannot yet have the presumption 
 to call him by a more tender name) came up to me, and 
 said. Well, I just come to ask my dear bride (oh the charm- 
 ing, charming word !) how she does ? I see you are writing, 
 my dear, said he. These confounded rakes are half mad, I 
 think, and will make me so 1 However, said he, I have 
 ordered my chariot to be got ready, as if I was under an 
 engagement five miles off, and will set them out of the 
 house, if possible ; and then ride round, and come back, as 
 soon as I can get rid of them. I find, said he. Lady Davers 
 is full of our affairs. She has taken great freedoms with 
 me before Sir Charles ; and they have all been at me, with- 
 out mercy; and I was forced to be very serious with them, 
 or else they would have come up to have seen you, since I 
 would not call you down. — He kissed me, and said, I shall 
 quarrel with them, if I can't get them away; for I have 
 lost two or three precious hours with my soul's delight: 
 And so he went down. 
 
 Mrs. Jewkes asked me to walk down to dinner in the 
 little parlour. I went down, and she was so complaisant 
 as to offer to wait upon me at table; and would not be 
 persuaded, without difficulty, to sit down with me. But I 
 insisted she should : For, said I, it would be very extraor- 
 dinary, if one should so soon go into such distance, Mrs. 
 Jewkes. — Whatever my new station may require of me, 
 added I, I hope I shall always conduct myself in such a 
 
VIRTUE REIVJRDED. 39^ 
 
 manner, that pride and insolence shall bear no part in mv 
 character. •' 
 
 You are very good, madam, said she; but I will always 
 know my duty to my master's lady.-Why then, replied I 
 It I must take state upon me so early, Mrs. Jewkes, let me 
 exact from you what you call your duty; and sit down 
 with me when I desire you. 
 
 This prevailed upon her ; and I made shift to get down 
 a bit of apple-pie, and a little custard ; but that was all. 
 
 My good master came in again, and said. Well, thank 
 my stars ! these rakes are going now ; but I must set out 
 with them, and I choose my chariot; for if I took horse, I 
 should have difficulty to part with them ; for they are like 
 a snow-ball, and intend to gather company as they go, to 
 make a merry tour of it for some days together. 
 
 We both got up, when he came in: Fie, Pamela! said 
 
 he; why this ceremony now ?— Sit still, Mrs. Jewkes. 
 
 Nay, sir, said she, I was loath to sit down ; but my lady 
 would have me.— She is very right, Mrs. Jewkes, said my 
 master, and tapped me on the cheek; for we are but yet 
 half married ; and so she is not above half your lady yet ! 
 — Don't look so down, don't be so silent, my dearest, said 
 he; why, you hardly spoke twenty words to me all the 
 time we were out together. Something I will allow for 
 your bashful sweetness ; but not too much. — Mrs. Jewkes, 
 have you no pleasant tales to tell my Pamela, to make her 
 smile, till I return ? — Yes, sir, said she, I could tell twenty 
 pleasant stories ; but my lady is too nice to hear them ; and 
 yet, I hope, I should not be shocking neither. Ah! poor 
 woman ! thought I ; thy chastest stories will make a modest 
 person blush, if I know thee ! and I desire to hear none of 
 them. 
 
 My master said. Tell her one of the shortest you have, 
 in my hearing. Why, sir, said she, I knew a bashful young 
 lady, as madam may be, married to — Dear Mrs. Jewkes, 
 interrupted I, no more of your story, I beseech you; I 
 don't like the beginning of it. Go on, Mrs. Jewkes, said 
 my master. No, pray, sir, don't require it, said I, pray 
 
400 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 don't. Wellj said he, then we'll have it another time, Mrs. 
 Jewkes. 
 
 Abraham coming in to tell him the gentlemen were going, 
 and that his chariot was ready ; I am glad of that, said he ; 
 and went to them, and set out with them. 
 
 I took a turn in the garden with Mrs. Jewkes, after they 
 were gone : And having walked a while, I said, I should be 
 glad of her company down the elm-walk, to meet the 
 chariot : For, oh ! I know not how to look up at him, when 
 he is with me; nor how to bear his absence, when I have 
 reason to expect him : What a strange contradiction there 
 is in this unaccountable passion. 
 
 What a different aspect everything in and about this 
 house bears now, to my thinking, to what it once had 1 
 The garden, the pond, the alcove, the elm-walk. But, oh! 
 ray prison is become my palace ; and no wonder everything 
 wears another face 1 
 
 We sat down upon the broad stile, leading towards the 
 road ; and Mrs. Jewkes was quite another person to me to 
 what she was the last time I sat there. 
 
 At last my best beloved returned, and alighted there. 
 What, my Pamela! (and Mrs. Jewkes then left me). What 
 (said he, and kissed me) brings you this way ? I hope to 
 meet me. — Yes, sir, said I. That's kind, indeed, said he; 
 but why that averted eye? — that downcast countenance, as 
 if you was afraid of me ? You must not think so, sir, said 
 I. Revive my heart then, said he, with a more cheerful 
 aspect; and let that over-anxious solicitude, which appears 
 in the most charming face in the world, be chased from it. 
 — Have you, my dear girl^ any fears that I can dissipate; 
 any doubts t"hat I can obviate; any hopes that I can en- 
 courage ; any request that I can gratify ? — Speak, my dear 
 Pamela; and if I have power, but speak, and to purchase 
 one smile, it shall be done 1 
 
 I cannot, sir, said I, have any fears, any doubts, but that 
 I shall never be able to deserve all your goodness. I have 
 no hopes, but that my future conduct may be agreeable to 
 you, and my determined duty well accepted. Nor have 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 401 
 
 I any request to make, but that you will forgive all mv 
 imperfections : and, among the rest, this foolish weakness, 
 that makes me seem to you, after all the generous things 
 that have passed, to want this further condescension, and 
 these kind assurances. But indeed, sir, I am oppressed by 
 your bounty; my spirits sink under the weight of it; and 
 the oppression is still the greater, as I see not how, possibly, 
 in my whole future life, by all I can do, to merit the least 
 of your favours. 
 
