THE 
 
 SLomwn : 
 
 Printed for C- COOKE, Paternofter Row, 
 
 by R. McDonald, 13, Green Arbour Court, and 
 •old by all the Booksellers in the 
 United Kingdom. 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 
 
 T1VO VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 WITH THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 Spcrale miscri, cavete felices. 
 
 SLUSH RD WITH SUPERB ENGRAVINGS. 
 
MEMOIRS 
 
 OF TIIE 
 
 LIFE AND WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 
 
 « r T' , HE life of a scholar,’ Dr. Goldsmith has re- 
 marked, ‘ seldom abounds with adventure ; 
 his fame is acquired in solitude, and the historian 
 who only views him at a distance, must be con- 
 tent with a dry detail of actions by vvhich he is 
 scarce distinguished from the rest ot mankind ; 
 but we are fond of talking of those who have given 
 us pleasure, not that we have any thing important 
 to say, but because the subject is pleasing.’ 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith, son of the Reverend Charles 
 Goldsmith, was born at Elphin in the county of 
 Roscommon, in Ireland, in the year 1729. Hi# 
 father had four sons, of whom Oliver was the third. 
 After being well instructed in the classics, at the 
 school of Mr. Hughes, he was admitted a sizer in 
 Trinity-college, Dublin, on the 11th of June, 1744. 
 While he resided there, he exhibited no specimens of 
 that genius which, in maturer years, raised his cha- 
 racter so high. On the 20th of February, 174g, 
 O.S- (two years after the regular time) he obtained 
 the degree of Bachelor of Arts. Soon after he 
 turned inis thoughts to the profession of physic; and 
 having attended some courses of anatomy in Dublin, 
 proceeded to Edinburgh, in the year 1751, where he 
 studied the several branches of medicine under the 
 different professors in that university. His bene- 
 ficent disposition soon involved him in unexpected 
 difficulties ; and he was obliged precipitately to leave 
 Scotland, in consequence of having engaged him- 
 self to pay a considerable sum of money for a fellow- 
 student. 
 
 a 2 
 
ir MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The beginning of the year 1744, he arrived at 
 Sundeiland, near Newcastle, where he was arrested 
 at the suit of one Barclay, a lav lor in Edinburgh, 
 to. whom he had given security for his friend. By 
 the good offices of Eaiighlm Maclune, Esc. and 
 Dr ; Sleigh, who were then "in the college, he was soon 
 delivered out of the hands of the bailiff, and took 
 his passage on board a Dutch ship to Rotterdam, 
 " here, after a short stay, he proceeded to Brussels. 
 He then visited great part of Flanders ; and after 
 passing some time at Strasbourg and Louvain, 
 where he obtained a degree of Bachelor in Physic, 
 he accompanied an English gentleman to Geneva. 
 
 It is undoubtedly a fact, that this ingenious unfor- 
 tunate man made most part of his tour on foot. He 
 had left England with very little money - and being 
 of a philosophic turn, and at that time possessing a 
 body capable of sustaining every fatigue ; and a heart 
 not easily terrified by ci mger, he became an enthusiast 
 to the design he had formed of seeing the manners 
 of different countries. He had some knowledge of 
 the French language, and of music; he played^ to- 
 lerably well on the German flute, which, from an 
 amusement, became, at some times, the means of 
 subsistence. His learning produced him an hospi- 
 table reception at most of the religious houses he 
 visited ; and his music made him welcome to the 
 peasants of Flanders and Germany. 
 
 On his arrival at Geneva, he was recommended as a 
 proper person tor a travelling tutor to a young man, 
 who had been unexpectedly left a considerable sum 
 by his uncle Mr. S***. This youth, who was ar- 
 ticled to an attorney, on receipt of his fortune deter- 
 mined to see the world. 
 
 During Goldsmith’s continuance in Switzerland, 
 he sent the, first sketch of his delightful epistle, 
 called tne Traveller, to his brother Henry, a 
 clergyman in Ireland, who, giving up fume and for- 
 tune, nad retired with an amiable wife to happiness 
 and obscurity, on an income of only forty pounds 
 
MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. V 
 
 a-year. The great aflection Goldsmith bore for this 
 brother is expressed in the poem before mentioned, 
 which gives a striking picture ot his situation. 
 
 From Geneva Mr. Goldsmith and his pupil pro- 
 ceeded to the south ot France, where the young 
 man, upon some disagreement with his preceptor, 
 paid him the small part of his salary which was due, 
 and embarked at Marseilles for England. Out wan- 
 derer was left once more upon the world at large, 
 and passed through a number ot difficulties in tra- 
 versing Lire greatest part of France. At length his 
 curiosity being gratified, he bent his course towards 
 England, and arrived at Dover, the beginning of the 
 winter, in the year 1708. 
 
 His finances were so low on his return to England, 
 that he with difficulty got to the metropolis, his whole 
 stock of cash amounting to no more than a few 
 halfpence. An entire stranger in London, his mind 
 was filled with the most gloomy reflections in con- 
 sequence of his embarassed situation. He applied to 
 several apothecaries, in hopes of being received in 
 the capacity of a journeyman; but his broad Irish 
 accent, and the uncouthness of his appearance, occa- 
 sioned him to meet with insult from most ot the 
 medicinal tribe. The next day, a chymist near Fish- 
 Street, struck with his forlorn condition, and the sim- 
 plicity of his manner, took him into his laboratory, 
 where he continued till he discovered that his old 
 friend Dr. Sleigh was in London. That gentle- 
 man received him with the warmest affection, and 
 liberally invited him to share his purse till some 
 establishment could be procured for him. Goldsmith, 
 unwilling to be a burden to his friend, a shoit time 
 after eagerly embraced an offer which was made him 
 to assist the late Rev. Dr. Milner, in instructing the 
 young gentlemen at the academy at Peekhanr ; and 
 acquitted himself greatly to the Doctor’s satisfaction 
 for a short time; but, having obtained some reputa- 
 tion by the criticisms he had written in the Monthly 
 Review, Mr. Griffith, the principal proprietor, cu- 
 a 3 
 
VI MSMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 gaged him in the compilation of it ; and revolving to 
 pursue the profession of writing, he returned to Lon- 
 don, as the mart vvherp abilities of every kind were 
 sure o! mee;ing dsstnjction and reward. Here he de- 
 termined t adopt a plan of the strictest oeeonomy, 
 £'> .!, at the close of the year 175 '), took lodgings in 
 Green-Arbour-Court, in the Old Bailey, where he 
 wrote several ingenious pieces. The late Mr. Ncw- 
 bery, who at that time gave great encouragement to 
 men of literary abilities, became a kind of patron to 
 our young author, and introduced hint as one of the 
 writers in the Public Ledger, in which the Citizen 
 of the World originally appeared, tinder the title of 
 ‘ Chinese Letters.’ Daring this time (according to 
 another account) he wrote for the British Magazine, 
 of which Dr. Stnollet was then editor, most of those 
 .Essays and Tales which he afterwards collected and 
 published in a separate volume. He also wrote oc- 
 casionally for the Critical Review; and it was the 
 merit which he discovered in criticising a despicable 
 translation of Ovid’s Fasti, by a pedantic school- 
 master, and his Enquiry into the Present State of 
 Learning in Europe, which firs! introduced him to 
 the acquaintance of Dr. Smollet, who recommended 
 him to several literati, and to most of the booksellers 
 by whom he was afterwards patronized. 
 
 Fortune now seemed to take some notice of a man 
 she had long neglected. The simplicity of his cha- 
 racter, the integrity of his heart, and the merit of 
 his productions, made his company very acceptable to 
 a number of respectable persons: and about the 
 middle of the year 1762, he emerged from his mean 
 apartments near the Old Bailey to the politer region 
 of th- Temple, where he took handsome chambers, 
 and lived in a genteel style. 
 
 Among many oth-r persons of distinction who 
 were desirous to 'mow him, was the Duke of 
 Northumberland. The Doctor, vain of the honour 
 done him, was continually mentioning it. One of 
 those ingenious executors of the law, a bailiff, who 
 
MEMOIRS OF DP.. GOLDSMITH. VI 1 
 
 had a writ against him, determined to turn this cir- 
 cumstance to his own advantage ; he wrote him a 
 letter, that he was steward to a nobleman who was 
 charmed with reading his last production, and had 
 ordered him to desire the Doctor to appoint a place 
 where he might have the honour of meeting him, to 
 conduct him to his Lordship. The vanity of poor 
 Goldsmith immediately swallowed the bait; he ap- 
 pointed the British Coffee-house, to which he was 
 accompanied by hisjjfriend Mr. Hamilton, the printer 
 of the Critical Review 7 , who in vain remonstrated 
 on the singularity of the application. On entering the 
 coffee- room the bailiff paid his respects to the Doctors 
 and desired that he might have the honour of im- 
 mediatelv attending him. Thev had scarce entered 
 Pall-mall, in their way to hisLordthip , when the bailiff 
 produced his writ. Mr. Hamilton generously paid 
 the money, and redeemed the Doctor from captivity. 
 
 The publications of his Traveller, his Vicar of 
 Wakefield, and h'is History of England, we re foil owed 
 by his domed y of The Good-natured Man, at Covent- 
 Garden theatre, which placed him in the first rank of 
 modern writers. 
 
 With respect to the Vicar of Wakefield, it is 
 certainly a composition which has justly merited the 
 applause of all discerning readers, as one of the best 
 novels in the English language. The diction is 
 chaste, correct, and elegant. The characters are 
 drawn to the life, and the scenes it exhibits are inge- 
 niously variegated with humour and sentiment. The 
 hero of the piece displays the most shining virtues 
 that can adorn relative and social life; sincere in his 
 profession, humane and generous i:i his dispo- 
 sition, he is himself a pattern of the character he 
 represents, enforcing that excellent maxim, that ex- 
 ample is more powerful than precept. His wife is 
 drawn as possessing many laudable qualifications, and 
 her prevailing passion for eternal parade is an inoffen- 
 sive foible, calculated rather to excite our mirth than 
 incur our censure. The character of Olivia, the 
 
Vlll MEMOIRS OF OR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Vicar’s eldest daughter, is contrasted with that of 
 Sophia the younger ; the one being represented as of a 
 disposition gay and volatile, the other as rather grave 
 and steady : though neither of them seem to have in- 
 dulged their peculiar propensity beyond the bounds of 
 moderation. 
 
 Upon a review of this excellent production, it mav be 
 truly said, that it inculcates the purest lessons of mo- 
 rality and virtue, free from the rigid laws of stoicism, 
 and adapted to attract the esteem and observation of 
 every ingenuous mind. It excites not a thought that 
 can be injurious in its tendency, nor breathes an idea 
 that can offend the chastest ear. 
 
 Our Doctor, as he was now universally called, 
 had a constant levee of his distrest countrymen, 
 whose wants, as far as he was able, he always re- 
 lieved ; and he has often been known to leave himself 
 even without a guinea, in order to supply the 
 necesssities of others. 
 
 Another feature in his character we cannot help 
 laying before the reader. Previous to the publication 
 of his Deserted Village, the bookseller had given 
 him anote forone hundred guineas forthe copy, which 
 the Doctor mentioned, a lew hours after, to one of 
 his friends, who observed it was a very great sum for 
 so short a performance. ‘ In truth,’ replied Gold- 
 smith, ‘ 1 think so too; it is much more than the 
 honest man can afford, or the piece is worth; I have 
 not been easy since I received it; I will therefore go 
 back and return him his note:’ which he actually 
 did, and left it entirely to the bookseller to pay him 
 according to the profits produced by the sale of the 
 poem, which turned out very considerable. 
 
 The description of the parish priest (probably in- 
 tended for a character of his brother Henry) would 
 haye done honour to any poet of any age. In this 
 description the simile of the bird teaching her young 
 to fly, and of the mountain that rises above the 
 storm, are not easily to be paralleled. The rest 
 of the poem consists of the character of the village 
 
MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. IX 
 
 school-master, and a description of the village ale- 
 house, both drawn with admirable propriety and 
 force ; a descant on the mischiefs ot luxury and 
 wealth; the variety of artificial pleasures ; the mise- 
 ries of those who, for want of employment at home, 
 are driven to settle new colonies abroad ; and con- 
 cludes with a beautiful apostrophe to poetry. 
 
 The Doctor did not reap a profit from his poetical 
 labours equal to those of his prose. The Earl of 
 Lisburne, whose classical taste is well known, one 
 day at a dinner of the Royal Academicians, lamented 
 to the Doctor his neglecting the Muses, and enquired 
 of him why he forsook poetry, in which he was sure 
 of charming fits readers, to compile histories and write 
 novels? The Doctor replied, ‘ My Lord, by courting 
 the Muses I shall starve ; but by my other labours, I 
 enjoy the luxuries of life.’ 
 
 During the last rehearsal of this comedy, in titled 
 She Sloops to Conquer , which Mr. Colman thought 
 would not succeed, on the Doctor’s objecting to the 
 repetition of one of Tony Lumpkin’s speeches, being 
 apprehensive it might injure the play, the manager, 
 with great keenness, replied, ‘ Psha, my dear Doctor, 
 do not he fearful o i squibs, when we have been sitting 
 almost these two hours upon a larrel of gunpowder.' 
 The piece, however, contrary to Mr. Colman’s ex- 
 pectation, was received with uncommon applause by 
 the audience ; and Goldsmith’s pride was so hurt by 
 the severity ol this observation, that it entirely put an 
 end to his friendship for the gentleman who made it. 
 
 The success of the comedy of She Stoops toConguer 
 produced a most illiberal personal attack on the author 
 in one of the public prints. Enraged at this abusive 
 publication, Dr. Goldsmith repaired to the house ot 
 the publisher; and after remonstrating on the malig- 
 nity of this attack on his character, began to apply his 
 cane to the shoulders of the publisher, who making a 
 powerful resistance, from being the defensive soon be- 
 came the offensive combatant. Dr. Kenrick, who 
 was sitting in a private room of the publisher’s, hearing 
 
X MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH, 
 
 a noise in the shop, came in, put an end to the fight, 
 and conveyed the Doctor to a coach. The papers in- 
 stantly teemed with fresh abuse on the impropriety of 
 the Doctor's attempting to beat a person in nis own 
 house, on which, in the Daily Advertiser of Wednes- 
 day, March 31 , 1773, he inserted the following ad- 
 dress : 
 
 TO THE PUBLIC. 
 
 LEST it should be supposed that 1 have been willing to correct 
 in others an abuse of which I have been guilty myself, I beg 
 leave to declare, that in all my life I never wrote or dictated a 
 single paragraph, letter, or essay, in a nerespaper, except a few 
 moral essays, under the character of a Chinese, about ten yearn 
 ago, in the Ledger; and a letter, to which I signed my name, 
 in the St. James’s Chronicle. If the liberty of the press there- 
 fore has been abused, I have had no hand in it. 
 
 I have always considered the press as the protector of our 
 freedom, as a watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak 
 against the encroachments of power. What concerns the public 
 most properly admits of a public discussion. But of late, the 
 press has turned from defending public interest, to making in- 
 roads upon private life ; from combating the strong to over- 
 whelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure for its 
 abuse, and the protector is become the tyrant of the people. In 
 this manner the freedom of the press is beginning to sow the 
 seeds of its own dissolution : the great urns' oppose it from prin- 
 ciple, and the weak from fear; till at last every rank of man- 
 kind shall be found to give up its benefits, content with security 
 from its insults. 
 
 How to put a stop to this licentiousness , by which all are in- 
 discriminately abused, and by which vice consequently escapes 
 in the general censure, I am unable to tell: all I could wish is, 
 that as the law gives us no protection against the injury, so it 
 should give calumniators no shelter after having provoked cor- 
 rection. The insults which we receive before the public, by being 
 more open are the more distressing . by treating them with silent 
 contempt we do not pay a sufficient deference to the opinion of 
 the world ; by recurring to legal redress, we too often expose the 
 weakness of the law, which only serves to increase our mortifica- 
 tion by failing to relieve us. In short, every man should singly 
 consider himself as a guardian of the liberty of the press, and 
 us far as his influence can extend, should endeavour to prevent 
 its licentiousness becoming at last the grave, of its freedom . 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 Notwithstanding the great success of his pieces, by 
 some of which, it is asserted, upon good authority, 
 that he cleared 18001. in one year, his circumstances 
 were by no means in a prosperous situation: partly 
 awing to the liberality of his disposition, and partly 
 
MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XI 
 
 to an unfortunate habit he had contracted of gaming, 
 with the arts of which he was very little acquainted, 
 and consequently became the prey of those who were 
 unprincipled enough to take advantage of his igno- 
 rance. 
 
 Just before his death he had formed a design for ex- 
 ecuting an universal dictionary of arts and sciences, 
 the prospectus of which he actually printed and distri- 
 buted among his acquaintance, in this work several 
 of his literary friends (particularly Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds, Dr. Johnson, and Mr. Garrick) had promised 
 to assist, and to furnish him with articles upon dif- 
 ferent subjects. He had entertained the most sanguine 
 expectations from the success of it. The undertaking, 
 how’ever, did not meet with that encouragement from 
 the booksellers which he had imagined it would re- 
 ceive; and he used to lament this circumstance al- 
 most to the last hour of his existence. 
 
 He had been for some years afflicted, at different 
 times, with a violent strangury, which contributed 
 not a little to embitter the latter part of his life; and 
 which, united with the vexations he suffered upon 
 other occassions, brought on a kind of habitual de- 
 spondency. In this unhappy condition he was at- 
 tacked by a nervous fever. 
 
 On Friday the twenty-fifth of March, 1774, find- 
 ing himself extremely ill, he sent at eleven o’clock at 
 night for Mr. Hawes, an apothecary, to whom he 
 complained of a violent pain extending all over the 
 fore part of his head ; his tongue w-as moist ; he had 
 k cold shivering ; and his pulse beat about ninety- 
 strokes in a minute. He acquainted him he had 
 taken two ounces of Ipecacuanha wine as a vomit, 
 and that it was his intention to take Doctor James’s 
 fever powders, which he desired him to send him. 
 Mr. Hawes replied, that in his opinion this medi- 
 cine was very improper at that time, and begged he 
 would not think of it; but every argument used 
 seemed only to render him more determined in his 
 own opinion. 
 
XU MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Mr. Hawes, knowing that in preceding illnesses 
 Dr. Goldsmith always consulted Dr. Fordyce, and 
 that he had expressed the greatest opinion of his abili- 
 ties as a physician, requested that he might be per- 
 mitted to send for him. Jt : was a full quarter of an 
 hour before Mr. Hawes could obtain his consent, as 
 the taking Dr. James’s powders appeared to be ihe 
 only object which employed his attention; and even 
 then he endeavoured to throw an obstacle in his wav, 
 bv saying, that Dr. Fordyce was gone to spend the 
 evening in Gerrard-street, ‘ where,’ added he, £ I 
 should also have been, if I had not been indisposed.’ 
 Mr. Hawes immediately dispatched a messenger, who 
 found Dr. Fordvce at home, and who waited on Dr. 
 Goldsmith directly. 
 
 Dr. F ordyce represented the impropriety of taking 
 the powders in his then situation; but he was deaf 
 to all remonstrances, and persisted in his resolution. 
 
 On Saturday morning, March 26, Mr. Hawes \ i- 
 sited his patient, whom he found extremely reduced, 
 and his pulse was now become very quick and small. 
 When he enquired of him how he did. Dr. Goldsmith 
 sighed deeply, and in a low voice said, he wished he 
 had taken his friendly advice last night. 
 
 Dr. Fordyce perceiving the danger of Dr. Gold- 
 mith’s situation, desired Mr. Hawes to propose send- 
 ing for Dr. Turton, of whom he knew Dr. Gold- 
 smith had a great opinion: the proposal being men- 
 tioned to Dr. Goldsmith, he very readilv consented, 
 and ordered his servant to go directly. Doctors For- 
 dvce and Turton met at the time appointed to assist at 
 a consultation, which was continued-twice a day till 
 the disorder terminated in his dissolution, on the 
 4th day of April 1774, in the 45th vear of his age. 
 