 I know your grateful heart, said he; but remember, my 
 dear, what the lawyers tell us. That marriage is the highest 
 consideration which the law knows. And this, my sweet 
 bride, has made you mine, and me yours; and you have 
 the best claim in the world to share my fortune with me. 
 But, set that consideration aside, what is the obligation you 
 have to me ? Your mind is pure as that of an angel, and 
 as much transcends mine. Your wit, and your judgment, 
 to make you no compliment, are more than equal to mine: 
 You have all the graces that education can give a woman, 
 improved by a genius which makes those graces natural to 
 you. You have a sweetness of temper, and a noble sin- 
 cerity, beyond all comparison ; and in the beauty of your 
 person, you excel all the ladies I ever saw. Where then, 
 my dearest, is the obligation, if not on my side to you? — 
 But, to avoid these comparisons, let us talk of nothing 
 henceforth but equality; although, if the riches of your 
 mind, and your unblemished virtue, be set against my 
 fortune (which is but an accidental good, as I may call it, 
 and all I have to boast of), the condescension will be yours; 
 and I shall not think I can possibly deserve you, till, after 
 your sweet example, my future life shall become nearly as 
 blameless as yours. 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, what comfort do you give me, that, instead 
 of my being in danger of being ensnared by the high con- 
 dition to which your goodness has exalted me, you make 
 me hope, that I shall be confirmed and approved by you; 
 and that we may have a prospect of perpetuating each 
 other's happiness, till time shall be no more ! — But, sir, I 
 VOL. I. ^ '" 
 
403 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 will not, as you once cautioned me, be too serious. I will 
 resolve, with these sweet encouragements, to be, in every- 
 thing, what , you would have me be: And I hope I shall, 
 more and more, show you that I have no will but yours. 
 He kissed me very tenderly, and thanked me for this kind 
 assurance, as he called it. 
 
 And so we entered the house together. 
 
 Eight o'clock at night. 
 Now these sweet assurances, my dear father and mother, 
 you will say, must be very consolatory to me ; and being 
 voluntary on his side, were all that could be wished for on 
 mine; and I was resolved, if possible, to subdue my idle 
 fears and apprehensions. 
 
 Ten o'clock at night. 
 As we sat at supper, he was generously kind to me, as 
 well in his actions, as expressions. He took notice, in the 
 most delicate manner, of my endeavour to conquer my 
 foibles ; and said, I see, with pleasure, my dear girl strives 
 to comport herself in a manner suitable to my wishes : I 
 see, even through the sweet tender struggles of your over- 
 nice modesty, how much I owe to your intentions of oblig- 
 ing me. As I have once told you, that I am the conquest 
 more of your virtue than your beauty ; so not one alarming 
 word or look shall my beloved Pamela hear or see, to give 
 her reason to suspect the truth of what I aver. You may 
 the rather believe me, continued he, as you may see the 
 pain I have to behold anything that concerns you, even 
 though your concern be causeless. And yet I will indulge 
 my dear girl's bashful weakness so far, as to own, that so 
 pure a mind may suffer from apprehension, on so important 
 a change as this; and I can therefore be only displeased 
 with such part of your conduct, as may make your suffer- 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 403 
 
 ings greater than my own; when I am resolved, through 
 every stage of my future Hfe, in all events, to study to 
 make them less. 
 
 After supper, of which, with all his sweet persuasions, I 
 could hardly taste, he made me drink two glasses of cham- 
 pagne, and, afterwards, a glass of sack; which he kindly 
 forced upon me, by naming your healths : and as the time 
 of retiring drew on, he took notice, but in a very delicate 
 manner, how my colour went and came, and how foolishly 
 I trembled. Nobody, surely, in such delightful circum- 
 stances, ever behaved so silly! — And he said, My dearest 
 girl, I fear you have had too much of my company for so 
 many hours together; and would better recollect yourself, 
 if you retired for half an hour to your closet. 
 
 I wished for this, but durst not say so much, lest he 
 should be angry ; for, as the hours grew on, I found my 
 apprehensions increase, and my silly heart was the unquieter, 
 every time I could lift up my eyes to his dear face; so 
 sweetly terrible did he appear to my apprehensions. I 
 said. You are all goodness, dear sir; and I boldly kissed 
 his dear hand, and pressed it to my lips with both mine. 
 And saluting me very fervently, he gave me his hand, seeing 
 me hardly able to stand, and led me to my chamber-door, 
 and then most generously withdrew. 
 
 I went to my closet; and the first thing I did, on my 
 knees, again thanked God for the blessing of the day ; and 
 besought His divine goodness to conduct my future life in 
 such a manner, as should make me a happy instrument of 
 his glory. After this, being now left to my own recollection, 
 I grew a little more assured and hghtsome ; and the pen and 
 paper being before me, I amused myself with writing thus far. 
 
 Eleven o'clock Thursday night. 
 Mrs. Jewkes being come up with a message, desiring to 
 know, whether her master may attend upon me in my 
 closet; and hinting to me, that, however, she believed he 
 
404 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 did not expect to find me there; I have sent word, that I 
 beg he would indulge me one quarter of an hour. — So, 
 committing myself to the mercies of the Almighty, who 
 has led me through so many strange scenes of terror and 
 afFrightment, to this happy, yet awful moment, I will wish 
 you, my dear parents, a good-night; and though you will 
 not see this in time, yet I know I have your hourly prayers, 
 and therefore cannot fail of them now. So, good-night, 
 good-night! God bless you, and God bless me! Amen, 
 amen, if it be His blessed will, subscribes 
 
 Your ever-dutiful Daughter 1 
 
 Friday evening. 
 
 Oh how this dear excellent inan indulges me in everything ! 
 Every hour he makes me happier, by his sweet condescen- 
 sion, than the former. He pities my weakness of mind, 
 allows for all my little foibles, endeavours to dissipate my 
 fears ; his words are so pure, his ideas so chaste, and his 
 whole behaviour so sweetly decent, that never, surely, was 
 so happy a creature as your Pamela ! I never could have 
 hoped such a husband could have fallen to my lot : and 
 much less, that a gentleman, who had allowed himself in 
 attempts, that now I will endeavour to forget for ever, 
 should have behaved with so very delicate and unexception- 
 able a demeanour. No light frothy jests drop from his lips ; 
 no alarming railleries ; no offensive expressions, nor insult- 
 ing airs, reproach or wound the ears of your happy, thrice 
 happy daughter. In short, he says everything that may 
 embolden me to look up, with pleasure, upon the generous 
 author of my happiness. 
 
 At breakfast, when I knew not how to see him, he 
 emboldened me by talking of you, my dear parents; a 
 subject, he generously knew, I coidd taXk of: and gave me 
 assurances, that he would make you both happy. He said. 
 He would have me send you a letter to acquaint you with 
 my nuptials; and, as he could make business that way. 
 
VIRTUE REJVARDED. 405 
 
 Thomas should carry it purposely, as to-morrow. Nor will 
 I, said he, my dear Pamela, desire to see your writings, 
 because I told you I would not ; for now I will, in every- 
 thmg, religiously keep my word with my dear spouse : (oh 
 the dear- delightful word !) and you may send all your 
 papers to them, from those they have, down to this happy 
 moment; only let me beg they will preserve them, and let 
 me have them when they have read them ; as also those I 
 have not seen; which, however, I desire not to see till then; 
 but then shall take it for a favour, if you will grant it. 
 
 It will be my pleasure, as well as my duty, sir, said I, to 
 obey you in everything: and I will write up to the con- 
 clusion of this day, that they may see how happy you have 
 made me. 
 
 I know you will both join with me to bless God for His 
 wonderful mercies and goodness to you, as well as to me : 
 For he was pleased to ask me particularly after your cir- 
 cumstances, and said, he had taken notice, that I had 
 hinted, in some of my first letters, that you owed money in 
 the. world; and he gave me fifty guineas, and bid me send 
 them to you in my packet, to pay your debts, as far as they 
 would go ; and that you would quit your present business, 
 and put yourself, and my dear mother, into a creditable 
 appearance ; and he would find a better place of abode for 
 you than that you had, when he returned to Bedfordshire. 
 Oh how shall I bear all these exceeding great and generous 
 favours 1 — I send them wrapt up, five guineas in a parcel, 
 in double papers. 
 
 To me he gave no less than one hundred guineas more; 
 ,and said, I would have you, my dear, give Mrs. Jewkes, 
 when you go away from hence, what you think fit out 
 of these, as from yourself. — Nay, good dear sir, said I, let 
 that be what you please. Give her then, said he, twenty 
 guineas, as a compliment on your nuptials. Give Colbrand 
 ten guineas : give the two coachmen five guineas each ; to 
 the two maids at this house five guineas each; give Abra- 
 ham five guineas ; give Thomas five guineas ; and give the 
 gardeners, grooms, and helpers, twenty guineas among 
 
4o6 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 them. And when, said he, I return with you to the other 
 house, I will make you a suitable present, to buy you such 
 ornaments as are fit for my beloved wife to appear in. For 
 now, my Pamela, continued he, you are not to mind, as 
 you once proposed, what other ladies will say; but to 
 appear as my wife ought to do. Else it would look as if 
 what you thought of, as a means to avoid the envy of others 
 of your sex, was a wilful slight in me, which, I hope, I 
 never shall be guilty of ; and I will show the world, that I 
 value you as I ought, and as if I had married the first for- 
 tune in the kingdom : And why should it not be so, when I 
 know none of the first quality that matches you in excellence ? 
 
 He saw I was at a loss for words, and said, I see, my 
 dearest bride ! my spouse ! my wife ! my Pamela ! your 
 grateful confusion. And kissing me, as I was going to 
 speak, I will stop your dear mouth, said he : You shall not 
 so much as thank me ; for when I have done ten times 
 more than this, I shall but poorly express my love for so 
 much beauty of mind, and loveliness of person ; which thus, 
 said he, and clasped me to his generous bosom, I can 
 proudly now call my own 1 — Oh how, my dear parents, can I 
 think of anything, but redoubled love, joy, and gratitude ! 
 
 And thus generously did he banish from my mind those 
 painful reflections, and bashful apprehensions, that made 
 me dread to see him for the first time this day, when I was 
 called to attend him at breakfast ; and made me all ease, 
 composure, and tranquillity. 
 