 This event was at the time invidiously attributed to 
 the use of James’s powders. The truth is, that on 
 the attack of his disorder he took tw r o ounces of. 
 Ipecacuanha wine as an emetic; and before the opera- 
 ration of it was over, he sent to his apothecary for a 
 dose of James’s powder. 
 
MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. xiii 
 
 However reduced in consequence of the evacuations 
 occasioned by the two medicines united, yet when his 
 physicians were called in, twodays afterwards, he had a 
 remission of his fever, and they were not without 
 hope ofrestoringhim, ifhe would have followed their 
 ad\ ice ; but he omitted taking the bark as directed, 
 and then, from an'idea that his apothecary had given- 
 him James’s powder that was not genuine, lie sent 
 for another apothecary, from whom he ordered other 
 medicines. In short, he appears to have fallen a 
 victim to his own imprudence. 
 
 Ilis friends, who were very numerous and respect- 
 able, had determined to bury him in Westminster- 
 Abbey; his pall was to have been supported bv Lord 
 Shelburne, Lord Louth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, the 
 Hon. Mr. Beauclerc, Mr. Edmund Burke, and Mr. 
 Garrick j but from some unaccountable circumstances 
 this design was dropped, and his remains were 
 privately deposited in the Temple burial-ground, on 
 Saturday the gth of April j when Mr. Hugh Kelly, 
 Messrs. John and Robert Day, Mr. Palmer, Mr. 
 Etherington, and Mr. Hawes, gentlemen, who had 
 been his friends in life, attended his corpse as rnour- 
 ners, and paid the last tribute to his memory. 
 
 A subscription, however, was afterwards raised by 
 his friends, to defray the expence of a marble monu- 
 ment, which was executed by Mr. Nollikens, an 
 eminent statuary in London, and placed in Westmin- 
 ster-Abbey, between Gay’s monument and the Duke 
 of Argyle’s, in the Poets-corner. It consists of a large 
 medallion, exhibiting a very good likeness of the 
 Doctor, embellished with literary ornaments, under- 
 neath which is a tablet of white marble, with the fol- 
 lowing Latin inscription, written by his friend Dr. 
 Samuel Johnson: 
 
 Olivahi Goldsmith, 
 
 Poetfe, Physici, Historic! ; 
 
 Qlii nullum fere scribendi genus 
 Non tetigit; 
 
 Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit, 
 
 b 
 
Translation. 
 
 This monument is raised 
 To the Memory of 
 Oliver Goldsmith, 
 
 Poet, Natural Philosopher, and 
 Historian, 
 
 Who left no species of writing untouch’d, 
 or, 
 
 Unadorn’d by his pen, 
 
 Whether to move laughter. 
 
 Or draw tears : 
 lie was a powerful master 
 Over the affections, 
 
 Though at the same time a gentle tyrant. 
 
 Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and 
 Equal to every subject: 
 
 In expression at once noble. 
 
 Pure and delicate. 
 
 His Memory will last 
 As long as society retains affection, 
 
 Friendship is not void of Honour, 
 
 And reading wants not her admirers. 
 
 He was born in toe kingdom of Ireland, 
 
 At Femes, in the province 
 Of Leinster, 
 
 Where Pal'as had set her name 
 29th Nov, 1731. 
 
 He was educated at Dublin, 
 
 And -died in London,- - 
 4t'n April . 177-1- 
 
 The universal esteem in which his poems are held, 
 and the repeated pleasure they give in the perusal, 
 are striking proofs of their merit. Ha was a m udious 
 and correct obsenerof nature, happy in the selection 
 of his images, in me choice. of subjects, arm in the 
 harmony of his versification; and though his embar- 
 
 MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 
 
 Sive Risus esseut movendi, 
 
 Sive Lacrymae : 
 
 Affectuum potens, at lenis Dominator; 
 Ingenio sublimis — Vividus, Versatilis ; 
 Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus : 
 Hoc Monumentum Memoriam coluit, 
 Sodalium Amor, 
 
 Amicorum Fides, 
 
 Lectorum Veneratio. 
 
 Natus Hibernia Forniae Lonfordiensis, 
 In loco cui nomen Pallas 
 Nov. xxix . MDCCXXXI. 
 Eblana: Literis institutus, 
 
 Obiit Londini 
 April iv. MDGCLXXIV. 
 
MEMOIRS OF DR. GOLDSMITH. XV 
 
 rassed situation prevented him from putting the last 
 hand to many of his productions, his Hermit, his 
 Traveller, and his Deserted Village, bid fair to 
 claim a place among the most finished nieces in the 
 English language. 
 
 The excellent poem of Retaliation was only in- 
 tended for the Doctor s private amusement, and that 
 of the particular friends who were its subject, and he 
 unfortunately did not live to revise, or even finish it 
 in the manner which he intended. The poem owed 
 its birth to some preceding circumstances of festive 
 merriment at a literary club to which the Doctor be- 
 longed, and who proposed to write epitaphs on him. 
 He was called on for retaliation, and at the next 
 meeting produced the poem. 
 
 The last work of this ingenious author, was * An 
 History of the Earth and Animated Nature in 
 8 vols. 8vo. for which production his bookseller gave 
 liim85l. The Doctor seems to have considered at- 
 tentively the works of the several authors who have 
 wrote on this subject. If there should not be a great 
 deal of discovery, or new matter, yet a judicious 
 selection from abundant materials is no small praise ; 
 and if the experiments and discoveries of other writers 
 are laid open in an agreeable dress, so pleasing as to 
 allure the young reader into a pursuit of this sort of 
 knowledge, we have no small obligations to this very 
 engaging writer. 
 
 Our author professes to have had a taste rather clas- 
 sical than scientific, and it was in the study of the 
 classics, that he first caught the desire of attaining a 
 knowledge of nature. Pliny first inspired him, and 
 he resolved to translate that agreeable writer, and by 
 the Help of a commentary to make his translation ac- 
 ceptable to the public. 
 
 To attempt to convey a proper idea of his great ge- 
 nius in poetry, would be a task to which we must 
 acknowledge ourselves totally incompetent: their 
 beauties cannot be pictured by relation] they can only 
 be known by his writings. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 THERE are an hundred faults in this Thing, 
 and an hundred things might be said to prore them 
 beauties. But it is needless. A book may be amus- 
 ing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull 
 without a single absurdity. The hero of this piece 
 unites in himself the three greatest characters upon 
 earth ; he is a priest, a husbandman, and a father of 
 a family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready 
 to obey, as simple in affluence, and majestic in ad- 
 versity. In this age of opulence and refinement, 
 who can such a character please ? Such as are fond 
 of high life will turn with disdain from the simpli- 
 city of his country fire-side: such as mistake ribaldry 
 for humour will find no wit in his harmless conver- 
 sation; and such as have been taught to deride re- 
 ligion will laugh at one whose chief stores of com- 
 fort are drawn from futurity. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
the 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 CHAP I. 
 
 The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in which 
 a kindred Likeness prevails, as well oj Minds as of 
 Persons. 
 
 T WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man, who 
 married, and brought up a large family, did more 
 service than he who continued single, and only talked 
 of population. From this motive, 1 had scarce taken 
 orders a year, before I began to think seriously of ma- 
 trimony, and chose my wife, as she did her wedding- 
 gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but such qualities 
 as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a 
 good-natured notable woman; and as for breeding, 
 there were few country-ladies who could shew more. 
 She could read any English book without much 
 spelling; but for pickling, preserving, and cookery, 
 none could excel her. She prided herself also upon 
 being an excellent contriver in house- keeping; though 
 I could never find that we grew richer with all her 
 contrivances. 
 
 However, we loved each other tenderly, and our 
 fondness increased as we grew old. There was in fact 
 nothing that could make us angry with the world or 
 ettch other. We had an elegant house, situated in a 
 fine country, and a good neighbourhood. The year 
 was spent in moral or rural amusement; in visiting 
 our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. 
 We had no revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to 
 undergo; all our adventures were by the fire- side, 
 and all our migrations from the blue bed to the 
 brown. v 
 
 As we lived near the road, we often had the tra- 
 veller or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry 
 
 B 
 
2 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 wine, for which we had great reputation ; and I pro- 
 fess, with the veracity of an historian, that I never 
 knew one of them find fault with it. Our cousins 
 too, even to the fortieth remove, all remembered 
 their affinity, without any help from the herald’s 
 office, and came very frequently to see us. Some 
 of them did us no great honour by these claims of 
 kindred ; as we had the blind, the maimed, and the 
 halt, amongst the number. However, my wife al- 
 ways insisted, that as they were the same flesh and 
 blood, they should sit with us at the same table. 
 So that if we had not very rich, we generally had 
 very happy friends about us ; for this remark will 
 hold good through life, that the poorer the guest the 
 better pleased he ever is with being treated ; and as 
 some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a 
 tulip, or the wing of a butterfly, so 1 was by nature 
 an admirer of happy human faces. However, when 
 any one of our relations was found to be a person of 
 a very bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we 
 desired to get rid of, upon his leaving my house, I 
 ever took care to lend him a riding-coat, or a pair of 
 boots, or sometimes an horse of small value, and I 
 always had the satisfaction to find he never came 
 back to return them. By this the house was cleared 
 of such as we did not like; but never was the family 
 of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the poor 
 dependent out of doors. 
 
 Thus we lived several years in a state of much hap- 
 piness, not hut that we sometimes had those little 
 rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value of 
 its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school- 
 boys, and my wife’s custards plundered by the cats 
 or the children. The squire would sometimes full 
 asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or 
 bis lady return my wife’s civilities at church with 
 a mutilated curtsey. But we soon got over the 
 uneasiness caused by such accidents ; and usually 
 in three or four days began to wonder how they 
 text us. 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 3 
 
 My children, the offspring of temperance, as they 
 were educated without softness, so they were at once 
 well-formed and healthy; my sons hardy and active, 
 mv daughters beautiful and blooming. When 1 
 stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised 
 to be the support of my declining age, I could not 
 avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abensberg, 
 who, in Henry II.’s progress through Germany, 
 while other courtiers came with their treasures, 
 brought his thirty-two children, and presented them 
 to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had 
 to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, 
 I considered them as a very valuable present made to 
 my country, and consequently looked upon it as my 
 debtor. Our eldest son was named George after his 
 uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our second 
 child, a girl, I intended to call after her aunt Grissel ; 
 but my wife, who during her pregnancy had been 
 reading romances, insisted upon her being called 
 Olivia. In less than another year we had another 
 daughter, and now 1 was determined that Grissel 
 should be her name ; but a rich relation taking a 
 fancy to stand godmother, the girl was, by her di- 
 rections, called Sophia; so that we had two romantic 
 names in the family ; but I solemnly protest I had 
 no hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an in- 
 terval of twelve years, we had two sons more. 
 
 It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when 
 I saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and 
 satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. 
 When our visitors would say, ‘ Well, upon my word, 
 Mrs. Primrose, yon have the finest children in the 
 whole country.’ — ‘ Ay, neighbour,’ she would an- 
 swer, * they are as Heaven made them, handsome 
 enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is, 
 that handsome does.’ And then she would bid the 
 girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, 
 were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so 
 i very trifling a circumstance with me, that 1 should 
 scarce have remembered to mention it, had it not 
 b 2 
 
4 VICAR OF WAKEF1EI.D. 
 
 been a general topic of conversaiion in the country. 
 Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of 
 beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe; 
 open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia’s features 
 were not so striking at first; but often did more cer- 
 tain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and al- 
 luring. r J he one vanquished by a single blow, the 
 other by efforts successfully repeated. 
 
 The temper of a woman is generally formed from 
 the turn of her features, at least it was so with my 
 daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia 
 to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too 
 great a desire to please ; Sophia even represt excel- 
 lence, from her fears to oflen'd. The one entertained 
 me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other 
 with her sense when I was serious. But these qua- 
 lities were never canied to excess in either; and L 
 har e often seen them exchange characters fora whole 
 day together. A suit of’ mourning has transformed 
 my coquet into a prude, and a new set of ribbands 
 has given her youngest sister more than natural viva- 
 city. My eldest son George was bred at Oxford; as 
 I intended him for one of the learned professions. 
 My second buy, Moses, whom I designed for business, 
 received a sort of miscellaneous education at home. 
 But it is needless to attempt describing the particular 
 characters of young people that had seen but verv little 
 of the world. In short, a family likeness prevailed 
 through all; and, properly speaking, they had but 
 one character, that of being all equally generous, 
 credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 Family Misfortunes. The Loss of Fortune only 
 
 serves to increase the Pride of the Worthy. 
 
 THE temporal concerns of our family were chiefly 
 committed to my wife’s management; as to the spi- 
 ritual, I took them entirely under my own direction. 
 The profits of my living, which amounted to about 
 thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 5 
 
 and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for having 
 a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of 
 temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my 
 duty without a reward. 1 also set a resolution of 
 I keeping no curate, and of being acquainted with 
 I every man in the parish, exhorting the married men 
 I to temperance, and the bachelors to matrimony ; so 
 [ that in a few years it was a common saying, that 
 there were three strange wants at Wakefield, a 
 parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, 
 and alehouses wanting customers. 
 
 Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, 
 
 | and 1 wrote several sermons to prove its happiness ; 
 but there w*as a peculiar tenet which I made a point 
 of supporting; for I maintained with Whiston, that 
 it was unlawful for a priest of the church of England, 
 after the death of his first wife, to take a second ; or, 
 to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being 
 | a strict monogamist. 
 
 I was early initiated into this important dispute, on 
 I which so many laborious volumes have been written. 
 
 ! I published some tracts upon the subject myself, 
 which, as they never sold, 1 have the consolation of 
 thinking, are read only by the happy few. Some of 
 ' my friends called this my weak side; but, alas! they 
 had not, like me, made it the subject of long contem- 
 plation. The mote 1 reflected on it, the more im- 
 portant it appeared. I even went a step beyond 
 Whiston in displaying my principles : as he had en- 
 graven upon his wife’s tomb, that site was the only 
 wife of William Whiston; so I wrote a similar epi- 
 taph of my wife, though still living, in which I ex- 
 tolled her prudence, economy, and obedience, till 
 death ; and having got it copied fair, with an elegant 
 frame, it was placed over the chimnev-piece, where 
 it answered several very useful purposes. It admo- 
 nished my w'ife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to 
 her; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and 
 constantly put her in mind of her end. 
 
 It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so 
 
 b 3 
 
6 VICAR Or WAKEFIELD, 
 
 often recommended, that mv eldest son, just upon 
 leaving college, fixed his affections upon the datlghter 
 of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in 
 the church, and in circumstances to give her a large 
 fortune : but fortune was her smallest accomplish- 
 ment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all 
 (except my two daughters) to be completely pretty. 
 Her youth, health, and innocence, were still height- 
 ened by a complexion so transparent, and such an 
 happv sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze 
 on with indifference. As Mr. \\ ilmot knew that I 
 could make a verv handsome settlement on my son, 
 he was not averse to the match; so both families 
 lived together in all that harmony which generally 
 precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by 
 experience, that the days of courtship are the most 
 happy of our lues, I was willing enough to lengthen 
 the period ; and the various amusements which the 
 young couple every day shared in each other’s com- 
 pany, seemed to increase their passion. We were 
 generally awaked in the morning by music, and on 
 fine days rode a Bunting. The hours between break- 
 fast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study: 
 they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves 
 in the glass, which even philosophers might own 
 often presented the page of greatest beauty. At din- 
 ner my wife took the lead ; for, as she always insisted 
 upon carving every thing herself, it being her mother’s 
 way, she gave us upon these occasions the history of 
 every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the ladies 
 leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be re- 
 moved ; and sometimes, with the music-master’s as- 
 sistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable con- 
 cert. Walking out, drinking tea, country-dances, 
 and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without 
 the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gam- 
 ing, except backgammon, at which my old friend 
 and 1 sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I 
 here pass over an ominous circumstance that hap- 
 pened the last time we played together; I only wanted 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 7 
 
 to fling 3 quatre, and yet I threw deuce- ace five times 
 running. 
 
 Some months were escaped in this manner, till at 
 Jast it was thought convenient to fix a day for the 
 nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly 
 to desire it. During the preparations for the wedding, 
 
 I need not describe the busy importance of my wife, 
 nor the sly looks of my daughters : in fact, pay at- 
 tention was fixed on another object, ibe complet- 
 ing a tract, which 1 intended shortly to publish, in 
 defence of my favourite principle. As* looked 
 upon this as a master-piece both for argument and 
 style, I could not, in the pride of mw heart, avoid 
 shewing it to my old friend Mr. W ilmot, as I made 
 no doubt of receiving his approbation ; hut not till 
 too late, 1 discovered that lie was most violently 
 attached to the contrary opinion, and with good 
 reason ; for he was at that tune actually court- 
 ing a fourth wife, 1 la is, as may be expected, 
 produced a dispute attended with some acrimony, 
 which threatened to interrupt our intended al- 
 liance; but on the day before that appointed for 
 the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject 
 at large. . ' 
 
 It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; 
 he asserted that I was heterodox, I returned the 
 charge: he replied, and I rejoined. In the mean 
 t ime, while the controversy was hottest, I was called, 
 emt by one of my relations, who, with a face of 
 concern, advised me to give up the dispute, at leaT 
 till my son’s wedding was over. ‘ How! cried I, 
 ‘ relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be an 
 husband, already driven to the verge of absurdity. 
 You might as well advise me to give up mv fortune 
 as my argument.’ — ‘ Your fortune,’ returned my 
 friend, f 1 am now sorry to inform you, is almost 
 nothing. The merchant in town, in whose hands 
 your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid 
 a statute of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have 
 Jtft a shilling in the pound. I was unwilling (.Q 
 
8 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 shock you or the family with the account, till after 
 the wedding : but now it may serve to moderate your 
 warmth in the argument; for I suppose your own 
 prudence will enforce the necessity of dissembling, 
 at least till your son has the young lady’s fortune se- 
 cure.’ — ‘ Well,’ returned I, ‘ if what you tell me be 
 true, and it I am to be a beggar, it shall never make 
 me a rascal, or induce me to disavow my principles. 
 I’ll go this moment, and inform the company of my 
 circumstances : and as for the argument, 1 even here 
 retract my former concessions in the old gentleman’s 
 favour, nor will 1 allow him now to be an husband 
 in any sense of the expression.’ 
 
 It would be endless to describe the different sensa- 
 tions of both families, when I divulged the news of 
 our misfortune; but what others felt was slight to 
 what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, 
 who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off 
 the match, was by this blow soon determined : one 
 virtue he had in perfection, which was prudence; 
 too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. 
 
 CHAP. III. 
 
 A Migration. The fortunate Circumstances of our 
 Lives are generally found at last to he of our own 
 procuring. 
 
 THE only hope of our family now was, that the 
 report of our misfortunes might be malicious or pre- 
 mature ; but a letter from my agent in town soon 
 came with a confirmation of every particular. The 
 loss of fortune to myself alone would have been 
 trifling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my fa- 
 mily, who were to be humbled without an education 
 to render them callous to contempt. 
 
 Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to 
 restrain their affliction; for premature consolation is 
 but the remembrance of sorrow. During this inter- 
 val, my thoughts were employed on some future 
 means of supporting them; and at last a small cure of 
 fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIET.D. 9 
 
 neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my prin- 
 ciples without molestation. With this proposal I 
 joyfully closed, having determined to increase my sa- 
 lary, by managing a little farm. 
 
 Having taken this resolution, my next care was to 
 pet together the wrecks ot my fortune ; and all debts 
 collected and paid, - out of fourteen thousand pounds 
 we had but four hundred remaining. My chief atten- 
 tion, therefore, was now to bring down the pride of 
 my family to their circumstances ; for I well knew that 
 aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. ‘ \ ou cannot 
 be ignorant my children,’ cried I, ‘ that no prudence 
 of ours could have prevented our late misfortune ; 
 but prudence may do much in disappointing its ef- 
 fects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wisdom 
 bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us 
 then, without repining, give up those splendours with 
 which numbers are wretched, and seek, in humbler 
 circumstances, that peace with which all may be 
 happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help; 
 why then should not we learn to live without theirs? 
 No, my children, let us from this moment give 
 up all pretensions to gentility; we have still enough 
 left for happiness if we are wise, and let us draw upon 
 content for the deficiencies of fortune. 
 