 He then, thinking I seemed somewhat thoughtful, pro- 
 posed a little turn in the chariot till dinner-time: And this 
 was another sweet relief to me ; and he diverted me with 
 twenty agreeable relations, of what observations he had 
 made in his travels ; and gave me the characters of the 
 ladies and gentlemen in his other neighbourhood : telling 
 me whose acquaintance he would have me most cultivate. 
 And when I mentioned Lady Davers with apprehension, he 
 said. To be sure I love my sister dearly, notwithstanding 
 her violent spirit; and I know she loves me; and I can 
 allow a little for her pride, because I know what my own 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 407 
 
 so lately was ; and because she knows not my Pamela^ and 
 her excellences, as I do. But you must not, my dear, for- 
 get what belongs to your character, as my wife, nor meanly 
 stoop to her ; though I know you will choose, by softness, 
 to try to move her to a proper behaviour. But it shall be 
 my part to see, that you do not yield too much. 
 
 However, continued he, as I would not publicly declare 
 my marriage here, I hope she won't come near us till we are 
 in Bedfordshire ; and then, when she knows we are married, 
 she will keep away, if she is not willing to be reconciled ; 
 for she dares not, surely, come to quarrel with me, when 
 she knows it is done; for that would have a hateful and 
 wicked appearance, as if she would try to make differences 
 between man and wife. — But we will have no more of this 
 subject, nor talk of anything, added he, that shall give 
 concern to my dearest. And so he changed the talk to a 
 more pleasing subject, and said the kindest and most soothing 
 things in the world. 
 
 When we came home, which was about dinner-time, he 
 was the same obliging, kind gentleman ; and, in short, is 
 studious to show, on every occasion, his generous affection 
 to me. And, after dinner, he told me, he had already 
 written to his draper, in town, to provide him new liveries ; 
 and to his late mother's mercer, to send him down patterns 
 of the most fashionable silks, for my choice. I told him, I 
 was unable to express my gratitude for his favours and 
 generosity: And as he knew best what befitted his own 
 rank and condition, I would wholly remit myself to his 
 good pleasure. But, by all his repeated bounties to me, of 
 so extraordinary a nature, I could not but look forward 
 with awe upon the condition to which he had exalted me ; 
 and now I feared I should hardly be able to act up to it 
 in such a manner as should justify the choice he had con- 
 descended to make : But that, I hoped, I should have not 
 only his generous allowance for my imperfections, which I 
 could only assure him should not be wilful ones, but his 
 kind instructions ; and that as often as he observed any part 
 of my conduct such as he could not entirely approve, he 
 
4oS PAMELA; OR, 
 
 would let me know it ; and I would think his reproofs of 
 beginning faults the kindest and most affectionate things in 
 the world : because they would keep me from committing 
 greater; and be a means to continue to me the blessing of 
 his good opinion. 
 
 He answered me in the kindest manner; and assured 
 me, That nothing should ever lie upon his mind which he 
 would not reveal, and give me an opportunity either of 
 convincing him, or being convinced myself. 
 
 He then asked me, When I should be willing to go to 
 the Bedfordshire house? I said, whenever he pleased. 
 We will come down hither again before the winter, said 
 he, if you please, in order to cultivate the acquaintance 
 you have begun with Lady Jones, and Sir Simon's family ; 
 and, if it please God to spare us to one another, in the 
 winter I will give you, as I promised, for two or three 
 months, the diversions of London. And I think, added 
 he, if my dear pleases, we will set out next week, about 
 Tuesday, for t'other house. I can have no objection, sir, 
 said I, to anything you propose; but how will you avoid 
 Miss Darnford's solicitation for an evening to dance? 
 Why, said he, we can make Monday evening do for that 
 purpose, if they won't excuse us. But, if you please, said 
 he, I will invite Lady Jones, Mr. Peters and his family, and 
 Sir Simon and his family, to my little chapel, on Sunday 
 morning, and to stay dinner with me; and then I will 
 declare my marriage to them, because my dear life shall 
 not leave this country vifith the least reason for a possibility 
 of anybody's doubting that it is so. Oh ! how good was 
 this ! But, indeed, his conduct is all of a piece, noble, kind, 
 and considerate 1 What a happy creature am I ! — And 
 then, maybe, said he, they will excuse us till we return into 
 this country again, as to the ball. Is there anything, added 
 he, that my beloved Pamela has still to wish ? If you have, 
 freely speak. 
 
 Hitherto, my dearest sir, replied I, you have not only 
 prevented my wishes, but my hopes, and even my thoughts. 
 And yet I must own, since your kind command of speaking 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 409 
 
 my mind seems to show, that you expect from me I should 
 say something; that I have only one or two things to wish 
 more, and then I shall be too happy. Say, said he, what 
 they are. Sir, proceeded I, I am, indeed, ashamed to ask 
 anything, lest it should not be agreeable to you ; and lest 
 it should look as if I was taking advantage of your kind 
 condescensions to me, and knew not when to be satisfied ! 
 
 I will only tell you, Pamela, said he, that you are not to 
 imagine, that these things, which I have done, in hopes of 
 obliging you, are the sudden impulses of a new passion for 
 you. But, if I can answer for my own mind, they proceed 
 from a regular and uniform desire of obliging you: which, 
 I hope, will last as long as your merit lasts; and that, I 
 make no doubt, will be as long as I live. And lean the 
 rather answer for this, because I really find so much delight 
 in myself in my present way of thinking and acting, as 
 infinitely overpays me; and which, for that reason, I am 
 likely to continue, for hoth our sakes. My beloved wife, 
 therefore, said he, for methinks I am grown fond of a name 
 I once despised, may venture to speak her mind; and I 
 will promise, that, so far as it is agreeable to me, and I 
 cheerfully can, I will comply ; and you will not insist upon 
 it, if that should not be the case. 
 
 To be sure, sir, said I, I ought not, neither will I. And 
 now you embolden me to become an humble petitioner, 
 and that, as I ought, upon my knees, for the reinstating 
 such of your servants, as I have been the unhappy occasion 
 of their disobliging you. He raised me up, and said, My 
 beloved Pamela has too often been in this suppliant posture 
 to me, to permit it any more. Rise, my fairest, and let 
 me know whom, in particular, you would reinstate; and 
 he kindly held me in his arms, and pressed me to his be- 
 loved bosom. Mrs. Jervis, sir, said I, in the first place; for 
 she is a good woman; and the misfortunes she has had in 
 the world, must make your displeasure most heavy to her 
 
 Well, said he, who next? Mr. Longman, sir, said I; 
 and I am sure, kind as they have been to me, yet would I 
 not ask it, if I could not vouch for their integrity, and if I 
 
410 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 did not think It was my dear master's interest to have such 
 good servants. 
 
 Have you anything further? said he. — Sir, said I, your 
 good old butler, who has so long been in your family before 
 the day of your happy birth, I would, if I might, become 
 an advocate for ! 
 
 Well, said he, I have only to say. That had not Mr. 
 Longman and Mrs. Jervis, and Jonathan too, joined in a 
 body, in a bold appeal to Lady Davers, which has given 
 her the insolent handle she has taken to intermeddle in my 
 affairs, I could easily have forgiven all the rest of their 
 conduct; though they have given their tongues no little 
 license about me : But I could have forgiven them, because 
 I desire everybody should admire you ; and it is with 
 pride that I observe not only their opinion and love, but 
 that of everybody else that knows you, justify my own. — 
 But yet, I will forgive even this, because my Pamela desires 
 it ; and I will send a letter myself, to tell Longman what 
 he owes to your interposition, if the estate he has made in 
 my family does not set him above the acceptance of it. 
 And, as to Mrs. Jervis, do you, my dear, write a letter to 
 her, and give her your commands, instantly, on the receipt 
 of it, to go and take possession of her former charge ; for 
 now, my dearest girl, she will be more immediately your 
 servant; and I know you love her so well, that you'll go 
 thither with the more pleasure to find her there. — But 
 don't think, added he, that all this compliance is to be for 
 nothing. Ah, sir ! said I, tell me but what I can do, poor 
 as I am in power, but rich in will ; and I will not hesitate 
 one moment. Why then, said he, of your own accord, re- 
 ward me for my cheerful compliance, with one sweet kiss. 
 — I instantly said, Thus, then, dear sir, will I obey; and, 
 oh ! you have the sweetest and most generous way in the 
 world, to make that a condition, which gives me double 
 honour, and adds to my obligations. And so I clasped my 
 arms about his neck, and was not ashamed to kiss him once 
 and twice, and three times ; once for every forgiven person. 
 
 Now, my dearest Pamela, said he, what other things 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 411 
 
 have you to ask? Mr. Williams is already taken care of; 
 andj I hope, will be happy. — Have you nothing to say for 
 John Arnold ? 
 
 Why, dear sir, said I, you have seen the poor fellow's 
 penitence in my letters. — Yes, my dear, so I have; but 
 that is his penitence for his having served me against 
 you; and, I think, when he would have betrayed me 
 afterwrards, he deserves nothing to be said or done for him 
 by either. 
 
 But, dear sir, said I, this is a day of jubilee; and the 
 less he deserves, poor fellow, the more will be your good- 
 ness. And let me add one word ; That as he was divided 
 in his inclinations between his duty to you and good wishes 
 to me, and knew not how to distinguish between the one 
 and the other, when he finds us so happily united by 
 your great goodness to me, he will have no more puzzles 
 in his duty; for he has not failed in any other part of it; 
 but, I hope, will serve you faithfully for the future. 
 
 Well, then, suppose I put Mrs. Jewkes in a good way of 
 business, in some inn, and give her John for a husband ? 
 And then your gipsy story will be made out, that she 
 will have a husband younger than herself. 
 
 You are all goodness, sir, said I. I can freely forgive 
 poor Mrs. Jewkes, and wish her happy. But permit me, 
 sir, to ask. Would not this look like a very heavy punish- 
 ment to poor John ? and as if you could not forgive him, 
 when you are so generous to everybody else ? 
 
 He smiled, and said. Oh, my Pamela, this, for a forgiving 
 spirit, is very severe upon poor Jewkes : But I shall never, 
 by the grace of God, have any more such trying services, 
 to put him or the rest upon ; and if you can forgive him, I 
 think I may : and so John shall be at your disposal. And 
 now let me know what my Pamela has further to wish ? 
 
 Oh, my dearest sir, said I, not a single wish more has 
 your grateful Pamela ! My heart is overwhelmed with your 
 goodness ! Forgive these tears of joy, added I : You have 
 left me nothing to pray for, but that G'od will bless you 
 with life, and health, and honour, and continue to me the 
 
4Ta PAMELA; OR, 
 
 blessing of your esteem ; and I shall then be the happiest 
 creature in the world. 
 
 He clasped me in his arms, and said, You cannot, my 
 dear life, be so happy in me, as I am in you. Oh how 
 heartily I despise all my former pursuits, and headstrong 
 appetites ! What joys, what true joys, flow from virtuous 
 love ! joys which the narrow soul of the libertine cannot 
 take in, nor his thoughts conceive ! And which I myself, 
 whilst a libertine, had not the least notion of! 
 
 But, said he, I expected my dear spouse, my Pamela, 
 had something to ask for herself. But since all her own 
 good is absorbed in the delight her generous heart takes 
 in promoting that of others, it shall be my study to prevent 
 her wishes, and to make her care for herself unnecessary, 
 by my anticipating kindness. 
 