 As mv eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined 
 to send him to town, where his abilities might con- 
 tribute to our support aud his own. The separation 
 of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most 
 distressful circumstances attendant on penury. I he 
 day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for 
 the first time. My son, after taking leave of his 
 mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with 
 their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This 
 I gave him from my heart, and which, added to 
 five guineas, was all the patrimony I had to bestow. 
 * You are going, mv hoy,’ cried I, ‘to London on 
 foot, in the manner Hooker your great ancestor, 
 tjavelled there before you. Take from me the same 
 
10 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 this staff, and take this book too, it will be your 
 comfort on the way: these two lines in it are worth 
 a million; 1 have been young, and now am old ; yet 
 never saw / the righteous man forsaken, nor his seed 
 begging their bread. Let this be your consolation as 
 you travel on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy for- 
 tune, let me see thee once a year ; still keep a good 
 heart, and farewell.’ As he was possest of integrity 
 and honour, I was under no apprehensions from 
 throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life; 
 for I knew he would act a part, whether vanquished 
 or victorious. 
 
 His departure only prepared the way for our own, 
 which arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving 
 a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many 
 hours of tranquillity, was not without a tear, which 
 scarce fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, 'a 
 journey of seventy miles, to a family that had ’hi- 
 therto never been above ten from home, filled us 
 with apprehension ; and the cries of the poor, who 
 followed us for some miles, contributed to increase it. 
 The first day’s journey brought us in safety within 
 thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for 
 the night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. 
 When we were shewn a room, I desired’ the land- 
 lord, in my usual way, to let us have his company, 
 with which he complied, as what he drank would 
 increase the bill next morning. He knew, however, 
 the whole neighbourhood to which I was removing, 
 particularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my 
 landlord, and who lived within a few miles of the 
 place. This gentleman he described as one who de- 
 sired to know little more of the world than its plea- 
 sures, being particularly remarkable for his attach- 
 ment to the fair sex. He observed that no virtue 
 was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and that 
 scarce a farmer’s daughter within ten miles round 
 but what had found him successful and faithless. 
 Though this account gave me some pain, it had a 
 very different effect upon rny daughters, whose fea- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. li 
 
 tures seemed to brighten with the expectation of an 
 approaching triumph ; nor was my wife less pleased 
 and confident of their allurements and virtue. While 
 our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered 
 the room to inform her husband, that the strange 
 gentleman, who had been two days in the house, 
 wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his 
 reckoning. ‘ Want money !’ replied the host ‘ that 
 must be impossible! for it was no later than yester- 
 day he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an 
 old broken soldier that was to be whipped through 
 the town for dog-stealing.’ The hostess, however, 
 still persisting in her first assertion, he was preparing 
 to leave the room, swearing that he would be satis- 
 fied one way or another, when I begged the land- 
 lord would introduce me to a stranger of so much 
 charity as he described. With this he complied, 
 shewing in a gentleman who seemed to bs about 
 thirty, dressed in clothes that once were laced. His 
 person was well formed, and his face marked with 
 the lines of thinking. He had something short and 
 dry in his address, and seemed not to understand ce- 
 remony, or to despise it. Upon the landlord’s leav- 
 ing the room, I could not avoid expressing my con- 
 cern for the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such 
 circumstances, and offered him my purse to satisfy 
 the present demand. ‘ I take it with all my heart, 
 sir,’ replied he, ‘ and am glad that a late over- 
 sight in giving what money I had about me, has 
 shewn me, that there are still some men like you. I 
 must, however, previously intreat being informed of 
 the name and residence of my benefactor, in order to 
 repay him as soon as possible.’ In this I satisfied 
 him fully, not only mentioning my name and late 
 misfortune, but the place to which I was going to 
 remove. ‘ This,’ cried he, ‘ happens still more lucky 
 than I hoped for, as I am going the same way my- 
 self, having been detained here two days by the 
 floods, which I hope, by to-morrow, will be found 
 passable.' I testified the pleasure I should have ia 
 
18 VICAR OF WAKEFlBT.D. 
 
 his company, and my wife and daughters joining 
 in in treaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper, 
 The stranger’s conversation, which was at once 
 pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for a 
 continuance of it; but it was now his time to retire, 
 and take refreshment against the fatigues of the fol- 
 lowing dav. 
 
 The next morning we all set forward together: my 
 family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell ournevv com- 
 panion, walked along the foot-path by the road side, 
 observingwitha smile, that as we were ill mounted, he 
 would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. 
 As the floods were not yet subsided, we were obliged 
 to hire a guide, who trotted on before, Mr. Burchell 
 and 1 bringing np the rear. W e lightened the fatigues 
 of the road with philosophical disputes, which he 
 seemed to understand perfectly. But what surprized 
 me most was, that though he was a money-borrower, 
 lie defended his opinion with as much obstinacy as if he 
 had been my patron. He now and then also informed 
 me to whom the different seats belonged that lay in 
 •our view as we travelled the road. ‘ That,’ cried he, 
 pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at 
 some distance, ‘ belongs to Mr. Thornhill, a young 
 gentleman who enjoys a large fortune, though en- 
 tirely dependent on the will of his uncle. Sir William 
 Thornhill, a gentleman who, content with a little 
 himself, permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and 
 chiefly resides in town,’ — ‘ W hat!’ cried I, ‘ is my 
 young landlord then the nephew of a man whose 
 virtues, generosity, and singularities are so univer- 
 sally known? I have heard Sir William Thornhill 
 represented as one of the most generous, yet whim- 
 sical men in the kingdom ; a man of consummate be- 
 nevolence.’ — ‘ Some think, perhaps, too much so,' 
 replied Mr. Burchell: ‘ at least he carried benevolence 
 to an excess when young; for his passions were then 
 strong, and as they all were upon the side of virtue, 
 they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early 
 •began to aim at the qualifications of the soldier ar.d 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 13 
 
 the scholar; was soon distinguished in the army, 
 and had some reputation among men of learning. 
 Adulation ever follows the ambitious; for such 
 alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was 
 surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one 
 side of their character; so that he began to lose a 
 regard for private interest in universal sympathy. 
 He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him 
 from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians 
 tell us of a disorder in which the whole body is so ex- 
 quisitely sensible, that the slightest touch gives pain : 
 what some have thus suffered in their persons, this 
 gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, 
 whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, 
 and his soul laboured under a sickly sensibility of the 
 miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will 
 be easily conjectured, he found numbers disposed to 
 solicit: his profusions began to impair his fortune, 
 but not his good nature; that indeed, seemed to in- 
 crease as the other seemed to decay : he grew impro- 
 vident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a 
 man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. Still 
 however, being surrounded with importunity, and 
 no longer able to satisfy every request that was made 
 him, instead of money he gave promises. They 
 Were all He had to bestow, and he had not resolution 
 enough to give any man a pain by denial. By this 
 he drew round him crowds of dependents whom he 
 was sure to disappoint, vet wished to relieve. These 
 hung upon him for a time, and left him with me- 
 rited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion 
 as he became contemptible to others, he became 
 despicable to himself. His mind had leaned upon 
 their adulation, and that support taken away, he 
 could find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, 
 which he had never learned to reverence. The 
 world now began to wear a different aspect; ! the 
 flatterv of Isis friends began to dwindle into simple 
 approbation. Approbation soon took the more 
 js iendlv form of advice; arid advice, when rejected. 
 
14 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 produced their reproaches. He now, therefore, 
 found that such friends as benefits had gathered round 
 him, were little estimable : he now found that a man’s 
 own heart must be ever given to gain that of another. 
 
 1 now found, that — that — I forgot what I was 
 going to observe : in short. Sir, he resolved to respect 
 himself, and laid down a plan of restoring his falling 
 fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical 
 manner, he travelled through Europe on foot ; and 
 now, though he has scarce attained the age of thirtv, 
 his circumstances are more affluent than ever. At 
 present hits bounties are more rational and moderate 
 than before ; but still he preserves the character 
 of an humourist, and finds most pleasure in the 
 eccentric virtues. 
 
 Mv attention was so much taken up by Mr. 
 Burchell’s account, that I scarce looked forward as 
 we went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of 
 my family ; when turning, I perceived my youngest 
 daughter in the midst of a rapid stream thrown from 
 her horse, and struggling with the torrent. She 
 had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage 
 myself in time to bring her relief. My sensations 
 were even too violent to permit my attempting her 
 rescue: she must have certainly perished, had not my 
 companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged 
 into her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought 
 her in safety to the opposite shore. By taking the 
 current a little farther up, the rest of the family got 
 safely over ; where we had an opportunity of 
 joining our acknowledgements to her’s. Her gra-. 
 titude may be more readily imagined than described 
 she thanked her deliverer more with looks than 
 words, and continued to lean upon his arm, as if 
 still willing to receive assistance. My wife also hoped 
 one day to have the pleasure of returning his kind- 
 ness at her own house. Thus, after we were re- 
 freshed at the next inn, and had dined together, as 
 Mr. Burcheli was going to a different part of the 
 countrv, betook leave, and we pursued our journev^ 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 15 
 
 my wife observing, as we went, that she liked him ex- 
 tremely, and protesting that if he had birth and for- 
 tune to entitle him to a match into such a family as 
 our’s, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I 
 could not but smile to hear her talk in this lofty 
 strain : but 1 was never much displeased with those 
 harmless delusions that tend to make us more happy, 
 
 CHAP. IV. 
 
 A Proof that even the humblest Fortune may grant 
 Happiness, which depends not on Circumstances, 
 but Constitution. 
 
 THE place of our retreat was in a little neighbour- 
 hood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own 
 grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and 
 poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of 
 life within themselves, they seldom visited towns or 
 cities in search of superfluities. Remote from the 
 polite, they still retained the primaeval simplicity of 
 manners 5 and frugal by habit, they scarce knew that 
 temperance was a virtue. They wrought with 
 cheerfulness on daysof labour ; butobserved festivals as 
 intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the 
 Christmas carol, sent true-love knots on Valentine- 
 morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their 
 wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts 
 on Michaelmas-eve. Being apprized of our approach, 
 the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their 
 minister, . dressed in their fine clothes, and preceded 
 by a pipe and tabor ; a feast was also provided for our 
 reception, at which we sat cheerfully down ; and what 
 the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in 
 laughter. 
 
 Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a 
 sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood 
 behind, and a prattling river before; on one side a 
 meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of 
 about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an 
 hundred pounds for my predecessor’s good will. No- 
 thing could exceed the neatness of my little enclosures, 
 c 2 
 
1-6 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 the elms and hedge-rows appearing with inexpressible 
 beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and 
 was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of 
 great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely 
 whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn 
 them with pictures of thejr own designing. Though 
 the same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that 
 only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with 
 the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers 
 being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on 
 the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved and did not 
 want richer furniture. There were three other apart- 
 ments, one for my wife and me, another for our two 
 daughters within our own, and the third, with two 
 beds, for the rest of the children. 
 
 The little republic to which I gave laws, was regu- 
 lated in the following manner : by sun-rise we all as- 
 sembled in our common apartment, the fire being 
 previously kindled by the servant : after we had saluted 
 each other with proper ceremony, for I always thought 
 fit to keep up some mechanical forms of good breeding, 
 without which freedom ever destroys friendship, we 
 all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us ano- 
 ther day. This duty being performed, my son and I 
 went to pursue our usual industry abroad, while my 
 wife and daughters employed themselves in providing 
 breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I 
 allowed half an hour for this meal, and an hour for 
 dinner; which' time was taken up in innocent mirth 
 between my wife and daughters, and in philosophi- 
 cal arguments between my son and me. 
 
 As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our 
 labour after it was gone down, but returned home 
 to the expecting family; where smiling looks, a neat 
 hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our re- 
 ception. Nor were we without guests; sometimes 
 Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbour, and 
 often the blind piper would pay us a visit, and taste 
 our gooseberry wine; for the making of.which we 
 had lost nether the receipt nor the reputation, These 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 17 
 
 harmless people had several ways of being good com- 
 pany; for while one played, the other would sing some 
 soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong’s last good-night, 
 or the cruelty of Barbara Alien. 1 he night was con- 
 cluded in the manner we began in the morning, my 
 youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of 
 the day, and he that read loudest, distinctest, and 
 best, was to have an half-penny on Sunday to put 
 into the poor’s box. 
 
 When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, 
 which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. 
 How well soever 1 fancied my lectures,against pride 
 had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet 1 still 
 found them secretly attached to all their former finery : 
 they still loved laces, ribbands, bugles and catgut ; 
 my wife herself retained a passion for her crimson pa- 
 duasoy, because I formerly happened to say it be- 
 came her. 
 
 The first Sunday, in particular, their behaviour served 
 to mortify me: I had desired my girls the preceding 
 night, to be drest early the next day ; for I always 
 loved to be at church a good while before the rest 
 of the congregation. They punctually obeyed my 
 directions; but when we were to assemble in the 
 morning at breakfast, down came my wife and 
 daughters, drest out in all their former splendour, 
 their hair plaistered up with pomatum, their faces 
 patched to taste, their trains bundled up into an heap 
 behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not 
 help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my 
 wife, from whom I expected more discretion. In 
 this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to 
 order my son, with an important air, to call our 
 coach. The girls were amazed at the command; 
 but I repeated "it with more solemnity than before. 
 f Surely mv dear, you jest,’ cried my wife, * we can 
 walk it perfectly well : we want no coach to carry us 
 now.’ — ‘ You mistake, child,’ returned I, ‘ we do 
 want a coach ; for if we walk to church in this trim, 
 the very children in the parish will hoot after us.’— 
 
18 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 e Indeed,’ replied my wife, 4 1 always imagined that 
 my Charles was fond of seeing his children neat and 
 handsome about him.’ — 4 You may be as neat as you 
 please, interrupted I, 4 and 1 shall love you the better 
 lor it ; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These 
 ruffiings, and pinkings, and patchings, will only 
 make us hated by all the wives of our neighbours. 
 JS'o, my children,’ continued I, more gravely, 4 those 
 gowns may be altered into something of a plainer 
 cut; for finery is very unbecoming in us, who want 
 the means of decency. I do not know whether such 
 flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, 
 if we consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the 
 nakedness of the indigent world may be clothed from 
 the trimmings of the vain. 
 
 This remonstrance had the proper effect: they went 
 with great composure, that very instant, to change their 
 dress; and the next day I had the saisfaction of finding 
 my daughters at their own request employed in cutting 
 up their trains into Sunday waistcoats forDick and Bill, 
 the twolittleones : and what was still more satisfactory, 
 the gow n seemed improved bv this curtailing. 
 
 C H A p: V. 
 
 d new and great Acquaintance introduced. What ive 
 
 place most Ropes upon generally proves most fatal. 
 
 AT a small distance from the house my prede- 
 cessor had made a seat, overshaded by an hedge of 
 hawthorn and honey-suckle. Here, when the wea- 
 ther was fine, and our labour soon finished, we 
 usually sat together to enjoy an extensive landscape, 
 in the calm of the evening. Here too we drank 
 tea, which now was become an occasional banquet; 
 and as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, 
 the preparations for it being made with no small 
 share of bustle and ceremony. On these occasions, 
 our two little ones always read for us, and they were 
 regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give 
 a variety to our amusements, the girls sung to the 
 guitar; and while they thus formed a littleconcert, my 
 wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 19 
 
 was embellished with blue-bells and centuary, talk of 
 our children with rapture, and enjoy the breeze that 
 wafted both health and harmony. 
 
 In this manner we began to find that every situa- 
 tion in life may bring its own peculiar pleasures : every 
 morning awaked us to a repetition of toil ; but tne 
 evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. 
 
 It was about the beginning of autumn, on an holi- 
 day, for I kept such as intervals ol relaxation from la- 
 bour, that 1 had drawn out my family to our usual place 
 of amusement, and our young musicians began their 
 usual concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a 
 stng bound nimbly by, within about twenty paces of 
 where vve were sitting, and, bv its panting, seemed 
 prest by the hunters. We hail not much time to 
 reflect upon the poor animal s distress, when vve pei- 
 ceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping along 
 at some distance behind, and making the very path it 
 had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my 
 family; but either curiosity or surprize, or some more 
 hidden motive held my wife and daughters to their 
 seats. The huntsman who rode foremost, past us 
 with great swiftness, followed by four or five persons 
 more, who seemed in equal haste. At last, a young 
 gentleman of a more genteel appearance than the rest, 
 came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead 
 of pursuing the chase, stopt short, and going htS 
 horse to a servant who attended, approached us with 
 a careless superior air. He seemed to want no intro- 
 duction, but was going to salute my daughters as one 
 certain of a kind reception; but they had early learnt 
 the lesson of looking presumption out of countenance. 
 Upon which he let us know that his name was 
 Thornhill, and that he was the owner of the estate 
 that lay for some extent round us. He again, there- 
 fore, offered to salute the female part of the family; 
 and such was the power of fortune and fine clothes, 
 that he found no second repulse. As his address, 
 tnough confident, was easy, we soon became more 
 familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying 
 
SO vicar or Wakefield. 
 
 near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As X 
 did not approve of such disproportioned acquaintance, 
 I winked upon my daughters, in order to prevent 
 their compliance; but my hint w T as counteracted by 
 one from their mother; so that with a cheerful air 
 they gave us a favourite song of Dryden’s. Mr. 
 Ihornhill seemed highly delighted with their per- 
 formance and choice, and then took up the guitar 
 himself. He played but very indifferently ; however, 
 my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with 
 interest, and assured him that his tones were louder 
 than even those of her master. At this compliment 
 he bowed, which she returned with a curtsey. He 
 praised her taste, and she commended his under- 
 standing: an age could not have made them better 
 acquainted. While the fond mother too, equally 
 happy, insisted upon her landlord’s stepping in, and 
 tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family 
 seemed earnest to please him; my girls attempted to 
 entertain him with topics they thought most modern ; 
 while Moses, on the contrary, gave him aquestionor 
 two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfac- 
 tion of being laughed at: my little ones were no less 
 busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my 
 endeavours could scarce keep their dirty fingers from 
 handling and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and 
 lifting up the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was 
 there. At the approach of evening he took leave; but 
 not till he had requested permission to renew his 
 visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most readily 
 agreed to. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on 
 the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that it 
 was a most fortunate hit; for that she had known 
 even stranger things than that brought to bear. She 
 hoped again to see the day in which we might hold 
 up our heads with the best of them; and concluded, 
 she protested she could see no reason why the two 
 Miss Wrinkles should marry great fortunes, and her 
 children get none. As this last argument was di« 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 21 
 
 rected to me, 1 protested I could see no reason for it 
 neither ; nor why Mr. Simkins got the ten thousand 
 pounds prize in the lottery, and we sat down with a 
 blank. ‘ I protest, Charles,’ cried my wife, * this is 
 the wav you always damp my girls and me when 
 we are in spirits: — Tell me, Soph, mv dear, what 
 do you think of our new visitor? Don’t you think 
 he seemed to he good-natured ?’ — ‘ Immensely so 
 indeed, mama,’ replied she; ‘ I think he has a great 
 deal to say upon every thing, and is never at a loss; 
 and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to 
 ! say.’— ‘ Yes,’ cried Olivia, ‘ he is well enough for a 
 j man ; but for my part, I don’t much like him, he is so 
 extremely impudent and familiar; but on the guitar 
 he is shocking.’ These two last speeches 1 interpreted 
 by contraries. I found by this, that Sophia inter- 
 nally despised, as much as Olivia secretly admired 
 him. ‘ Whatever may be your opinions of him, my 
 i children,’ cried 1, ‘ to confess a truth, he has not pre- 
 possest me in his favour. Disproportioned friendships 
 • ever terminate in disgust ; and 1 thought, notwith- 
 standing all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensi- 
 ible of the distance between us. Let us keep to 
 J companions of our own rank. There is no character 
 more contemptible than a man that is a fortune- 
 hunter; and 1 can see no reason why fortune-hunting 
 women should not be contemptible too. Thus, at 
 best, we shall be contemptible if his views are ho- 
 nourable; but if they be otherwise, I should shud- 
 der but to think of that ! It is true, I have no ap- 
 prehensions from the conduct of my children, but I 
 think there are some from his character. I would 
 have proceeded, hut for the interruption of a servant 
 from the squire, who with his compliments, sent us a 
 j side of venison, and a promise to dine with us some 
 days after. This well-timed present pleaded more 
 powerfully in his favour than any thing I had to say 
 could obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied 
 with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it t-o 
 their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which 
 
22 VICAR. OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 .requires to be ever guarded, is scarce worth the cen- 
 tinel. 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 The Happiness* of a Country Fire-side. 
 