 In this manner, my dear parents, is your happy daughter 
 blessed in a husband ! Oh how my exulting heart leaps at 
 the dear, dear word 1 — And I have nothing to do, but to be 
 humble, and to look up with gratitude to the all-gracious 
 dispenser of these blessings. 
 
 So, with a thousand thanks, I afterwards retired to my 
 closet, to write you thus far. And having completed what 
 I purpose for this packet, and put up the kind obliging 
 present, I have nothing more to say, but that I hope soon 
 to see you both, and receive your blessings on this happy, 
 thrice happy occasion. And so, hoping for your prayers, 
 that I may preserve an humble and upright mind to my. 
 gracious God, a dutiful gratitude to my dear master and 
 husband — that I may long rejoice in the continuance of 
 these blessings 'and favours, and that I may preserve, at 
 the same time, an obliging deportment to every one else, I 
 conclude myself. 
 
 Your ever-dutiful and most happy daughter, 
 
 Pamela B . 
 
 Oh think it not my pride, my dear parents, that sets me 
 on glorying in my change of name ! Yours will be 
 always dear to me, and what I shall never be ashamed 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 413 
 
 of, I'm sure : But yet — for siich a husband ! — What 
 shall I say, since words are too faint to express my 
 gratitude and my joy ! 
 I have taken copies of my master's letter to Mr. Lone-, 
 man, and mine to Mrs. Jervis, which I will send, with 
 the further occurrences, when I go to the other dear 
 house, or give you when I see you, as I now hope soon 
 to do. 
 
 Saturday morning, the third of my happy nuptials. 
 I MUST still write on, till I come to be settled in the duty 
 of the station to which I am so generously exalted, and to 
 let you participate with me the transporting pleasures that 
 arise from my new condition, and the favours that are 
 hourly heaped upon me by the best of husbands. When I 
 had got my packet for you finished, I then set about 
 writing, as he had kindly directed me, to Mrs. Jervis; and 
 had no difficulty till I came to sign my name ; and so I 
 brought it down with me, when I was called to supper, 
 unsigned. 
 
 My good master (for I delight, and always shall, to call 
 him by that name) had been writing to Mr. Longman ; 
 and he said, pleasantly, See, here, my dearest, what I have 
 written to your Somebody. I read as follows : 
 
 ' Mr. Longman, — I have the pleasure to acquaint you, 
 ' that last Thursday I was married to my beloved Pamela. 
 ' I have had reason to be disobliged with you, and Mrs. 
 ' Jervis and Jonathan, not for your kindness to, and regard 
 ' for, my dear spouse, that now is, but for the manner in 
 ' which you appealed to my sister Davers ; which has made 
 ' a very wide breach between her and me. But as it was 
 ' one of her first requests, that I would overlook what had 
 ' passed, and reinstate you in all your former charges, I 
 ' think myself obliged, without the least hesitation, to 
 ' comply with it. So, if you please, you may enter again 
 
4T4 PAMELA; OR, 
 
 ' upon an office which you have always executed with 
 ■ unquestionable integrity, and to the satisfaction of 
 
 ' Yours, &c.' 
 
 ' Friday afternoon.' 
 
 ' I shall set out next Tuesday or Wednesday for Bed- 
 ' fordshire ; and desire to find Jonathan, as well as you, 
 ' in your former offices ; in which, I daresay, you'll 
 ' have the more pleasure, as you have such an early 
 ' instance of the sentiments of my dear wife, from 
 ' whose goodness you may expect every agreeable thing. 
 ' She writes herself to Mrs. Jervis.' 
 I thanked him most gratefully for his goodness ; and 
 
 afterwards took the above copy of it ; and showed him my 
 
 letter to Mrs. Jervis, as follows : 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Jervis, — I have joyful tidings to com- 
 ' municate to you. For yesterday I was happily married to 
 ' the best of gentlemen, yours and my beloved master. I 
 ' have only now to tell you, that I am inexpressibly happy : 
 ' that my generous benefactor denies me nothing, and even 
 ' anticipates my wishes. You may be sure I could not 
 ' forget my dear Mrs. Jervis ; and I made it my request, 
 ' and had it granted, as soon as asked, that you might 
 ' return to the kind charge, which you executed with so 
 ' much advantage to our master's interest, and so much 
 ' pleasure to all under your direction. All the power that 
 ' is put into my hands, by the most generous of men, 
 ' shall be exerted to make everything easy and agreeable 
 ' to you : And as I shall soon have the honour of attending 
 ' my beloved to Bedfordshire, it will be a very considerable 
 ' addition to my delight, and to my unspeakable obligations 
 ' to the best of men, to see my dear Mrs. Jervis, and to be 
 ' received by her with that pleasure, which I promise myself 
 ' from her affection. For I am, my dear good friend, and 
 ' always will be, 
 
 ' Yours, very affectionately, and gratefully, 
 
 Pamela .' 
 
VIRTUE REIVARDED. 415 
 
 He read this letter, and said, 'Tis yours, my dear, and 
 must be good : But don't you put your name to it ? Sir, 
 said I, your goodness has given me a right to a very honour- 
 able one : but as this is the first occasion of the kind, except 
 that to my dear father and mother, I think I ought to show 
 it you unsigned, that I may not seem over-forvirard to take 
 advantage of the honour you have done me. 
 
 However sweetly humble and requisite, said he, this may 
 appear to my dear Pamela's niceness, it befits me to tell you, 
 that I am every moment more and more pleased with the 
 right you have to my name : and, my dear life, added he, I 
 have only to wish I may be half as worthy as you are of the 
 happy knot so lately knit. He then took a pen himself, and 
 wrote, after Pamela, his most worthy surname ; and I under- 
 wrote thus : ' Oh rejoice with me, my dear Mrs. Jervis, that 
 ' I am enabled, by God's graciousness, and my dear master's 
 ' goodness, thus to write myself!' 
 