 AS we carried on the former dispute with some 
 degree of warmth, in order to accommodate matters, 
 it was universally agreed, that we should have a part 
 of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the 
 task with alacrity. 1 1 am sorry,’ cried I, ‘ that we 
 have no neighbour or stranger to take part in this 
 good cheer: feasts of this kind acquire a double re- 
 lish from hospitality.’ — £ Bless me,’ cried my wife, 
 
 * here comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that saved, 
 our Sophia, and that run you down fairly in the argu- 
 ment.’ — ‘ Confute me in argument, child !’ cried 1, 
 
 * you mistake there, ray dear. I believe there are but 
 few that can do that ; I never dispute your abilities at 
 making a goose-pye, and I beg you’ll leave argument 
 to me.’ As I spoke, poor Mr. Burchell entered the 
 house, and was welcomed by the family, who shook 
 him heartily by the hand, while little Dick officiously 
 reached him a chair. 
 
 I was pleased with the poor man’s friendship for 
 two reasons ; because I knew that he wanted mine, 
 and 1 knew him to be friendly as far as he was able. 
 He was known in our neighbourhood by the character 
 of the poor gentleman that would do no good when, 
 he was young, though he was not yet thirty. He 
 would at intervals talk with great good sense; but in 
 general he was fondest of the company of children, 
 whom he used to call harmless little men. He was 
 famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and tel- 
 ling them stories; and seldom went out without some- 
 thing in his pockets for them, a piece of gingerbread, 
 or an half-penny whistle. He generally came for a 
 few days into our neighbourhood once a year, and 
 lived upon the neighbours’ hospitality. He sat down 
 to supper among us, and my wife was not sparing of 
 her gooseberry wine. The tale went round; he sung 
 us old songs, and gave the children the story of thQ 
 
VICAR OE WAKEFIELD. ”■* 
 
 Bu ck of Beverland, with the history of Patient Griz- 
 pel the adventures of Catskin, and then fair Kosa- 
 mond’s bower. Our cock which always crew at eleven, 
 now told us it was time for repose; but an unforeseen 
 difficulty started about lodging the stranger : all our 
 beds were already taken up, and it was too late to 
 send him to the next ale-house In this dilemma, 
 
 ■ little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his bro- 
 ther Moses would let him lie with him. ‘ And J, 
 cried Bill, ‘ will give Mr. Burchell my part, if my 
 sisters will take me to theirs.’— ‘ Well done, my good 
 [children,’ cried I, ‘ hospitality is one of the first 
 I Christian duties. The beast retires to his shelter, and 
 the bird to it’s nest; but helpless man can only find 
 refuge from his fellow-creature.’ The greatest stranger 
 in this world was he that came to save it. He never 
 had an house, as if willing tosee what hospitality was 
 I left remaining amongst us. — Deborah, my dear, cried 
 ] to mv wife, ‘ give those bovs a lump ol sugar each ; 
 and let Dick’s be the largest,' because he spoke fust.’ 
 In the morning early 1 called out my whole family 
 to help at saving an' after-growth of hay, and our 
 guest offering his assistance, he was accepted among 
 the number. Our labours went on hghtlv ; we turned 
 ! the swath to the wind : I went foremost, and the 
 rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, 
 however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in 
 assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. 
 When he had finished his own, he would join in 
 her’s, and enter into a close conversation : but 1 had 
 loo good an opinion of Sophia’s understanding, and 
 ; was too well convinced ot her ambition, to be under 
 any uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. YV hen 
 we were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited 
 ! as on the night before ; but he refused, as he was to 
 ; lie that night at a neighbour’s, to whose child he was 
 Carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at 
 supper turned upon ouv late unfortunate guest. 
 • f What a strong instance,’ said 1, ‘ is that poor man 
 «f the miseries attending a youth of levity and extra- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 vagance! lie by no means wants sense, which only 
 serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor, forlorn crea- 
 ture! where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that 
 he could once inspire, and command? gone perhaps, 
 to attend the bagnio pander, grown rich by his extra- 
 vagance. They once praised him, and now. they 
 applaud the pander: their former raptures at his wit 
 are now converted into sarcasms at his folly : he is 
 poor, and perhaps deserves poverty ; for he has neither* 
 the ambition to be independent, nor the skill to be 
 useful.’ Prompted perhaps by some secret reasons, 
 1 delivered this observation with too much acrimony, 
 which mv Sophia gently reproved. ‘ Whatsoever h'is 
 former conduct may be, papa, his circumstances 
 should exempt him from censure now. His present 
 indigence is a sufficient punishment for former folly s 
 and 1 ha\e heard my papa himself say, that we 
 should never strike one unnecessary blow at a victim 
 over whom Providence holds the scourge of its re- 
 sentment. — ‘ You are right, Sophia,’ cried my" 
 son Moses; ‘ and one of the ancieuts finely represents 
 so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic 
 to flay Marsvas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had 
 been wholly stript off by another. Besides, I don’t 
 know if this poor man’s situation he so bad as my 
 father would represent it. We are not to judge of 
 the feelings of others by what we might feel if in 
 their place. However dark the habitation of the 
 mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the 
 apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess 
 the truth, this man’s mind seems fitted to his station ; 
 for 1 never heard any one more sprightly than he was 
 to-day, when he conversed with wou.’ This was 
 sa.cl without the least design; however, it excited u 
 blush, u Itich she strove to cover by an affected laugh ; 
 assuring him, she scarce took any notice of what 
 he said to her; but that she believed .he might once 
 bat e been a very fine gentleman. The readiness, with 
 which site undertook to vindicate herself, and her 
 blushing, were symptoms 1 did not internally apnrove; 
 Ssut i represt my suspicious. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 25 
 
 As we expected our landlord the next day, my 
 wife went to make the venison pasty; Moses sat 
 reading while I taught my little ones: my •daughters 
 seemed equally busy with the test; and I observed 
 them for a good while cooking something over the fire. 
 
 I at first supposed they were assisting their mother; 
 but little Dick informed me in a whisper, that they 
 were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds 
 I had a natural antipathy to; for 1 knew that instead 
 of mending the conmplexion, they spoiled it. I there- 
 fore approached my chair by slv degrees to the fire, 
 and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, 
 seemingly by accident, overturned the whole composi- 
 tion ; and it was too late to begin another. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 A Toivn IVit described. The dullest Fellows may 
 learn to be comical for a Fight or two. 
 WHEN the morning arrived on which we were to 
 entertain our young landlord, it may he easily 
 supposed what provisions were exhausted to make an 
 appearance. It may be also conjectured that my 
 wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage 
 I upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a cou- 
 ple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The servants, 
 who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next 
 alehouse : but my wife, in the triumph of her heart, 
 insisted on entertaining them all; for which, by the 
 bye, our family was pinched ior three weeks after. 
 As Mr. Bnrcheil had hinted to us the day before, 
 that he was making some proposals of marriage to 
 M iss Wihnot, my son George’s former mistress, this a 
 good deal damped the heartiness of his reception : but 
 accident :, in some measure, relieved our embarrassment ; 
 for one of the company happening to mention her 
 name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath, that 
 he never knew any thing more absurd than calling 
 such a fright a beauty : * For strike me ugly,’ con- 
 tinued he, c if 1 should not find as much pleasure in 
 choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp 
 
26 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 Tinder the clock at St. Dunstan’s.’ At this he 
 laughed, and so did we: the jests of the rich are ever 
 successful. Olivia too could not avoid whispering 
 loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite 
 fund of humour. 
 
 After dinner I began with my usual toast, the 
 church; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as 
 he said the church was the only mistress of his affec- 
 tions. ‘ Come, tell us honestly, Frank, 1 said the 
 squire, with his usual archness, ‘ suppose the church, 
 your present mistress, drest in lawn sleeves, on one 
 hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on 
 the other; which would you be for?’ — ‘ For both, 
 to be sure,’ cried the chaplain. — ‘ Right, Frank,’ 
 cried the squire; ‘ for may this glass suffocate me, 
 but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the cre- 
 ation. For what are tythes and tricks but an im- 
 position, all a confounded imposture, and I can 
 prove it.’ — ‘ I wish you would,’ cried my son Mo- 
 ses, * and I think,’ continued he, ‘ that I should be 
 able to answer you.’ — ‘ Very well, Sir,’ cried the 
 squire, who immediately smoked him, and winked 
 on the rest of the company, to prepare 11s for the 
 sport, ‘ if you are for a cool argument upon that sub- 
 ject, I am ready to accept the challenge. And first, 
 whether are you for managing it analogically, or dia- 
 logically?’ — ‘ Lam for managing it rationally,’ cried 
 Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. 
 ‘ Good again,’ cries the squire; ‘ and firstly, of the 
 first, I hope you’ll not deny that whatever is, is: if 
 you don’t grant me that, I can go no farther.’ — • 
 
 * Why,’ returned Moses, * I think I may grant 
 that, and make the best of it.' — ‘ I hope too,’ re- 
 turned the other, ‘ you will grant that a part is less 
 than the whole.’ — ‘ I grant that too,’ cried Moses, 
 
 * it is but just and reasonable.’ — * I hope,’ cried the 
 squire, ‘ you will not deny, that the two angles of 
 a triangle are equal to two right ones.’ — ‘ Nothing 
 can be plainer,’ returned t’other ; and looked round 
 with his usual importance. — - c Very well,’ cried the 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 27 
 
 squire, speaking very quick; ‘ the premises being 
 thus settled, I proceed to observe, that the concate- 
 nation of self-existences, proceeding in a reciprocal 
 duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical 
 dialogism, which in some measure proves that the 
 essence of spirituality may be referred to the second 
 predicable.’ — ‘ Hold, hold,’ cried the other, ‘ I 
 deny that. Do you think I can thus tamely submit 
 to such heterodox doctrines?’ — What,’ replied the 
 squire, as if in a passion, ‘ not submit! Answer me 
 one plain question: Do you think Aristotle right, 
 when he says, that relatives are related ?’ — ‘ Un- 
 doubtedly,’ replied the othei. — ‘ If so then,’ cried 
 the squire, * answer me directly to what 1 propose: 
 Whether do you judge the analvtical investigation 
 of the first part or my enthymen deficient secundum 
 
 ? uoad, or quoad minus, and give me your reasons: 
 say, directly.’ — * I protest,’ cried Moses, ‘ I don’t 
 rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning; 
 but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I 
 fancy it may then have an answer.’ — ‘ O, Sir,’ cried 
 the squire, ‘ I am your most humble servant; I find 
 you want me to furnish you with argument and 
 intellects too. No, sir, there I protest you are too 
 hard for me.’ This effectually raised the laugh against 
 poor Moses, who sat the only dismal figure in a 
 groupe of merrv faces; nor did he offer a single syl- 
 lable more during the whole entertainment. 
 
 But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a 
 very different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it for 
 humour, though but a mere act of the memory. 
 She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman ; 
 and such as consider what powerful ingredients a 
 good figure, fine clothes, and fortune, are in that 
 character, will easily forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, 
 notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with 
 ease, and could expatiate upon the common topics 
 of conversation with fluency. It is not surprising 
 then that such talents should win the affections of 
 a girl, who by education was taught to value an 
 D 2 
 
•8 VICAR Or WAKEFIELD, 
 
 appearance in herself, and consequently to set a 
 value upon it in another. 
 
 Upon his departure, we again entered into a de- 
 bate upon the merits of our young landlord. As lie 
 directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was 
 no longer doubted but that she was the object that 
 induced hitn to be our visitor. Nor did sha seem to 
 be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her bro- 
 ther and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah 
 herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and 
 exulted in her daughter’s victory as if it were her own. 
 
 ‘ And now, mv dear,’ cried she to me, * I’ll fairly 
 own, that it was I that instructed my girls to en- 
 courage our landlord’s addresses. I had always some 
 ambition, and you now see that I was right; for 
 who knows how this may end?’ — ‘ Aye, who knows 
 that indeed !’ answered I with a groan : ‘ for my 
 part I don’t much like it; and I could have been 
 better pleased with one that was poor and honest, 
 than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infide- 
 lity : for, depend on’t, if he be what I suspect him, 
 no free-thinker shall ever have a child of mine.’ 
 
 * Sure, father,’ cried Moses, ‘ you are too severe 
 in this; for Heaven will never arraign him for what 
 he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a 
 thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his 
 power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion may 
 be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that allowing 
 his sentiments to- be wrong, yet as he is purely 
 passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed 
 for his errors, than the governor of a city without 
 walls for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading 
 enemy.’ 
 
 ‘ True, my son,’ cried 1; 'but if the governor 
 invites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And 
 such is always the case with those who embrace error. 
 The vice does not he in assenting to the proofs they 
 see; but in being blind to many of the proofs that 
 offer. So that, though our erroneous opinions be 
 involuntary when formed, yet as we have been wil- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 2Cf 
 
 fully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, 
 we deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt 
 for our folly.’ 
 
 My wife now kept up the conversation, though 
 not the argument: she observed, that several very 
 prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, 
 and made very good husbands ; and she knew some 
 sensible girls that had skill enough to make converts of 
 their spouses: ‘ And who knows my dear,’ continued 
 she, ‘ what Olivia may be able to do ? The girl 
 has a great deal to say upon every subject, and to my 
 knowledge is very well skilled in controversy.’ 
 
 * Wiry, my dear, what controversy can she have 
 read?’ cried 1. ‘It does not occur to me that I 
 ever put such books into her hands: you certainly 
 over-rate her merit.’ — ‘ Indeed, papa,’ replied Olivia, 
 
 ‘ she does not; I have read a great deal of contro- 
 versy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum 
 and Square; the controversy between Robinson Cru- 
 soe and Friday the savage, and I am now employed 
 in reading the controversy in Religious Courtship.’ — 
 ‘ Very well,’ cried I, ‘ that’s a good girl; I find you 
 are perfectly qualified for making converts; and so go 
 help your mother to make the gooseberry pye.’ 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 An Amour, vihieh promises liitle good Fortune, yet 
 may be productive of much. 
 
 THE next morning we were again visited by Mr. 
 Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be 
 displeased with the frequency of his return; but I 
 could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It is 
 true his labour more than requited his entertainment; 
 for he wrought among us with vigour, and either in 
 the meadow or at the hay-rick, put himself foremost. 
 Besides, he had always something amusing to say, 
 that lessened our toil, and was at once so out of the 
 wav, and yet so sensible, that I loved, laughed at, 
 and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an 
 attachment he discovered to my daughter: he would 
 D 3 
 
30 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 in a jesting manner call her his little mistress ; and 
 when he bought each of the girls a set of ribbands, 
 tier's was the ynest. 1 knew not how, but he every 
 day seemed to become more amiable, his wit to im- 
 prove, and his simplicity to assume the superior airs 
 of wisdom. 
 
 Our family dined in the field, andwesat, or rather 
 reclined, round a temperate repast, our cloth spread 
 upon the hav, while Mr. Burcnell gave cheerfulness 
 to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction, two 
 blackbirds answered each other from opposite hedges, 
 the familiar red-breast came and picked the crumbs 
 from our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo 
 of tranquillity, ‘ I never sit thus,’ says Sophia, ‘ but 
 1 think of the two lovers, so sweetly described by 
 Mr. Gay, who were struck dead in each other’s arms. 
 There is something so pathetic in the description, 
 that i have read it an hundred times with new 
 rapture.’ — £ In my opinion,’ cried my son,’ the 
 finest strokes in that description are much below those 
 in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet 
 understands the use of centrast better, and upon that 
 figure, artfully managed, all strength in the pathetic 
 depends.’ — ‘ It is remarkable,’ cried Mr. Burchell, 
 * that both the poets you mention have equally 
 contributed to introduce a false taste into their 
 respective countries, by loading all their lines with 
 epithets. Men of little genius found them most easily 
 imitated in their defects ; and English poetry, like 
 that in the latter empire of Rome, is nothing at 
 present but a combination of luxuriant images, 
 without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that 
 improve the sound without carrying on the sense. 
 But perhaps. Madam, while I thus reprehend others, 
 you’ll think it just that I should give them an 
 opportunity to retaliate; and indeed I have made this 
 remark only to have an opportunity of introducing to 
 the company a ballad, which, whatever be its other 
 defects, is, I think, at least free from those I have 
 mentioned.’ 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 31 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 ‘ rpURN, gentle hermit of the dale, 
 
 A ‘ And guide my lonely way, 
 
 « Xo where yon taper chears the Tale, 
 
 « With hospitable ray. 
 
 * For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
 
 < With fainting steps and slow ; 
 
 ‘ Where wilds immeasurably spread 
 ‘ Seem lengthening as 1 go.’ 
 
 « Forbear my son,’ the hermit cries, 
 
 * To tempt the dangerous gloom; 
 
 * For yonder faithless phantom flies 
 ‘ To lure thee, to thy doom. 
 
 « Here to the houseless child of want, 
 
 ‘ My door is open still. 
 
 * And though my portion is but scant, 
 
 ‘ I give it with good will. 
 
 ‘ Then turn to night, and freely share 
 ‘ Whate’er my cell bestows ; 
 
 ‘ My rushy couch, and frugal fare, 
 
 ‘ My blessing and repose. 
 
 < No flocks that range the valley free, 
 
 ‘ To slaughter I condemn ; 
 
 « Taught by that power that pities me, 
 
 ‘ I learn to pity them. 
 
 ‘ But from tlie mountain’s grassy side, 
 
 ‘ A guiltless feast I bring ; 
 
 * A scrip with herbs and fruits supply’d, 
 ‘ And water from the spring. 
 
 ‘ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; 
 
 ‘ All earth-born cares are wrong : 
 
 ‘ Man wants but little liere below, % 
 
 * Nor wants that little long.’ A 
 
 Soft as the dew from heav’n descends. 
 His gentle accents fell : 
 
 The modest stranger lowly bends, 
 
 And follows to the cell. 
 
 Far in a wilderness obscure 
 The lonely mansion lay ; 
 
 A refuge to the neighbouring poor. 
 
 And strangers led astray. 
 
 No stores beneath its humble thatch 
 Requir’d a master’s care : 
 
 The wicket, opening with a latch. 
 Received the harmless pair. 
 
S2 
 
 VlCAtt OF WAKEFIEL0. 
 
 And now when busy crowds retire. 
 
 To take their evening rest. 
 
 The hermit trimm’d his little fire. 
 
 And cheer'd his pensive guest. 
 
 And spread his vegetable store. 
 
 And gayly prest and smil’d ; ’ 
 
 And skill'd in legendary lore, 
 
 The ling’ring hours beguil’d. 
 
 Around in sympathetic mirth. 
 
 Its tricks the kitten tries ; 
 
 The cricket chirrups in the hearth. 
 
 The crackling faggot flies. 
 
 But nothing could a charm impart 
 To soothe the stranger’s woe ; 
 
 For grief was heavy at his heart, 
 
 And tears began to flow. 
 
 His rising cares the hermit spy’d. 
 
 With answering care opprest : 
 
 ‘ And whence, unhappy youth,’ he cry’d, 
 
 ‘ The sorrows of thy breast? 
 
 ‘ From better habitations spurn’d, 
 
 ‘ Reluctant dost thou rove ; 
 
 * Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, 
 
 ‘ Or unregarded love? 
 
 ‘ Alas! the joys that fortune brings 
 ‘ Are trifling, and decay ; 
 
 ‘ And those who prize the paltry things, 
 
 ‘ More trifling still than they. 
 
 * And what is friendship but a name, 
 
 ‘ A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
 
 ‘ -A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
 
 ‘ But leaves the wretch to weep? 
 
 * And love is still an emptier sound, 
 
 ‘ The modern fair one’s jest ; 
 
 ‘ On earth unseen, or only found, 
 
 * To warm the turtle's nest. 
 
 ‘ For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
 ‘ And spurn the sex.-’ he said : 
 
 But while he spoke, a rising blush 
 His love-lorn guest betray’d. 
 
 Surpris’d, he sees new beauties rise. 
 
 Swift mantling to the view, 
 
 Like colours o’er the morning skies } 
 
 As bright, as transient too. 
 
 The bashful look, the rising breast, 
 Alternate spread alarms. 
 
 The lovely stranger stands confest, 
 
 A roaicl, in all her charms. 
 
§3 
 
 VTC All OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 And, ‘ All, forgive a stranger Aide, 
 
 < A wretch forlorn,’ she cried ; 
 
 t whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude 
 
 < Where heav’n and you reside ; 
 
 * But let a maid thy pity share, 
 
 ‘ Whom love has taught to stray; 
 
 * Who seeks for rest, hut ii^ds despair 
 
 < Companion of her way. $ 
 
 < yiy father liv’d beside the Tyne, 
 
 < A wealthy lord was he; 
 
 ‘ And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 
 
 ‘ lie had but only me. 
 
 * To win me from his tender arms, 
 
 ‘ Unnumbered suitors came ; 
 
 i who prais’d me for jmputcd charms, 
 
 < And felt or feign’d a Hame. 
 
 * Each hour a mercenary crowd, 
 
 < With richest proffers strove : 
 
 < Among the rest young Edwin bow’d, 
 
 < But never talk’d of love. 
 
 * In humble, simplest habit clad, 
 
 < Nor wealth nor power had he ; 
 
 ‘ Wisdom and worth were all lie had, 
 
 < But these were all to me. 
 
 « The blossom opening to the day, 
 
 < The dews of heav’n refin’d, 
 
 < Could nought of purity display, 
 
 < To emulate his mind. 
 
 i The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
 
 < With charms inconstant shine ; 
 
 t Their charms were his ; but woe to me ! 
 
 ‘ Their constancy was mine. 
 t Eor still I try’d each fickle art, 
 
 ‘ Importunate and vain : 
 
 < And while his passion touch’d my heart, 
 « 1 triumph’d in his pain. 
 
 * Till quite dejected with my scorn, 
 
 < He left me to my pride, 
 
 > And sought a solitude forlorn, 
 
 < In secret, where he died. 
 
 < ]5 u t mine tire sorrow, mine the fault, 
 
 ‘ And well my life shall pay ; 
 
 ‘ I’ll seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 ‘ And stretch me where he lay. 
 
 « And there forlorn despairing hid , 
 
 < [’ll lay me down and die. 
 
 < >Twas so for me that Edwin did, 
 
 ‘ And so for him will I. 
 
“■* VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 ‘ Forbid it, heav’nl’ the hermit cry’d. 
 
 And clasp’d her to his breast. 
 
 The wondring fair one turn’d to chide, 
 
 ’Twas Edwin’s self that prest. 
 
 ‘ Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 
 
 ‘ My charmer, turn to see 
 
 ‘ Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
 
 ‘ Restor’d to love and thee. 
 
 ‘ Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
 
 ‘ And ev’ry care resign : 
 
 ‘ And shall we never, never part, 
 
 ‘ My life— my all that’s mine ! 
 
 ‘ No, never from this hour to part, 
 
 ‘ We’ll live and love so true; 
 
 * The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
 
 * Shall break thy Edwin’s too.’ 
 
 While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to 
 mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But 
 our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a 
 gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen 
 bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he 
 had killed. This sportsman was the squire’s chaplain, 
 who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agreeably 
 entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, startled 
 my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in 
 the fright had thrown herself into Mr. BurchelPs arms 
 for protection. _ The gentleman came up, and asked 
 pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that fie was 
 ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sat down 
 bv my youngest daughter, and, sportsman like, 
 offered her what he had killed that morning. She 
 was going to refuse, but a private look from her mo- 
 ther soon induced her to correct the mistake ; and ac- 
 cept his present, though with some reluctance. My 
 wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a whisper- 
 observing that Sophia had made a conquest of the 
 chaplain, as well as her sister had of the squire I 
 suspected, however, with more probability, that her 
 affections were placed upon a different object. The 
 chaplain’s errand was to inform us, that MLr. Thornhill 
 had piovided music, and refreshments, and intended 
 that night giving the young ladies a ball by moon- 
 
VtCAR OF \VAKEFIELO. 35 
 
 ight, on the grass plat before our door. ‘ Nor can I 
 deny,’ continued he, but I have an interest in being 
 first to deliver this message, as I expect for my reward 
 to be honoured with Miss Sophia’s hand as a part- 
 ner.’ To this ray girl replied, that she should have 
 no objection, if she could do it with honour: ‘ But 
 here,’ continued she, * is a gentleman,’ looking at 
 Mr. Burchell, ‘ who has been my companion in the 
 itask for the day, and it is fit he should share in its 
 amusements.’ Mr. Burchell returned her a com- 
 pliment for her intentions; but resigned her up to the 
 chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five 
 miles, being invited to an harvest supper. His refusal 
 appeared to me a little extraordinary; nor could I 
 conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest, could 
 thus prefer a man of broken fortune to one whose 
 expectations were much greater. But as men are 
 most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so 
 the ladies often form the truest judgements of us. 
 The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, 
 and are furnished with different abilities, and adapted 
 for mutual inspection. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Two Ladies of great Distinction introduced. Superior 
 Finery ever seems to confer superior Breeding. 
 
 MU. Burchell had scarce taken leave, and Sophia 
 consented to dance with the chaplain, when my 
 little ones came running out to tell us, that the squire 
 ^was come, with a crowd of company. Upon our re- 
 turn, we found our landlord with a couple of under 
 gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, whom 
 he introduced as women of very great distinction and 
 fashion from town. We happened not to have chairs 
 [enough for the whole company; but Mr. Thornhill 
 immediately proposed that every gentleman should sit 
 in a lady’s lap. This proposition I positively ob- 
 jected to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation 
 from my wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to 
 borrow a couple of chairs; and as we were in want of 
 
36 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 ladies to make up a set at country-dances, the two 
 gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of 
 partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. 
 The gentlemen returned with my neighbour Flam bo- 
 rough’s rosy daughters, flaunting with red top-knots. 
 But an unlucky circumstance was not adverted to: 
 though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned the verv 
 best dancers in the parish, and undestood the jig and 
 the round-about to perfection ; yet they were totally 
 unacquainted with country-dances. This at first dis- 
 composed us: however, after a little shoving and 
 dragging they at last went merrilv on. Our music 
 consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. The 
 moon shone bright: Mr. Thornhill and my eldest 
 daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of the 
 spectators; for the neighbours hearing what was 
 going forward, came Hocking about us. My girl 
 moved with so much grace and vivacity, that my wife 
 could not avoid discovering the pride of her heart by 
 assuring me, that though the little chit did it so 
 cleverly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The 
 ladies of the town strove haid to be equally easy, but 
 without success. They swam, sprawled, languished, 
 and frisked; but all would not do: the gazers indeed 
 owned that it was fine : but neighbour Flamborough 
 observed that Miss Livy’s feet seemed as pat to the 
 music as its echo. After the dance had continued 
 about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive 
 of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One 
 of them, I thought, expressed hersentiments upon this 
 occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed } 
 that by the living jingo, she was all of amuck of sweat. 
 Upon our return to the house, we found a ver\ ele- 
 gant cold supper, which Mr. Thornhill had ordered 
 to be brought with him. The conversation at this 
 time, wah more reserved than before. The two ladies 
 threw my girls quite into the shade; for they would 
 talk of nothing but high life, and high lived com- 
 pany; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures J 
 taste, Shakspeare, and the musical "lasses. ’Tis 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 37 
 
 I true, they once or twice mortified us sensibly by slip- 
 ping out an oath; but that appeared to me as the 
 surest symptom of their distinction, (though I am 
 since informed that swearing is perfectly unfashion- 
 able.) Their finery, however, threw a veil over any 
 i grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed 
 to regard their superior accomplishments with envy ; 
 f and what appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top 
 I quality breeding. But the condescension of the ladies 
 I was still superior to their other accomplishments. One 
 of them observed, that had Miss Olivia seen a little 
 more of the world, it would greatly improve her. 
 To which the other added, that a single winter in 
 town would make little Sophia quite another thing. 
 My wife warmly assented to both; adding, that there 
 was nothing she more ardently wished than to give 
 her girl’s a single winter’s polishing. To this 1 could 
 not help replying, that their breeding was already 
 superior to their fortune; and that greater refinement 
 would only serve to make their poverty ridiculous, 
 and give them a taste for pleasures they had no right 
 to possess. ‘ And what pleasures,’ cried Mr. Thorn- 
 hill, * do they not deserve to possess, who have so 
 much in their power to bestow? As for my part,’ 
 continued he, ■*, my fortune is pretty large; love, 
 liberty, and pleasure, are my maxims; but curse 
 me, if a settlement of half my estate could give my 
 charming Olivia pleasure, it should be her’s ; and 
 the only favour 1 would ask in return, would be to 
 add myself to the benefit.’ I was not such a stranger 
 to the world as to be ignorant that this was the 
 fashionable cant to disguise the insolence of the basest^ 
 proposal ; but 1 made an effort to suppress my re- 
 sentment. ‘ Sir,’ cried I, f the family which you 
 now condescend to favour with your company has 
 been bred with as nicea sense of honour as you.' Any 
 attempts to injure that may be attended with very- 
 dangerous consequences. Honour, Sir, is our only pos- 
 session at present, and of that last treasure we must 
 E 
 
3-8 VICAR OK WAKEFIELD, 
 
 be particularly careful.’ 1 was soon sorry for the 
 warmth with which I had spoken this, when the 
 young gentleman, grasping my hand, swore he com- 
 mended rny spirit, though he disapproved my suspi- 
 cions. ‘ As to your present hints,’ continued he, ‘ I 
 protest nothing was farther from my heart than 
 such a thought. No, by all that’s tempting, the 
 virtue that will stand a regular siege was never to 
 my taste ; for all my amours are carried by a coup de 
 main.’ 
 
 The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of 
 the rest, seemed highly displeased with this last 
 Stroke of freedom, and began a very discreet and 
 serious dialogue upon virtue: in this my wife, 
 the chaplain, and I, soon joined,- and the squire 
 himself was at last brought to confess a sense of 
 sorrow for his former excesses. We talked on 
 the pleasures of temperance, and of sun-shine in 
 the mfnd unpolluted with guilt. 1 was so well 
 pleased, that my little ones were kept beyond the 
 usual time to he edified by so much good conver- 
 sation. Mr. Thornhill even went beyond me, 
 and demanded if I had any objection to giving 
 prayers. I joyfully embraced the proposal, and in 
 this manner the night w-as passed in a most com- 
 fortable way, till at last the company began to 
 think of returning. The ladies seemed very un- 
 willing to part with my daughters; for whom 
 they had conceived a particular affection, and joined 
 in a request to have the pleasure of their company 
 home. 
 
 The squire seconded the proposal, and my wife 
 added her intreaties; the girls too looked upon me 
 as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made 
 two or three excuses, which my daughters as 
 readily removed ; so that at last 1 was obliged to give 
 a peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing 
 but sullen looks and short answers the whole day 
 ensuing. 
 
'VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 3$ 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 The Family endeavour to cope with their betters. The 
 Miseries of the Poor when they attempt to appear 
 above their Circumstances. 
 
 I NOW began to find that alt my long and pain- 
 ful lectures upon temperance, simplicity and content- 
 ment, were entirely disregarded. The distinctions 
 lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride which 
 I had laid asleep but not removed. Our windows 
 again, as formerly, were filled with washes for the 
 neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to 
 the skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of 
 the complexion within. My wife observed, that ris- 
 ing too early would hurt her daughter's eyes, that 
 working after dinner would redden their noses, and 
 she convinced me that the hands never looked so 
 white as when they did nothing. Instead, therefore, of 
 finishing George’s shirts, we now had them new mo- 
 delling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. 
 The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay com- 
 panions, were cast off as mean acquaintance, and the 
 whole conversation ran upon high life and high-lived 
 company, with pictures, taste, Shakspeare, and the 
 musical glasses. 
 
 But we could have borne all this, had not a for- 
 tune-telling gypsey come to raise us into perfect sub- 
 limity. The tawney sybil no sooner appeared, than 
 my girls came running to me for a shilling a-piece, 
 to cross her hand with silver. To say the truth, I 
 was tired of being always wise, and could not help 
 gratifying their request, because I loved to see thiyri 
 happy. I gave each of them a shilling; though, for 
 the honour of the family, it must be observed, that 
 they never went without money themselves, as my 
 wife always generously let them have a guinea each, 
 to keep in their pockets; but with strict injunctions 
 never to change it. After they had been closeted up 
 with the fortune teller for some time, I knew by their 
 looks, upon their returning, that they had been pro- 
 E 2 
 
40 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 mised something great. f Well, my girls, how have 
 you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller 
 given thee a penny-worth ?’ — * I protest, papa,’ says 
 the girl, ‘ I believe she deals with somebody that 
 is not right ; for she positively declared, that I am 
 to be married ^ to a squire in less than a twelve- 
 month!’ — * Well, now, Sophy, my child,’ said I, 
 and what sort of a husband are you to have?’ — * Sir,’ 
 replied she, ( I am to have a lord soon after my 
 sister has married the squire.’ — ‘ How,’ cried I, is 
 that all you are to have for your two shillings ? Only 
 a lord and a squire for two shillings? You fools, I 
 could have promised you a prince and a nabob for 
 half the money.’ 
 
 This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended 
 with very serious effects: we now began to think 
 ourselves designed by the stars for something exalted, 
 and already anticipated our future grandeur. 
 
 It has been a thousand times observed, and I must 
 observe it once more, that the hours we pass with 
 happy prospects in view, are more pleasing than those 
 crowned with fruition. In the first case, wecookthe 
 dish to our own appetite; in the latter. Nature cooks 
 it for us. It is impossible to repeat the train of agree- 
 able reveries we called up for our entertainment. 
 We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising ; 
 and as the whole parish asserted, that the squire was 
 in love with my daughter, she was actually so with 
 him'; for they persuaded her into the passion. In this 
 agreeable interval, my wife had the most lucky dreams 
 in the world, which she took care to tell us every 
 morning with great solemnity and exactness. It was 
 one night a coffin and cross bones, the sign of an 
 approaching wedding; at another time she imagined 
 her daughters’ pockets filled with farthings, a certain 
 sign they would shortly be stuffed with gold. The 
 girls thetfiselves had their omens. They felt strange 
 kisses on their lips ; they saw rings in the candle; 
 purse-, - bounced irom the fire, and true love-knots 
 fiurksd in the bottom of every tea-cup. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 41 
 
 Towards the end of the week we received a card 
 from the town ladies ; in which, with their compli- 
 ments, thev hoped to see all our family at church the 
 Sunday following. All Saturday morning 1 could 
 perceive, in consetpience of this, my wife and daugh- 
 ters in close conference together, and now and then 
 glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. 
 To be sincere, 1 had strong suspicions that some ab- 
 surd proposal was preparing for appearing with splen- 
 dour the next day. In the evening they began their 
 I operations in a very regular manner, and my wile un- 
 dertook to conduct the siege. After tea, when I 
 seemed in spirits, she began thus: I fancy, Charles, 
 my dear, we shall have a great deal of good com- 
 pany at our church to-morrow.’ — ‘ Perhaps we may, 
 my dear,' returned I ; ‘ though you need be un- 
 der no uneasiness about that, you shall have a ser- 
 mon whether there be or not.’ — ‘ That is what 
 I expect,’ returned she: ‘but I think, mv dear, 
 we ought to appear there as decently as possible, for 
 who knows what may happen?’ — ‘ Your precau- 
 tions,’ replied I, ‘ are highly commendable. A 
 decent behaviour and appearance at church is what 
 charms me. We should be devout and humble, 
 cheerful and serene.’- — ‘ Yes,’ cried she, ‘ I know 
 that ; but 1 mean we should go there in as proper a 
 manner as possible, not altogether like the scrubs 
 about ns.’— — ‘ You are quite right, my dear,’ re- 
 turned I, * and I was going to make the very same 
 proposal. The proper manner of going is, to go 
 there as early as possible, to have time for medita- 
 tion before the service begins.’ — ‘ Phoo, Charles,’ 
 interrupted she, ‘ all this is very true ; but not what 
 I would be at. I mean, we should go there gen- 
 teelly. You know the church is two miles olf; and 
 3 protest I don’t like to see my daughters trudging 
 up to their pew all blotvzed and red with walking, 
 and looking for all the world as if they had been 
 winners at a smock race. Now, my dear, my pro- 
 posal is this; there are our two plough horses, tire 
 
42 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 colt that has been in oor family these nine years, 
 and his companion Blackberry, that has scarce done 
 an earthly thing for this month past. They are 
 both grown fat and lazy. Why should they not do 
 something as well as we? And let me tell you when 
 Moses has trimmed them a little, they will cut a 
 very tolerable figure.’ 
 
 To this proposal I objected, that walking would 
 be twenty times more genteel than such a paltry con- 
 veyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the colt 
 wanted a tail; that they had never been broke to the 
 the rein, but had an hundred vicious tricks ; and 
 that we had but one saddle and pillion in the whole 
 house. All these objections, however, were over- 
 ruled : so that 1 was obliged to comply. The next 
 morn'ing I perceived them not a little busy in collect- 
 ing such materials as might be necessary for the expe-^ 
 dition; but as I found it would be a business of time, 
 I vvalked on to the church before, and they promised 
 speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the 
 reading desk for their arrival : but not finding them 
 come as I expected, I was obliged to begin, and went 
 through the service, not without some uneasiness at 
 finding them absent. This was encreased when all 
 was finished, and noappearanceof the family. I there- 
 fore walked back by the horse-wav, which was five 
 miles round, though the foot-way was but two, and 
 when got. about half-way home, perceived the proces- 
 sion marching slowly forward towards the church ; 
 my son, my wife, and the two little ones exalted upon 
 one horse, and my two daughters upon the other I 
 demanded the cause of their delay ; but I soon found 
 by their looks they had met with a thousand misfor- 
 tunes on the road. The horses had at first refused 
 to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell was kind 
 enough to beat them forward for about two hundred 
 yards with his cudgel. Next the straps of my wife’s 
 pillion broke down, and they were obliged to stop 
 to repair them before they could proceed. After that, 
 ene of the horses took it into his head to stand still* 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 43 
 
 and neither blows nor entreaties could prevail with 
 him to proceed. It was just recovering from this 
 dismal situation that I found them ; but perceiving 
 every thing safe, I own their present mortification did 
 not much displease me, as it would give me many 
 opportunities of future triumph, and teach my daugh- 
 ters more humility. 
 
 -CHAP. XI. 
 
 The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads, 
 MICHAELMAS-EVE happening on the next day, 
 we were invited to bnrn nuts and play tricks at neigh- 
 bour Flamborough’s. Our late mortifications had 
 humbled us a little, or it is probable we might have 
 rejected such an invitation with contempt : however, 
 we suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest 
 neighbour’s goose and dumplings were fine; and the 
 lamb’s wool, even in the opinion of my wile, who 
 was a connoisseur, was excellent. It is true, his 
 manner of telling stories was not quite so well. r I hey 
 were very long and very dull, and all about himself, 
 and we had laughed atthein ten times before : however, 
 we were kind enough to laugh at them once more. 
 