 These letters, and the packet to you, were sent away by 
 Mr. Thomas early this morning. 
 
 My dearest master is just gone to take a ride out, and 
 intends to call upon Lady Jones, Mr. Peters, and Sir Simon 
 Darnford, to invite them to chapel and dinner to-morrow ; 
 and says, he chooses to do it himself, because the time is so 
 short, they will, perhaps, deny a servant. 
 
 I forgot to mention, that Mr. Williams was here yester- 
 day, to ask leave to go to see his new living, and to provide 
 for taking possession of it ; and seemed so pleased with my 
 master's kindness and fondness for me, as well as his 
 generous deportment to himself, that he left us in such a 
 disposition, as showed he was quite happy. I am very glad 
 of it; for it would rejoice me to be an humble means of 
 making all mankind so : And oh ! what returns ought I not 
 to make to the divine goodness ! and how ought I to 
 strive to diffuse the blessings I experience, to all in my 
 knowledge ! — For else, what is it for such a worm as I to be 
 exalted ! What is my single happiness, if I suffer it, niggard- 
 like, to extend no farther that to myself?— But then, indeed, 
 
4i5 VAMELA; OR, 
 
 do God Almighty's creatures act worthy of the blessings they 
 receive, when they make, or endeavour to make, the whole 
 creation, so far as is in the circle of their power, happy. 
 
 Great and good God ! as Thou hast enlarged my oppor- 
 tunities, enlarge also my will, and make me delight in dis- 
 pensing to others a portion of that happiness, which I have 
 myself so plentifully received at the hand of Thy gracious 
 Providence ! Then shall I not be useless in my generation ! 
 — Then shall I not stand a single mark of Thy goodness to a 
 poor worthless creature, that in herself is of so small account 
 in the scale of beings, a mere cipher on the wrong side of a 
 figure ; but shall be placed on the right side ; and, though 
 nothing worth in myself, shall give signification by my place, 
 and multiply the blessings I owe to Thy goodness, which has 
 distinguished me by so fair a lot ! 
 
 This, as I conceive, is the indispensable duty of a high 
 condition ; and how great must be the condemnation of 
 poor creatures, at the great day of account, when they shall 
 be asked. What uses they have made of the opportunities 
 put into their hands ? and are able only to say. We have 
 lived but to ourselves : We have circumscribed all the power 
 Thou hast given us into one narrow, selfish compass : We 
 have heaped up treasures for those who came after us, though 
 we knew not whether they would not make a still worse use 
 of them than we ourselves did ! And how can such poor 
 selfish pleaders expect any other sentence, than the dreadful. 
 Depart, ye cursed 1 
 
 But sure, my dear father and mother, such persons can 
 have no notion of the exalted pleasures that flow from doing 
 good, were there to be no after-account at all 1 
 
 There is something so satisfactory and pleasing to reflect 
 on the being able to administer comfort and relief to those 
 who stand in need of it, as infinitely, of itself, rewards the 
 beneficent mind. And how often have I experienced this 
 in my good lady's time, though but the secondhand dis- 
 penser of her benefits to the poor and sickly, when she made 
 me her almoner ! — How have I been affected with the bless- 
 ings which the miserable have heaped upon her for her 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 417 
 
 goodness, and upon me for being but the humble conveyer 
 of her bounty to them ! — And how delighted have I been, 
 when the moving report I have made of a particular distress, 
 has augmented my good lady's first intentions in relief of it ! 
 
 This I recall with pleasure, because it is now, by the 
 divine goodness, become my part to do those good things 
 she was won't to do : And oh ! let me watch myself, that my 
 prosperous state do not make me forget to look up, with 
 due thaiikfulness, to the Providence which has entrusted me 
 with the power, that so I may not incur a terrible woe by 
 the abuse or neglect of it ! 
 
 Forgive me these reflections, my dear parents ; and let me 
 have your prayers, that I may not find my present happi- 
 ness a snare to me ; but that I may consider, that more and 
 more will be expected from me, in proportion to the power 
 given me ; and that I may not so unworthily act, as if I 
 believed I ought to set up my rest in my mean self and 
 think nothing further to be done, with the opportunities put 
 into my hand, by the divine favour, and the best of men ! 
 
 Saturday, seven o'clock in the evening. 
 
 My master returned home to dinner, in compliment to me, 
 though much pressed to dine with Lady Jones, as he was, 
 also, by Sir Simon, to dine with him. But Mr. Peters could 
 not conveniently provide a preacher for his own church to- 
 morrow morning, at so short a notice ; Mr. Williams being 
 gone, as I said, to his new living ; but believed he could for 
 the afternoon ; and so he promised to give us his company 
 to dinner, and to read afternoon service : and this made my 
 master invite all the rest, as well as him, to dinner, and not 
 to church; and he made them promise to come; and told 
 Mr. Peters^ he would send his coach for him and his family. 
 Miss Darnford told him pleasantly. She would not come, 
 unless he would promise to let her be at his wedding ; by 
 which I find Mr. Peters has kept the secret, as my master 
 desired. 
 
 VOL. I. 2D 
 
41 8 PAMELA; OR, Jr/, 
 
 He was pleased to give me an airing after dinnHer in the 
 chariot, and renewed his kind assurances to me, and, if 
 possible, is kinder than ever. This is sweetly comfortable 
 to me, because it shows me he does not repent of his con- 
 descensions to me j and it encourages me to look up to him 
 with more satisfaction of mind, and less doubtfulness. 
 