 Mr. Burehell, who was of the party, was always 
 fond of seeing some innocent amusement going for- 
 ward, and set the boys and girls to blind man’s buff. 
 My wife too was persuaded to join in the diversion, 
 and it gave me pleasure to think she was not vet too 
 old. In the meantime, my neighbour and 1 looked 
 on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dex- 
 terity when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded 
 next, questions and commands followed that, and 
 last of all, they sat down to hunt the slipper. As every 
 person may not be acquainted with this primaeval 
 pastime, it maybe necessary to observe, that the com- 
 pany at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the 
 ground, all except one, who stands in the middle, 
 whose business is to catch a shoe, which the com- 
 pany shove about under their hams from one to ano- 
 ther, something like a weaver’s shuttle. As it is ifla- 
 
44 VICAR OP WaKEFIELB. 
 
 possible, in this case, for the lady who is up to faefe 
 all the company at once, the great beauty of the play 
 lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe 
 on that side least capable of making defence. It was 
 :n this manner that my eldest daughter was hemmed 
 in and thumped about, all blowzed, in spirits, and 
 bawling for fair play, with a voice that might deafen 
 a ballad-singer; when, confusion on confusion ! who 
 should enter the room but our two great acquain- 
 tances from town, Lady Blarney, and Miss Carolina 
 Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs ! Description would but 
 beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to describe, this 
 new mortification. Death! to be seen by lidies of 
 such high breeding in such vtolgar attitudes ! Nothing 
 better could ensue from such a vulgar play of Mr. Flam- 
 borough’s proposing. We seemed struck to the ground 
 for some time, as if actually petrified with amazement. 
 
 The two ladies had been at our house to see us, 
 and finding us from home, came after us hither, 
 as they were uneasy to know what accident could 
 have kept us from church the day before. Olivia 
 undertook to be our prolocutor, and delivered the 
 whole in a summary way, only saying, * We were 
 thrown from our horses.’ At which account the 
 ladies were greately concerned; but being told the 
 family received no hurt, they were extremely glad ; 
 but being informed that we were almost killed by the 
 fright, they were vastly sorry; but hearing that we 
 had a very good nigbt, they were extremely glad 
 again. Nothing could exceed their complaisance 
 to my daughters; their professions the last evening 
 were warm, but now they were ardent. They pro- 
 tested a desire of having a more lasting acquaintance. 
 Lady Blarney was particularly attached to Olivia; 
 Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to 
 give the whole name) took a greater fancy to her 
 sister. They supported the conversation between 
 themselves, while my daughters sgt silent, admiring 
 their exalted breeding. But as every reader, however 
 beggarly himself, is fond of high-lived dialogues. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 43 
 
 with anecdotes of lords, ladies, and knights of the 
 garter, I must beg leave to give him the concluding 
 part of the present conversation. 
 
 ‘ AH that I know of the matter,’ cried Miss Skeggs, 
 
 * is this, that it may be true, or it may not be true : 
 but this I can assure your ladyship, that the whole 
 rout was in amaze; his lordship turned all manner 
 of colours, my lady fell into a swoon; but Sir Tom- 
 [ kyn, drawing his sword, swore he was her’s to the 
 last drop of his blood.’ 
 
 ‘ Well,’ replied our peeress, ‘ this I can say, that 
 I the duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, 
 and I believe her grace would keep nothing a secret 
 from me. This you may depend on as a tact, that 
 the next morning my lord duke cried out three times 
 to his valet de chambre, Jernigan, Jermgan, Jerni- 
 gan, bring me mv garters.’ 
 
 But previously 1 should have mentioned the very 
 impolite behaviour of Mr.Burchell; who, during 
 this discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, 
 and at the conclusion of every sentence would cry 
 out 1'h dge , an expression which displeased us all, 
 and in some measure damped the rising spirit of the 
 conversation. 
 
 ‘ Besides, my dear Skeggs,’ continued our peeress 
 there is nothing of this in the copy of verses that 
 Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion.’ Fudge! 
 
 « I am surprized at that,’ cried Miss Skeggs; f for 
 he seldom leaves any thing out, as he writes only for 
 his own amusement. Bat can your ladyship favour 
 me with a sight of them?’ Fudge! 
 
 ‘ My deaf creature,’ replied our peeress, ‘ do you 
 think 1 carry such things about me? Though they 
 are very fine to be sure, and I think myselt some- 
 thing of a judge; at least I know what pleases my- 
 self. Indeed I was ever an admirer ol all Dr. Bur- 
 dock’s little pieces; for except what he does, and 
 our dear Countess at Hanoi cr Scjuaie there s not a 
 thing comes out but the most lowest stuff in nature; 
 not a bit of high life among them.’ Fudge ! 
 
4G VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 ‘ Your ladyship should except,’ says t’other, * yotiF 
 own things in the Lady’s Magazine. I hope you’ll 
 say there’s nothing low-lived there? But I' sup- 
 pose we are to have no more from that quarter.’ 
 Fudge ! 
 
 ‘ Why, my dear,’ says the lady, ‘ you know my 
 reader and companion has left me to he married to 
 Captain Ifoach, and as my poor eyes won’t sutler me 
 to write myself, I have been for some time looking 
 out for another. A proper person is no easy matter 
 to find, and to be sure thirty pounds a-year is a 
 small stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that 
 can read, write, and behave in company; as for the 
 chits about town, there is no bearing them about 
 one.’ — Fudge! 
 
 ‘ That I know,’ cried Miss Skeggs, ' by expe- 
 rience. For of the three companions 1 had "this last 
 half year, one of them refused to do plain work an 
 hour in the dav; another thought twenty-five guineas 
 a-year too small a salary, and I was obliged to send 
 away the third, because I suspected an intrigue with 
 the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Ladv Blarney, virtue 
 b worth any price; but where is that to be" found? 
 Fudge ! 
 
 My wife had been for a long time all attention to 
 this discourse ; but was particularly struck with the 
 latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty-five 
 guineas a year, made fifty-six pounds five shillings 
 English money, all which was in a manner going° a 
 begging, and might easily be secured in the family; 
 She for a moment studied my looks for approbation; 
 and, to own a truth, I was of opinion, that two such 
 places would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides 
 if the squire had any real affection for my eldest 
 daughter, this would be the way to make her every 
 way qualified for her fortune. My wife therefore was 
 resolved that we should not be deprived of such advan- 
 tages for want of assurance, and undertook to harangue 
 for the family. * 1 hope,’ cried she, ‘ your ladyship 
 will pardon my present presumption. It is true 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFJF.LD. 47 
 
 we have no right to pretend to such favours, but yet 
 it is natural for me to wish putting my children for- 
 ward in the world. And 1 will be bold to say, my 
 two girls have had' a pretty good education, ami 
 capacity, at least the country can’t shew better. 
 They can read, write, and cast accounts; they un- 
 klerstand their needle, broad-stitch, cross and change, 
 [and all manner of plain work; they can pink, point, 
 and frill; and know something of music; they can 
 [do up small clothes, and work upon catgut; my 
 I eldest can cut paper, and my youngest has a very pretty 
 manner of telling fortunes upon the cards.’ Fudge ! 
 
 When she had delivered this pretty piece oi elo- 
 quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few 
 minutes in silence, with an air of doubt and impor- 
 tance. At last Miss Carolina Wilelmina Amelia 
 Skeggs condescended to observe, * that the young 
 ladies’, from the opinion she could form of them from 
 so slight an acquaintance, seemed very fit for such 
 employments; but a thing of this kind. Madam,’ 
 cried she, addressing my spouse, ‘ requires a tho>- 
 rough examination into characters, and a more per- 
 fect knowledge of each other. Not, Madam,’ con- 
 tinued she, ‘ that I in the least suspect the young 
 ladies’ virtue, prudence, and discretion : but there is 
 a form in these things. Madam; there is a form.’ 
 Fudge! 
 
 My wife approved her suspicions very much, ob- 
 serving that she was very apt to be suspicious herself; 
 but referred her to all the neighbours for a character ; 
 but this our peeress declined as unnecessary, alleging 
 that her cousin Thornhill’s recommendation would 
 be sufficient, and upon this we rested our petition. 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 Fortune seems resolved to humble the Family of 
 Wakefield. Mortifications arc often more painful 
 than real Calamities. 
 
 WHEN we were returned home, the night was 
 dedicated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah 
 
4$ VieAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 exerted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the 
 two girls was likely to have the best place, and most 
 opportunities of seeing good company. The only 
 obstacle to our preferment was in obtainingjthe squire’s 
 recommendation; but he had already shewn us too 
 many instances of his friendship to doubt of it now. 
 Even in bed my wife kept up the usual theme: 
 ‘ Well, faith, my dear Charles, between ourselves, I 
 think we have made an excellent day’s work of it.’ — 
 ‘ Pretty well,’ cried I, not knowing what to say. — 
 ‘ What, only pretty well !’ returned she. ‘ I think 
 it is very vyell. Suppose the girls should come to 
 make acquaintances of taste in town! This I am as- 
 sured of, that London is the only place in the world 
 for all manner of husbands. Besides, mydear, stranger 
 things happen every day; and as ladies of quality are 
 so greatly taken with my daughters, what will not 
 men of quality be? Pin tie nous, I protest 1 like my 
 Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. However, Miss 
 Carolina W iielmina AmeliaSkeggshas my warm heart. 
 But yet, when they came to talk of places in town, 
 you saw at once how I nailed them. Tell me, my 
 dear, don’t you think I did for mv children there?’— 
 ‘ Aye,’ returned 1, not knowing’well what to think 
 of the matter, ‘ Heaven grant they may be both 
 the better for it this day three months!’ This was 
 one of those observations I made to impress my wife 
 with an opinion of my sagacity; for if the girls suc- 
 ceeded, then it was a pious wish fulfilled ; hut if 
 any thing unfortunate ensued, then it mi°ht be 
 looked upon as a prophecy. All this conversation, 
 however, was only preparatory to another scheme* 
 and indeed 1 dreaded as much. This was nothing 
 less than, as we were now to hold tip our head's 
 a little higher in the world, it would be proper 
 to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a neigh- 
 bouring fair, and buy us an horse that would carry 
 single or double upon an occasion, and make a 
 pretty appearance at church or upon a visit. This 
 at fi:st I opposed stoutly ; but it was as stoutly de- 
 
vicar of v/akefield. 
 
 fended. However, as 1 weakened, my antagonist, 
 gained strength, till at last it was resolved to part 
 with him. 
 
 As the fair happened on the following day, I had 
 intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded 
 me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail 
 upon her to permit me from home. ‘ No, my dear,’ 
 said she, ‘ our son Moses is a discreet boy-, and can 
 buy and sell to very good advantage ; vou know all 
 our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always 
 stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till 
 he gets a bargain.’ 
 
 As I had some opinion of my son’s prudence, l 
 was willing enough to entrust him with this commis- 
 sion ; and the next morning 1 perceived his sisters 
 mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair; trim- 
 ming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking 
 bis hat with pins. The business of the toilet being 
 over, we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him 
 mounted upon the colt, with a deal box before him to 
 bring home groceries in. He had on a coat made of 
 that cloth they call thunder and lightning, which 
 though grown too short, was much too good to be 
 thrown away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, 
 and his sisters bad tied his hair with a broad black 
 ribband. We all followed him several paces from the 
 door, bawling after him, ‘ Good luck, good luck,’ till 
 we could see him no longer. 
 
 He was scarce gone, when Mr. Thornhill’s butler 
 came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, sav- 
 ing, that he overheard his young master mention our 
 names with great commendation. 
 
 Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. 
 Another footman from the same family followed, 
 with a card for my daughters, importing that the two 
 ladies had received such pleasing accounts from Mr. 
 Thornhill of us all, that after a few previous enquiries, 
 they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. ‘ Ay,’ cried my 
 wife, ‘ 1 now see it is no easy matter to get into the 
 families of the great ; but when one once gets in, 
 
 F 
 
50 VICAR or WAKEFIELD 
 
 then, as Moses says, one may go to sleep.’ To this 
 piece of humour, for she intended it for wit, my 
 daughters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. 
 In short, such was her satisfaction at this message, 
 that she actually put her hand in her pocket, and gave 
 the messenger seven-pence halfpenny. 
 
 This was to be our visiting day. The next that 
 came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. 
 He brought my little ones a pennyworth of ginger- 
 bread each, which my wife undertook to keep for 
 them, and give them by letters at a time. He 
 brought my daughters also a couple of boxes, in 
 which they might keep wafers, snuff, patches, or 
 even money when they got it. My wife was usually 
 fond of a weazel-skin purse, as being the most lucky; 
 but this by the bye. We had still a regard for 
 Mr. Burchell, though his late rude behaviour was in 
 so, me measure displeasing; nor could we now avoid 
 communicating onr happiness to him, and asking his 
 advice: although we seldom followed advice, we 
 were all ready enough to ask it. When we read the 
 note from the two ladies, he shook his head, and 
 observed that an affair of this sort demanded the 
 utmost circumspection. This air of diffidence highly 
 displeased my wife. ‘I never doubted. Sir,’ cried 
 she, ‘ your readiness to be against my daughters, and 
 me. You have more circumspection than is wanted. 
 However, I fancy when we come to ask advice, we 
 shall apply to persons who seem to have made use 
 of it themselves.’ — * Whatever my own conduct mav 
 have been, Madam,’ replied he, ‘ is not the present 
 question ; though as I have made no use of advice 
 myself, I should in conscience give it to those that 
 will.’ As L was apprehensive this answer might 
 draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what it 
 wanted in wit, 1 changed the subject, by seeming to 
 wonder what could keep our son so long at the fair, 
 as it was now al most night-fall. ‘ Never mind our son/ 
 cried my wife; ‘ depend upon it he knows what he is 
 about. Til warrant we’ll never sec him sell his hen 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 51 
 
 •n a rainy clay. 1 have seen him buy such bargains 
 as would amaze one. I’ll tell you a good story 
 about that, that will make you split vour sides with 
 laughing. But as I live, yonder comes Moses with- 
 out an horse, and the box at his back.’ 
 
 As she spoke, Moses came slowly on foot, and 
 sweating under the deal box, which he had strapt 
 round his shoulders like a pedlar. * Welcome, wel- 
 come, Moses; well, my.boy, what have you brought 
 us from the fair?’ — ‘ I have brought you myself,’ 
 cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on 
 the dresser. ‘ Aye, Moses,’ cried my wife, ‘ that 
 we know, but where is the horse? * I have sold 
 him,’ cried Moses, * for three pounds five shillings 
 and two pence.’ — * Well done, my good boy,’ re- 
 turned she, ‘ I knew you would touch them off. Be- 
 tween ourselves, three pounds five shillings and two- 
 pence is no* bad day’s work. Come let us have it 
 then.’ — ‘ I have brought back no money,’ cried 
 Moses again. ‘ I have laid it all out in a bargain, 
 and here it is,’ pulling out a bundle from his breast: 
 ‘ here they are; a groce of green spectacles, with 
 silver rims and shagreen cases.’ — * A groce of green 
 spectacles !’ replied my wife in a faint voice. * And 
 you have parted with the colt, and brought us back 
 
 nothing but a groce of green paltry spectacles?’- 
 
 * Dear mother,’ cried the boy, ‘ why won’t you listen 
 to reason ; I had them a dead bargain, or I should 
 not have bought them. The silver rims alone will 
 sell for double the money.’ — ‘ A fig for the silver 
 rims,’ cried my wife in a passion : * I dare swear 
 they won’t sell for above half the money at the rate 
 of broken silver, five shillings an ounce .’ — ‘ You 
 need be under no uneasiness,’ cried I, * about selling 
 the rims, for they are not worth six-pence, for I 
 perceive they are only copper varnished over.’— — — 
 ‘ What,’ cried my wife, ‘ not silver! the rims not 
 silver!’ — * No,’ cried I, no more silver than your 
 saucepan.’ — ‘ And so,’ returned she, ‘ we have parted 
 with the colt, and have only got a groce of green 
 F 2 
 
52 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 spectacles, with copper rims and shagreen cases! A 
 murrain take such trumpery. The blockhead has 
 been imposed upon, and should have known his com- 
 pany better.’ — ‘ There, my dear,’ cried I, ‘ you are 
 wrong, he should not have known them at all.’ — 
 Marry, hang the idiot,’ returned she, 4 to bring me 
 such stuff; if 1 had them, I would throw them in 
 the fire.’ — 4 There again you are wrong, my dear,’ 
 cried I; 4 for though they be copper, we will keep 
 them by us, as copper spectacles, you know, are 
 better than nothing.’ 
 
 By this time the unfortunate Moses was undeceived, 
 lie now saw that he had indeed been imposed upon 
 by a prowling sharper, who observing his figure, had 
 marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked him 
 the circumstance of his deception. He sold the horse, 
 it seems, and walked the fair in search of another. 
 A reverend looking man brought him into a tent, under 
 pretence of having one to sell. 4 Here,’ continued 
 Moses, 4 we met another man very well drest, who 
 desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying 
 that he wanted money, and would dispose of them 
 for a third of the value. The first gentleman who 
 pretended to be my friend, whispered ine to buy 
 them, and cautioned me not to let so good an offer 
 pass. I sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked 
 him up as finely as they did me, and so at last we 
 were persuaded to buy the two groce between us.’ 
 
 CHAP. XIII. 
 
 Mr. Burchell is found to he an Enemy • for he has the 
 Confidence to give disagreeable Advice. 
 
 OUR family had now made several attempts to be 
 fine; but some unforeseen disaster demolished each 
 as soon as projected. I endeavoured to take the ad- 
 vantage of every disappointment, to improve their 
 good sense in proportion as they were frustrated in 
 ambition. c You see my children,’ cried I, 4 how 
 little it is to be got by attempts to impose upon the 
 world, in coping with our betters. Such as are poor. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. S3 
 
 ami will associate with none but the rich, are hated 
 by those they avoid, and despised by those they 
 follow. Unequal combinations are always disadvan- 
 tageous to the weaker side; the rich having the plea- 
 sure, and the poor the inconveniences that result 
 from them. But come, Dick, my boy, and repeat 
 the fable you were reading to-day tor the good of the 
 Company.’ 
 
 ‘ Once upon a time,’ cried the child, ‘ a giant and 
 a dwarf were friends, and kept together. They made 
 a bargain they never would forsake each other, but 
 go seek adventures. The first battle they fought 
 ■was with two Saracens ; and the dwarf, who was 
 very courageous, dealt one of the champions a most 
 angry blow. It did the Saracen but very little in- 
 jury, who lifting up his sword, fairly struck off 
 the poor dwarf’s arm. He was now in a woeful 
 plight ; but the giant coming to his assistance, in a 
 short lime left the two Saracens dead on the plain, 
 and the dwarf cut oil the dead man’s head out of 
 spite. 'I hey then travelled on to another adventure. 
 I his was against three bloody-minded satyrs, who 
 were carrying^ way a damsel in distress. The dwarf 
 was not quite so fierce now as before ; but for all 
 that struck the first blow, which was returned bv 
 another that knocked out his eye; but the giant 
 ^vas soon up with them, and, had they not fled, 
 would certainly have killed them every one. They 
 we re all veryjoyful for this victory ; and the damsel 
 who was relieved fell in love with the giant, and 
 married him. They now travelled far, and farthej 
 than I can tell, till they met with a company of 
 robbers. The giant for the first time was foremost 
 now; but the dwarf was not far behind. The 
 battle was stoat and long. Wherever the giant 
 came, ail fell before him; but the dw r arf had like 
 to have been killed more than once. At last the 
 victory declared for the two adventurers; but the 
 dwarf lost his leg. The dwarf bad now lost an arm, 
 * legj and an eye, while thfc giant was without a. 
 
54 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 single wound. Upon which he cried out to his little 
 companion, “ My little hero, this is glorious sport; 
 let us get one victory more, and then we shall have ho- 
 nour forever.” — “No,” cries tne dwarf, who by this 
 time was grown wiser, “ no, I declare oft ; I 11 fight no 
 more ; for I find in every battle that you get all the 
 honour and rewards, but all the blows fall upon me. 
 
 I was going to moralize upon this fable, when our 
 attention was called off to a warm dispute between 
 my wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters in- 
 tended expedition to town. My wife very strenuously 
 insisted upon the advantages that would result from it. 
 Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with 
 great ardour, and I stood neuter. His present dissua- 
 sions seemed but the second part of those which were 
 received with so ill a grace in the morning. I he dis- 
 pute grew so high, while poor Deborah, instead ot 
 reasoning stronger, talked louder, and at last was 
 obliged to take shelter from a defeat in clamour. 
 The conclusion of her harangue, however , was highly 
 displeasing to us all: she knew, she said, ol some 
 who had their secret reasons for what they advised ; 
 but for her part she wished such to stay away from 
 her house for the future. ‘ Madam,’ cried Burchell, 
 with looks of great composure, which tended to in- 
 flame her the more, ‘ as for secret reasons, you are 
 right: I have secret reasons, which I forbear to men- 
 tion, because you are not able to answer those of 
 which I make no secret. But I find my visits here 
 arc become troublesome ; I’ll take my leave therefore 
 now, and perhaps come once more to take affinal 
 farewell when 1 am quitting the country.’ Thus 
 saying, he took up his hat, nor could the attempts of 
 Sophia, whose looks seemed to upbraid his precipi- 
 tancy, prevent his going. 
 
 When gone, we all regarded each other i or: some 
 minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself 
 to he the cause, strove to hide her concern with a 
 forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was 
 willing to reprove, ‘How, woman,’ cried I, to her. 
 
VICAR OP WAKEFIELD. *' 5 
 
 k. * "VT“S U dii, oS 
 
 Ut ever escaped vou's. ^ ^ ^ the ro0tive s 
 )ke me then ? replied , pj prevent my 
 
 ~ his advice I*rf«*'y " e ’.h, t h' the plea- 
 
 ’ Aon oneh low liv’d fellows as he.— wv 
 
 il"l U el4\ S n»w e0C TelTm=. Sophia, my girl- h*ih. 
 
 «. “ h“ ^ »ee„ tSt 
 
 “SK>?-7r! 
 
 vho coeald find ^ «? cant 
 
 a Withe unfortunate or idle. But 1 hope you have 
 
 iss&R 
 
 55#S3l|gIi 
 
 colvard ^’’Id’ those faults it ha. not strength to pre- 
 vent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse. 
 
' 1CAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 CHAP. XIV. 
 
 indisncnsibly necessary that thei, appearance*”!?! 
 
 l l , 1 ? rcat ness of their expectations, which could 
 for- f„ f if W “ h T “I*"*- We Hcba d therel 
 
 IhluTd <n ye: "cT * l ’ erer< ’ re determined that « 
 tinned tTo°„jTh’ f °- above men! 
 
 imposition that l°"i Oll , rl l n o ialr t and, to prevent 
 
 mvself with renthation. 3 Stmf 
 
 nave an my eyes about me. 1 
 
 •I had, in the usual form, when T nm? c ■ 
 
 put my horse through all hifnace! h!, f ' r ' 
 
 he° had'a^l* whife 'wunfrfed'Th^h’" 1 ’ 
 round finrlino- h;™ uv . i examined the horse 
 
 nothing to lnd ° f ° ne f aVe > he sho »!tl have 
 
 servinrr^h k^i t0 a second came up, but ob- 
 oen nig h. h | spavin, declared he would not take 
 
 ^wintal'anTl^dT!, 1 1 ‘ hir<l P^vedTeS 
 
 ° J '■» and would bid no money; a fourth knew 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. bj 
 
 r his eve that he had the bolts; a fifth wondered 
 hat a plague 1 could do at the fair with a blind, 
 lavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up 
 lr a dog-kennel. By this time I began to have a 
 tost hearty contempt for the poor animal myseil, 
 nd was almost ashamed at the approach of every 
 ustomer: for though I did not entirely believe alt 
 lie fellows told me ; yet I reflected that the number 
 [f witnesses was a strong presumption they were 
 fight; and St. Gregory upon good works, professes 
 himself to he of the same opinion. 
 
 I was in this mortifying situation, when a brot er 
 Clergyman, an old acquaintance, who had also Du- 
 llness at the fair, came up, and shaking me by the 
 band, proposed adjourning to a public-house, and 
 taking a class of whatever we could get. I readily 
 dosed with the offer, and entering an alehouse, we 
 were shewn into a little back room, where there was 
 inly a venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over 
 a large book, which he was reading. I never in my 
 life saw a figure that prepossessed me more favourably. 
 His locks of silver grey venerably shaded his temples ; 
 and his green old age seemed to he the result of health 
 and benevolence. However, his presence did not in- 
 terrupt our conversation ; my friend and I discoursed 
 on the various turns of fortune we had met : the 
 fWhistonian controversy, my last pamphlet, the arch- 
 deacon’s replv, and the hard measure that was dealt 
 me. But our attention was in a short time taken oft 
 bv the appearance of a youth, who entering the room, 
 respectfully said something softly to the old stranger, 
 ‘ Make no apologies, my child,’ said the old man ; 
 * to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow- 
 creatures : take this, I wish it were more ; but five 
 bounds will relieve your distress, and you are wel- 
 come.’ The modest youth shed tears of gratitude ; 
 and yet his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. I 
 could have hugged the good old man in my arms, 
 his benevolence pleased me so. He continued to 
 read, and we resumed our conversation, until my 
 
53 _ VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 companion, after some time, recollecting that he hai 
 business to transact in the fair, promised to be sooi 
 back ; adding, that he always desired to have a 
 much of Dr. Primrose's company as possible. Th< 
 old gentleman hearing my name mentioned, seemei 
 to look at me with attention for some time, am 
 when mv friend was gone, most respectfully de 
 markled it I was related to the great Primrose, tha 
 courageous monogamist, who had been the bulwarl 
 ol the church. Never did my heart feel sincere] 
 rapture than at that moment. ‘ Sir,’ cried I, ‘ th< 
 applause of so good a man as I am sure you are, adds 
 to that happiness in nay breast which your benevolenct 
 lias already excited. Y ou behold before you, Sir, tha 
 Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have beet 
 pleased to cal! great. ou here see that unfortunate 
 divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me 
 to say successfully, fought against the deuterogamy o 
 the age. — * Sir,’ cried the stranger, struck with awe 
 * I f ear 1 have been too familiar; but you’ll forgive 
 nay curiosity. Sir, I beg pardon.’— ‘ Sir,’ cried I, 
 grasping his hand, * you are so far from displeasing 
 me by your familiarity, that I must beg you’ll accept 
 my friendship, as you already have my esteem.’— i 
 £ Then with gratitude 1 accept the offer,’ cried he, 
 squeezing me by the hand, thou glorious pillar of 
 
 unshaken orthodoxy ; and do 1 behold ’ I here 
 
 interrupted what he was going to say: for though as 
 an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, 
 yet now my modesty would permit no more. How- 
 ever, no lovers in romance ever cemented a more in- 
 stantaneous friendship, We talked upon several sub- 
 jects : at first, I thought him rather devout than 
 learned, and began to think he despised all human 
 doctrines as dross. Yet this no way lessened him in 
 my esteem ; for I had for some time begun privately 
 to harbour such an opinion myself, I therefore took 
 occasion to observe, that the world in general begaiH 
 to be blameably indifferent as to doctrinal matters, 
 and followed human speculations too much. ‘ Aye,) 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. _ 
 
 • replied he, as if he had reserved all his learning 
 that moment, ‘ Aye, Sir, the world is in its do- 
 r e • and vet the cosmogony, or creation ot the 
 orld has 'puzzled, philosophers of all ages What 
 KVeJlev of opinions have they not broached upon 
 L creation of the world ! Sanconiathon, Manetho, 
 frosus and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it 
 [vain/ The latter has these words : Anar chon ar a 
 Lj atelutaion to pan, which implies that all things 
 ave neither beginning or end. Manetho, also, who 
 ted about the time of Nebuchadon Asser; Asser 
 ling a Syriac word, usually applied .as a surname to 
 |e kings of that country, as leglat 1 hael-Asser, 
 labon-Asser ; he, 1 say, formed a conjecture equally 
 asurd : for as we usually say, ek to hbhon kttber- 
 Stcs, which implies that books will never teach the 
 -oriel ; so he attempted to investigate— But, Sir 1 
 ;k pardon, 1 am straying from the question . I hat 
 e actually was; nor could 1 for my life see how the 
 reation of the world had anv thing to do with the 
 usinessl was talking of; but it was sufficient to 
 hew me that he was a man ol letters, and I now re- 
 erenced him the more. 1 was resolved thereiore to 
 ring him to the touchstone; but he was too mild 
 nd too gentle to contend for victory, vy henever 1 
 j,ade anv observation that looked like a challenge to 
 bntroversy, he would smile, shake his head, and 
 lv nothing, by which 1 understood he could say 
 nuch, if he thought proper. The subject, therefore, 
 isensiblv changed from the business of antiquity to 
 hat which brought us to the fair : mine, 1 told him, 
 l as to sell an horse, and very luckily indeed, his was 
 a buy one for one of his tenants. My horse was 
 fcon produced, and in fine we struck a bargain. No- 
 hin" now remained but to pay me, and lie accord- 
 ingly pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me 
 hafo-e it. Not being in a capacity of complying 
 vith his demand, he ordered his fyotman to be called 
 in, who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. 
 'Here, Abraham/ cried he, ‘ go and get gold for 
 
6 0 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 this ; you’ll do it at neighbour Jackson’s, or am 
 where.’ While the fellow was gone, he entertainei 
 rne with a pathetic harangue on the great scarcity » 
 silver, which I undertook to improve, by deplorinl 
 also the great scarcity of gold; so that by the timl 
 Abraham returned, we had both agreed that monel 
 was never so hard to be come at as now. Abrahari 
 returned to inform us, that he had been over th 
 whole fair, and could not get change, though h 
 had offered half a crown for doing it. This was 
 very great disappointment to us all ; but the old gen 
 tleman having paused a little, asked me if 1 knev 
 one Solomon Elamborough in my part of the coun 
 try : upon replying that he was my next door neigh 
 hour, ‘ If that be the case then,’ returned lie, ‘ I be 
 lieve we shall deal. You shall have a draft upo; 
 him payable at sight : and let me tell you, he is a 
 warm a man as any within five miles round him 
 Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted fo 
 many years together. I remember I always beat hin 
 at three jumps; but he could hop upon one leg fur 
 ther than I.’ A draft upon ray neighbour was to m 
 the same as money; for I was sufficiently convince 
 of his ability ; the draft was signed and put into m 
 hands, and Mr. Jenkinson, the old gentleman, hi 
 man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, trottet 
 off very well pleased with each other. 
 
 After a short interval, being left to reflection, ; 
 began to recollect 1 had done wrong in takiiw ; 
 draft from a stranger, and so prudently resolvet 
 upon following the purchaser, and having back ml 
 horse. But this was now too late : I therefore mad! 
 directly homewards, resolving to get the draft change* 
 into money at my friend’s as fast as possible. ] 
 found my honest neighbour smoking his pipe at hi 
 own door, and informing him that I had a smal 
 bill upon him, he read it twice over. ‘ You car 
 read the name, 1 suppose,’ cried I, ‘ Ephraim Jen 
 kinson.’ — ‘ Yes,’ returned he, ‘ the name is writ tel 
 plain enough, and I know the gentleman too, th< 
 
VJCAR OF WAKEFIF.tD. Gl 
 
 greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven. This is 
 die very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was 
 ae not a venerable looking man, with grey hair, and 
 no flaps to his pocket-holes? And did he not talk 
 a long string of learning about Greek, and cosmo- 
 gony, and the world? To this I replied with a groan. 
 
 * Aye,’ continued he, * he has but one piece of learn- 
 ing in the world, and lie always talks it wherever he 
 finds a scholar in company ; but I know the rogue, 
 and will catch him yet.’ 
 
 Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my 
 greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and 
 daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of re- 
 turning to school, there to behold the master’s visage, 
 .than 1 was of going home. 1 was determined, how- 
 ever, to anticipate their fury, by first falling into a pas- 
 sion myself. 
 
 But, alas ! upon entering, I found the family no way 
 disposed for battle. My wife and girls were all in tears, 
 !Mr. Thornhill having been there that day to inform 
 them, that their journey to town was entirely over. 
 The two ladies, having heard reports of us from some 
 .malicious person, were that day set out for London. 
 He could neither discover the tendency, nor the 
 author of these; but whatever they might be, or 
 whoever might have broached them, he continued 
 to assure our family of his friendship and protection. 
 I found, therefore, that they bore my disappointment 
 with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the great- 
 ness of their own. But what perplexed us most was 
 to think who could be so base as to asperse the cha- 
 racter of a family so harmless as ours ; too humble to 
 excite envy, and too inoffensive to cieate disgust. 
 
 CHAP. XV. 
 
 [All Mr. Burchell’s Villainy at once detected. The 
 Folly of being over wise. 
 
 THAT evening, and part of the following day, 
 were employed in fruitless attempts to discover our 
 enemies : scarce a family in the neighbourhood but 
 
62 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 incurred our suspicions ; and each of us had reason^ 
 for our opinions best known to ourselves. As we 
 were in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who had 
 been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case which 
 he found on the green. It was quickly known to 
 belong to Mr. Burehell, with whom it had been seen ; 
 and, upon examination, contained some hints upon 
 different subjects; but what particularly engaged emr 
 attention, was a sealed note, superscribed, ‘ The copy 
 of a letter to be sent to the ladies at Thornhill Castle.’ 
 It instantly occurred, that he was the base informer; 
 and we. deliberated, whether the note should not he 
 broke open. 1 was against it; but Sophia, who said 
 she was sure that of all men he would be the last to 
 be guiltv of so much baseness, insisted upon its being 
 read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the 
 family ; and at their joint solicitation, 1 read as 
 follows : 
 
 ‘ LADIES, 
 
 * THE bearer will sufficiently satisfy you ai to the 
 ‘ person from whom this comes: one at least the 
 ‘ friend of innocence, and ready ttf prevent its being 
 ‘ seduced. I am informed fora truth, that you have 
 ‘ some intention of bringing two young ladies to 
 ‘ town, whom I have some knowledge' of, under 
 ‘ the character of companions. As I would neither 
 ‘ have simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contami- 
 ‘ nated, I must offer it as my opinion, that the im- 
 
 * propriety of such a step will be attended with dan- 
 ‘ gerous con-sequences. It has never been my wav 
 ‘ to treat the infamous or the lewd with severity"; 
 
 ‘ nor should I now have taken this method of ex- 
 ‘ plaining myself, or reproving folly, c(jd it not aim 
 ‘ at guilt. I ake therefore the admonition of a friend, 
 
 * and seriously reflect on the consequences of intro- 
 4 ducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace 
 4 and innocence have hitherto resided.’ 
 
 Our doubts vvere now at an end. There seemed 
 indeed something applicable to both sides in this ' 
 letter, and its censures might as well be referred to 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 63 
 
 those to whom it was written, as to us; but the ma- 
 licious meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. 
 |My wife had scarce patience to hear me to the end, 
 but railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment. 
 Olivia was equally severe; and Sophia seemed per- 
 fectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it 
 appeared to me one of the vilest instances of unpro- 
 voked ingratitude I had ever met with. Nor could I 
 account for it in anv other manner than by imputing 
 ’it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in 
 j the country, to have the more frequent opportunities 
 : of an interview. In this manner w'e all sat rumi- 
 nating upon schemes of vengeance, when our other 
 little boy came running to tell us, that Mr. Burchell 
 was approaching at the other end of the field. It is 
 easier to conceive than describe the complicated sen- 
 sations which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, 
 and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Though 
 eur intentions were only to upbraid him with his in- 
 ’ gratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a manner that 
 would be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we 
 agreed to meet him with our usual smiles, to chat in 
 ; the beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to 
 amuse him a little; and then, in the midst of the 
 flattering calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, 
 and overwhelm him with the sense of his own base- 
 ness. This being resolved upon, my wife undertook 
 to manage the business herself, as she really had 
 some talents for such an undertaking. We saw him 
 approach; he entered, drew a chair, and sat down, 
 j* A fine day, Mr. Burchell.’ — ‘ A very fine day, 
 doctor ; though I fancy we shall have some rain, by 
 the shooting of my corns.’ — ‘ The shooting of yoyv 
 horns,’ cried my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and 
 then asked pardon for being fond of a joke. * Dear 
 j madam,’ replied he, ‘ I pardon you with all my 
 heart ; for I protest I should not have thought it a 
 joke had you nftt told me.’ — * Perhaps not. Sir,’ 
 Tried my wife, winking at us ; and yet I dare say 
 you can tell us how manv jokes go to an ounce.’— » 
 
 g' % 
 
f)4 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 * I fancy. Madam,’ returned JBurchell, ‘ you have} 
 been reading a jest book this morning, that ounce of 
 jokes is so very good a conceit; and yet. Madam, I 
 had rather see half an ounce of understanding .’ — ‘ Is 
 believe you might,’ cried my wife, still smiling at us,j 
 though the laugh was against her ; and yet I have 
 seen some men pretend to understanding that have 
 very little .’ — ‘ And no doubt,’ replied her antagonist 
 ‘ you have known ladies set up for wit that had none.’ 
 I quickly began to find, that my w’ife was likely to 
 gain but little at this business ; so I resolved to treat 
 him in a style of more severity myself. Both wit and 
 understanding,’ cried I, ‘ are trifles without integrity; 
 it is that which gives value to every character : the; 
 ignorant peasant without fault, is greater than the 
 philosopher with many ; for what is genius or cou- 
 rage without an heart ? 
 
 ‘ An honest man’s the noblest work of God.’ 
 
 * I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope,’ 
 returned Mr. Burchell, ‘ as very unworthy a man of 
 genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority. 
 As the reputation of books is raised not by their free- 
 dom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties ; 
 so should that of inen be prized not from their ex- 
 emption from fault, but the size of those virtues they 
 are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, 
 the statesman may have pride, and the champion fe- 
 rocity ; but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, 
 who laboriously plods on through life, without cen- 
 sure or applause? We might as well prefer the tame 
 correct paintings of the Flemish school, to the 
 erroneous but sublime animations of the Roman 
 pencil.’ 
 
 ‘ Sir,’ replied I, ‘ your present observation is just, 
 when there are shining virtues and minute defects; 
 hut when it appears that great vices are opposed in 
 the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a 
 character deserves contempt.’ 
 
 ‘ Perhaps,’ cried he, ‘ there may be some such 
 monsters as you describe, of great vices joined t» 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, Gj 
 
 *reat virtues; yet. in my progress through life, I 
 never yet found one instance of their existence : on 
 the contrary, 1 have ever perceived that where the 
 mind was capacious, the affections were good. And, 
 indeed. Providence seems kindly our friend in this 
 particular, thus to debilitate the understanding, where 
 the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where 
 there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to 
 extend even to other animals : the little vermin race 
 are ever treacherous, cruel, and cowardly; whilst 
 those endowed with strength and power, are gene- 
 rous, brave, and gentle. 
 
 ‘ These observations sound well,’ returned I, * and 
 " yet it would be easy this moment to point out a man,’ 
 and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon him, ‘ whose head 
 and heart form a most detestable contrast. Aye, sir,’ 
 continued I, raising my voice, ‘ and I am glad to 
 have this opportunity of detecting him in the midst 
 | of his fancied security. Do you know this, Sir, this 
 j pocket-book?’ — 1 Yes, Sir,’ returned he, with a face 
 ! of impenetrable assurance, ‘ that pocket-book is mine, 
 and 1 am glad you have found it.’ — ‘ And do you 
 know,’ cried 1, ‘ this letter? Nay, never faulter, man; 
 but look me full in the face : I say, do you know 
 this letter?’ — ‘That letter!’ returned he ; ‘yes, it was 
 I that wrote that letter.’ — ‘ And how could you,’ said 
 J, ‘ so basely, so ungratefully, presume to write this 
 letter?’ — ‘ And how came you,’ replied he, with 
 looks of unparalleled effrontery, * so basely to pre- 
 sume to break open this letter? Don’t you know, 
 now, I could hang you for this ? All that I have to 
 : do, is to swear at tire next justice’s, that you have 
 been guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket- 
 book, and so hang you all up at this door.’ This 
 : piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a 
 pitch, that I could scarce govern my passion. ‘ Un- 
 grateful wretch, begone! and no longer pollute my 
 dwelling with thy baseness. Begone, and never let 
 1 me see thee again : go from my door; and the only 
 punishment 1 wish thee is an alarmed conscience, 
 G 3 
 
?>6 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 which will he a sufficient tormentor. 5 So saying, T 
 threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with 
 a smile, and shutting the clasps, with the utmest 
 composure, left us quite astonished at the serenity of 
 his assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that 
 nothing could make him angry, or make him ashamed 
 of his villanies. ‘ My dear,’ cried I, willing to calm 
 those passions which had been raised too high among 
 us, ‘ we are not to be surprised that bad men want 
 shame; they only blush at being detected in doing 
 good, but glory in their vices.’ 
 
 ‘ Guilt and Shame (says the allegory) were at first 
 companions, and in the beginning of their journey 
 inseparably kept together. But their union was soon 
 found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both ; 
 Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame 
 often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After 
 long disagreement, therefore, they at length con- 
 sented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward 
 alone, to overtake Fate, that went before in the 
 shape of an executioner; but Shame, being natu- 
 rally timorous, returned back to keep company with 
 Virtue, which in the beginning of their journey they 
 had left behind. — Thus, my children, after men 
 have travelled through a few stages in vice. Shame 
 forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the 
 few \irtues they have still remaining.’ 
 
 CHAP. XVI. 
 
 The Family use Ai t, which is opposed by still greater. 
 
 WHATEVER might have been Sophia’s sensa- 
 tions, the rest of the family were easily consoled for 
 Mr. Burchell’s absence by the company of our land- 
 lord, whose visits now became more frequent and 
 longer. Though he had been disappointed in pro- 
 curing my daughters the amusements of the town, as 
 he designed, he took every opportunity of supplying 
 them with those little recreations which our retire- 
 ment would admit of. lie usually came in the morn- 
 ing; and while my son and 1 followed our occupa- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. &J 
 
 ions abroad, he sat with the family at home, and 
 mused them by describing the town, with every part 
 if which he was particularly acquainted. He could 
 epeat all the observations that were retailed in the 
 ttmosphere of the play-houses, and had all the good 
 ■hings of the high wits by rote long before they made 
 their way into the jest-books. The intervals between 
 conversation were employed in teaching my daugh- 
 ters piquet ; or, sometimes in setting my two little 
 ones to box, to make them sharp, as he called it : 
 but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in 
 some measure blinded us to all his imperfections. It 
 must be owned that my wife laid a thousand schemes 
 to entrap him ; or, to speak it more tenderly, used 
 every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the 
 icakes at tea eat short and crisp, the were made by Oli- 
 via; if the gooseberry wine was well knit, the goose- 
 berries were of her gathering ; it was her fingers which 
 gave the pickles their peculiar green ; and in the com- 
 position of a pudding, it wa her judgment that mixed 
 the ingredients. Then the poor woman would some- 
 times tell the squire, that she thought him and Olivia 
 [extremely of a size, and would hid both stand up to 
 Isee which was the tallest. These instances of cun- 
 ning, which she thought impenetrable, yet which 
 every body saw through, were very pleasing to our 
 benefactor, who gave every day some new proof ot 
 his passion, which though they had not arisen to 
 proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but very 
 little short of it: and his slowness was attributed 
 ; sometimes to native bashfulness, and sometimes to 
 his fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, 
 however, which happened soon after, put it beyond 
 a doubt, that he designed to become one of our 
 . family ; my wife even regarded it as aa absolute 
 i promise. 
 
 My wife and daughters happening to return a visit 
 to neighbour Flamborough’s, found that family had 
 lately got their pictures drawn by a limner who t'ra- 
 ! veiled the country, and took likenesses at fifteen 
 
$3 VICAR OF VAKE'FIFLD. 
 
 shillings a head. As this family and ours had long 
 a sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took 
 the alarm at this stolen march upon us, and not* 
 withstanding all I could say, and I said much, if was 
 resolved that we should have our pictures done too. 
 Having therefore engaged the limner, (for what could 
 1 do,) our next deliberation was to shew the superi- 
 ority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neigh- 
 bour s family, there were seven of them, and thev' 
 wdre drawn with seven oranges, ia thing quite out of 
 taste, no variety in life, no composition in the world. 
 We desired to have something in a brighter style, and 
 after many debates, at length came to an unanimous 
 resolution of being drawn together ip one large his- 
 torical family piece. This would he cheaper, since 
 one frame would serve for all, and it would be in- 
 finitely more genteel, for all families of any taste were 
 now drawn in the same manner. As we did not im- 
 mediately recollect an historical subject to hit us, we 
 were contefited each with being drawn as indepen- 
 dent historical figures. My wife desired to be re- 
 presented as Venus, and the painter was desired not 
 to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and 
 hair. Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by 
 her side ; while I, in my gown and band was to pre- 
 sent her with my book^on the Whistonian contro- 
 versy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon sitting 
 upon a bank of flowers, drest in a green joseph, 
 richly laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. So- 
 phia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as 
 the painter could put in for nothing ; and Moses was 
 to-be dressed out with an hat and white feather. 
 
 Our taste so much pleased the squire, that he in- 
 sisted on being put in as one of the family, in the 
 character of Alexander the Great, at Olivia’s feet, 
 1 his was considered by its all as an indication of his 
 desire to be introduced' into the family, nor could we 
 refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to 
 work, and as he wrought with assiduity and expedi- 
 tion, in less than four days the whole was completed. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. £>9 
 
 -The piece was large, and it must be owned be did 
 rot spare his colours, for which my wife gave him 
 rreat encomiums. We were all perfectly satisfied 
 i-vi tli Ins performance; but an unfortunate circum- 
 stance had not occurred till the picture was finished, 
 which now struck us with dismay. It was so very 
 large that we had no place in the house to fix.it. 
 [How we all came to disregard so material a point is in- 
 Sconceivable ; but certain it is, wc had been all greatly 
 [remiss. The picture, therefore, instead of gratifying 
 lour vanity, as we hoped, leaned in a most mortifying 
 manner against the kitchen wall, where the canvas 
 v/as stretched and painted, much too large to be got 
 through any of the doors, and the jest of all our 
 neighbours. One compared it to Robinson Crusoe’s 
 long-boat, too large to be removed; another thought 
 it more resembled' a reel in a bottle ; some wondered 
 how it could be got out, but still more were amazed 
 ,how it ever got in. . . 
 
 i Rut though it excited the ridicule of some, it ef- 
 jfectually raised more malicious suggestions in many. 
 [The squire’s portrait being found united with ours, 
 [was an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous 
 whispers began to circulate at our expence, and our 
 tranqnillitv was continually disturbed by persons who 
 came as friends to tell us what was said oi us by ene- 
 mies. These reports were always resented with be- 
 coming spirit; but scandal ever improves by opposition . 
 
 We once again, therefore, entered into consulta- 
 tion upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and 
 at last came to a resolution which had too much cun- 
 ning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this: ;*s 
 the principal object was to discover the honour of Mr. 
 Thornhill’s addresses, my wife undertook to sound 
 , him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice 
 ! of a husband for her eldest daughter. If this was 
 not found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, 
 
 I it was then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To 
 ! this last step, however, I would by wo means give 
 | niv consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn 
 
70 VtCAR OF WAK-EFIELD. ' 
 
 assurances that she would marry the person provided 
 to rival him upon the occasion, if he did not prevent 
 it by taking her himself. Such was the schema 
 laid, which though I did not strenuously oppose, I 
 did not entirely approve. 
 
 The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came 
 to see ns, my girls took care to be out of the way, in 
 order to give their mama an opportunity of putting 
 her scheme in execution: hut they only retired to 
 the next room, from whence they could over-hear 
 the whole conversation: mv wife artfullyfintroduced 
 it by observing, that one of the Mis» Flamboroughs 
 was like to have a very good match of it in Mr. Span- 
 ker. To this the squire assenting, she proceeded to 
 remark, that they who had warm fortunes were al- 
 ways sure ot getting good husbands: * But heaven 
 help,’ continued she/ ‘ the girls that have none. 
 M hat signifies beauty, Mr." Thornhill ? or what 
 signifies all the virtue and all the qualifications in 
 the world, in this age of self-interest? It is not, 
 what is she? but what has she? is all the cry?’ 
 
 ‘ Madam,’ returned lie, ‘ I highly approve the 
 justice, as well as the novelty of your remarks; and 
 if I were a king it should be otherwise. It should 
 then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without 
 fortunes: our two young ladies should be the first 
 for whom 1 would provide. 
 
 ‘ Ah, sir !’ returned my wbfe, • you are pleased 
 to be facetious : but I wish I were a queen, and then 
 I know where my eldest daughter should look for an 
 husband. But now that you have put it into my 
 head, seriously Mr. I hornhill, can’t you recommend 
 me a proper husband for her; she is now nineteen 
 years old, well grown, and w'ell educated ; and in 
 my humble opinion does not want for parts.’ 
 
 ‘ Madam, ’ replied he, ‘ if I were to choose, I 
 would find out a person possessed of every accom- 
 plishment that can make an angel hapny. One with 
 prudence, fortune, taste, and sincerity; such. Ma- 
 dam, would he, in my opinion, the proper hus- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ?1 
 
 Kami.’ — c Aye, Sir,’ said she, ‘ but do you know of 
 Lny such person?’ — ‘ No, Madam,’ returned he, ‘it 
 s impossible to know any person, that deserves lo 
 3 e her husband; she’s too great a treasure for one 
 nan’s possession : she’s a goddess, Upon my soul 
 [ speak what I think, she is an angel.’—' Ah, Mr. 
 Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl : but we 
 Jiave been thinking’ of marrying her to orremt your 
 tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and who wants 
 a manager; you know whom I mean. Farmer Wil- 
 liams; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, able to give her 
 good bread; and who has several times made her pro- 
 posals,’ (which was actually the case:) ‘ But, fair,’ 
 concluded she, * I should be "lad to have your ap- 
 probation of our choice!’ — ' How Madam!’ replied 
 he, * my approbation ! My approbation of such a 
 choice ! Never. What, sacrifice so much beauty, 
 and sense, and goodness, to a creature insensible of 
 the blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of such 
 a piece of injustice! And I have my reasons.’ — ‘ In- 
 deed, Sir,’ cried Deborah, ' if you have your reasons, 
 that’s another affair; but 1 should be glad to know 
 those reasons.’ — ‘ Excuse me, Madam,’ returned he, 
 
 ‘ they lie too deep for discovery ;’ (laying his hand 
 upon his bosom) ‘ they remain buried, rivetted here.’ 
 After he was gone, upon general consultation, we 
 could not tell what to make of these fine sentiments. 
 Olivia considered them as instances of the most ex- 
 ailed passion; but I was not quite so sanguine : it 
 seemed to me pretty plain, that they had more of 
 Jove than matrimony in them; yet whatever they 
 might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme 
 of Farmer Williams, who, from my daughter’s first 
 appearance in the country, had paid her his addresses. 
 
 CHAP. XVII. 
 
 j Scarce any Virtue found to resist the Power of long 
 and pleasing Temptation. 
 
 j AS I only studied my child’s real happiness, the 
 
easy circumstances, prudent and sincere. It require! 
 but very little encouragement to revive his former' 
 passion; so that in an evening or two he and Mr. 
 Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each* 
 other for some time with looks of anger; but Wil- 
 liams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded 
 his indignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the co- 
 quet to perfection, if that might he called acting 
 which washer real character, pretending to lavish all 
 her tenderness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill ap- 
 peared quite dejected at this preference, and, with a 
 pensive air took leave; though 1 own it puzzled me 
 to find him in so much pain as he seemed to be, when 
 he had it in his power so easily to remove theca use, bv 
 declaring an honourable passion. But whatever un- 
 easiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be per- 
 ceived that Olivia’s anguish was still greater. After 
 any of these interviews between her lovers, of which 
 there were several, she usually retired to solitude,, 
 and there indulged her grief. It was in such a situation 
 I found her one evening, after she had been for some 
 time supporting a fictitious gaiety. ‘ You now see, 
 my child,’ said 1, ‘ that your confidence in Mr!. 
 Thornhill’s passion was all a dream ; he permits the 
 rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he 
 knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by 
 a candid declaration.’ — ‘ Yes, papa,’ returned she", 
 ’but he has his reasons for this delay; I know he has! 
 The sincerity of his looks and words convince me 
 of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will dis- 
 cover the generosity of his sentiments, and convince 
 you that my opinion of him has been more just than 
 yours.’ — ‘ Olivia, my darling,’ returned ij ‘ every, 
 scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him 
 to a declaration, has been proposed and planned by 
 yourself, nor can you in the least say that 1 have 
 constrained you. But you must not suppose, mv 
 dear, that 1 will ever be instrumental in su fieri ng his 
 honest rival to he the dupe of voumU- placed passion. 
 Whatever time you require to bring vour fancied ad- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 72 
 
 purer to an explanation shall be granted: but at the 
 expiration of that term, if he is. still regardless, I 
 must absolutely .insist that honest Mr. Williams 
 shall be rewarded for his fidelity. The character 
 [which I have hitherto supported in life demands this 
 from me, and my tenderness as a parent shall never 
 influence my integrity as a man. Name then your 
 day, let it be as distant as you think proper, and in 
 the mean time take care to let Mr. Thornhill know 
 .the exact time on which 1 design delivering you up to 
 [ another. If he really loves you, his own good sense 
 [will readily suggest that there is but one method alone 
 ■to prerent his losing you for ever.’ This proposal, 
 which she could not avoid considering as perfectly 
 just, was readily agreed to. She again renewed her 
 most positive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in 
 lease of the other’s insensibility; and at the next 
 i opportunity, in Mr. Thornhill’s presence, that day 
 [month was fixed upon for her nuptials with his 
 : rival. 
 
 Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. 
 [Thornhill's anxiety ; but what Olivia really felt gave 
 me some uneasiness. In this struggle between pru- 
 ; dence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and 
 'every opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in 
 1 tears. One week passed away; but Mr. Thornhill 
 ( made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The succeed- 
 : ing week he w as still assiduous, but no more open. 
 
 ; On the third he discontinued his visits entirely; and 
 instead of my daughter testifying an impatience, as. 
 I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tranquillity, 
 
 ! which I looked upon as resignation. For my ovvn 
 | part I was now sincerely pleased with thinking that 
 : rnv child was going to he secured in a continuance of 
 competence and peace, and frequently applauded her 
 resolution, in preferring happiness to ostentation. 
 
 It was within about four days of her intended nup- 
 tials, that my little family at night were gathered 
 found a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and 
 laying schemes for the future j busied in forming a 
 
 it 
 
74 VICAR or WAKEFIELD, 
 
 th ousand projects, and laughing at whatever 
 came uppermost. ‘ Well, Moses,’ cried I, 
 shall soon, my bov, have a wedding in our family y 
 what is your opinion of matters and things in ge- 
 neral?’ — ‘ My opinion, father, is, that all things go 
 on very well; and I was just now thinking, that 
 when sister Livy is married to Farmer Williams, we 
 shall then have the loan of his cyder-press and brew- 
 ing tubs for nothing.’ — ‘ That we shall, Moses,’ 
 cried 1, * and he will sing us Death and the Lady to 
 raise our spirits in the bargain.’ — ‘ He has taught that 
 song to our Dick,’ cried Moses; ‘and I think he 
 
 goes through it very prettily.' * Does he so,’ 
 
 cried I,.‘ then let us have it : where is little Dick?’ let 
 him up with it boldly.’ — ‘ My brother Dick,’ cried 
 Bill, my youngest, ‘ is just gone with sister Livy; 
 but Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I’ll 
 sing them to you, papa. Which song do you chuse — 
 The dying Swan, or the Elegy 1 on the Death of a- 
 Mad Dog?’ — The elegy, child, by all means,’ said 
 I; ‘1 never heard that yet — and Deborah, my life, 
 grief, you know, is dry; let its have a bottle of the 
 best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have 
 wept so much at all sorts of elegies of late, that, 
 without an enlivening glass, I am sure this will over- 
 come me. — And Sophy, love, take your guittar, and 
 thrum in with the boy a little.’ 
 
 AN ELEGY 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG, 
 
 /'~'OOD people all, of every sort, 
 
 ^ Give ear unto my song ; 
 
 And if you find it wond’rous short. 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man, 
 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran, 
 
 . Whene’er he went to pray. 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had. 
 
 To comfort friends and foes ; 
 
 The naked every day he clad, 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
VI C-A R OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 75 
 
 And in that > ;wn a dog was found, 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 
 The dog, to gain his private end3. 
 
 Went mad and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the neighbouring streets. 
 
 The wpnd’ring neighbours ran ; 
 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 
 To bite so good a man. 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad, 
 
 To every Christian eye ; 
 
 And while they swore the dog was mad. 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wander came to light, 
 
 That shew’d the rogues they lied ; 
 
 The man recover’d of the bite. 
 
 The dog it was that died. 
 
 ! 4 A very good boy. Bill, upon my word ; and an 
 
 ^legy that mav he' truly called tragical Come, 
 
 children, here's Bill’s health, and may he one day be 
 a bishop!’ 
 
 ‘ With all my heart,' cried ray wife; * and if he 
 But preaches as well all he sings, 1 make no doubt of 
 him. The most of his family by the mother’s side 
 ! could sing a good song; it was a common saving in 
 ! our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops 
 could never look straight before them, nor the Hug- 
 ginson’s blow out a candle; that there were none of 
 the Grograms but could sing a song, or o( the Mar- 
 jorams but could tell a story.’ — ‘ However that be,’ 
 cried I, ‘ the most vulgar ballad of all generally 
 i pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and 
 things that petrify in a single stanza ; productions 
 that we at once detest and praise. Put the glass to 
 i your brother Moses. The great fault of these ele- 
 giasts is, that they are in despair for griefs that give the 
 sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses 
 her muff, her fan, her lap-dog, and the silly poet 
 runs home to versifv the disaster.’ 
 
 « That may be the mode,’ cried Moses, * in sab- 
 
 a 2 
 
7(5 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 limer composition ; but the Rant/ugh songs that 
 come clown to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast 
 in the same mould : Collin meets Dolly, and they 
 hold a dialogue together ; he gives her a fairing to put 
 in her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay; and 
 they go together to church, where they give good 
 advice to nymphs and swains to get married as fast as 
 they can.’ 
 
 ‘ And very good advice too,’ cried I; * and I am 
 told there is not a place in the world where advice 
 can be given with so much propriety as there; for, 
 as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with 
 a wife; and surely that must be an excellent market, 
 my boy, where we are told what we want, and sup- 
 plied with it when wanting.’ 
 
 ‘ Yes, Sir,’ returned Moses, f and I know but of 
 two such markets for wives in Europe; Ranelagh in 
 England, and Fontarabia in Spain. Tire Spanish 
 market is open once a-year, but our English wives' 
 are saleable every night.’ 
 
 ‘ You are right, my hoy,’ cried his mother. * Old 
 England is the only place in the world for husbands 
 to get wives.’ — * And for wives to manage their 
 husbands,’ interrupted I. ‘ It is a proverb "abroad, 
 that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies 
 on the Continent would come over to take a pattern 
 from ours: for there are no such wives in Europe 
 as our own. But let us have one bottle