 I begged leave to send a guinea to a poor body in the 
 town, that I heard, by Mrs. Jewkes, lay very ill, and was 
 very destitute. He said. Send two, my dear, if you please. 
 Said I, Sir, I will never do anything of this kind without 
 letting you know what I do. He most generously answered, 
 I shall then, perhaps, have you do less good than you would 
 otherwise do, from a doubt of me ; though, I hope, your 
 discretion, and my own temper, which is not avaricious, 
 will make such doubt causeless. 
 
 Now, my dear, continued he, Fll tell you how we will 
 order this point, to avoid even the shadow of uneasiness on 
 one side, or doubt on the other. 
 
 As to your father and mother, in the first place, they 
 shall be quite out of the question ; for I have already deter- 
 mined in my mind about them ; and it is thus : They shall 
 go down, if they and you think well of it, to my little 
 Kentish estate ; which I once mentioned to you in such a 
 manner, as made you reject it with a nobleness of mind, 
 that gave me pain then, but pleasure since. There is a 
 pretty little farm, and house, untenanted, upon that estate, 
 and tolerably well-stocked, and I will further stock it for 
 them ; for such industrious folks won't know how to live 
 without some employment : Arid it shall be theirs for both 
 their lives, without paying any rent ; and I will allow them 
 50Z. per annum besides, that they may keep up the stock, 
 and be kind to any other of their relations, without being 
 beholden to you or me for small matters ; and for greater, 
 where needful, you shall always have it in your power to 
 accommodate them; for I shall never question your pru- 
 dence. And we will, so long as God spares our lives, go 
 down, once a year, to see them ; and they shall come up, 
 as often as they please, it cannot be too often, to see us : 
 
VIRTUE REWARDED. 419 
 
 for I mean not this, my dear, to send them from us.— Before 
 I proceed, does my Pamela like this ? 
 
 Oh, sir, said I, the English tongue affords not words, or, 
 at least, I have them not, to express sufficiently my grati- 
 tude ! Teach me, dear sir, continued I, and pressed his 
 dear hand to my lips, teach me some other language, if 
 there be any, that abounds with more grateful terms ; that 
 I may not thus be choked with meanings, for which I can 
 find no utterance. 
 
 My charmer ! says he, your language is all wonderful, 
 
 . as your sentiments ; and you most abound, when you seem 
 
 most to want! — All that I wish, is to find my proposals 
 
 agreeable to you ; and if my Jirst are not, my second shall 
 
 be, if I can but know what you wish. 
 
 Did I say too much, my dearest parents, when I said, he 
 was, if possihle, kinder and kinder ? — Oh the blessed man ! 
 j. how my heart is overwhelmed with his goodness ! 
 - Well, said he, my dearest, let me desire you to mention 
 this to them, to see if they approve it. But, if it be your 
 choice, and theirs, to have them nearer to you, or even 
 under the same roof with you, I will freely consent to it. 
 
 Oh no, sir, said I (and I fear almost sinned in my grate- 
 ful flight), I am sure they would not choose that; they 
 could not, perhaps, serve God so well if they were to live 
 with you : For, so constantly seeing the hand that blesses 
 them, they would, it may be, as must be my care to avoid, 
 be tempted to look no further in their gratitude, than to 
 the dear dispenser of such innumerable benefits ! 
 
 Excellent creature ! said he : My beloved wants no lan- 
 guage, nor sentiments neither ; and her charming thoughts, 
 so sweetly expressed, would grace any language; and this 
 is a blessing almost peculiar to my fairest. — Your so kind 
 acceptance, my Pamela, added he, repays the benefit with 
 interest, and leaves me under obligation to your goodness. 
 
 But now, my dearest, I will tell you what we will do, 
 with regard to points of your own private charity ; for far 
 be it from me, to put under that name the subject we have 
 been mentioning : because that, and more than that, is 
 
430 PAMELA; OR, VIRTUE REWARDED. 
 
 duty to persons so worthy, and so nearly related to my 
 Pamela, and, as such, to myself. — Oh how the sweet man 
 outdoes me, in thoughts, words, power, and everything ! 
 
 And this, said he, lies in very small compass; for I will 
 allow you two hundred pounds a year, which Lcngman 
 shall constantly pay you, at fifty pounds a quarter, for your 
 own use, and of which I expect no account ; to commence 
 from the day you enter into my other house : I me; i, said 
 he, that the first fifty pounds shall then be due ; because 
 you shall have something to begin with. And, added the 
 dear generous man, if this be pleasing to you, let t, since 
 you say you want words, be signified by such a sw-^et kiss 
 as you gave me yesterday. I hesitated not a moment to 
 comply with these obliging terms, and threw my arms 
 about his dear neck, though in the chariot, and blessed his 
 goodness to me. But, indeed, sir, said I, I cannot bear 
 this generous treatment ! He was pleased to say. Don't 
 be uneasy, my dear, about these trifles : God has blessed 
 me with a very good estate, and all of it in a prosperous 
 condition, and generally well tenanted, I lay up money 
 every year, and have, besides, large sums in government 
 and other securities; so that you will find, what I have 
 hitherto promised, is very short of that proportion of my 
 substance, which, as my dearest wife, you have a right to. 
 
 In this sweet manner did we pass our time till evening, 
 when the chariot brought us home ; and then our supper 
 succeeded in the same agreeable manner. And thus in a 
 rapturous circle, the time moves on ; every hour bringing 
 with it something more delightful than the past! — Sure 
 nobody was ever so blest as I ! 
 
 END OF Vol. I. 
 
 PRINTED BY BALLANTyNE, HANSON AND CO, 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON.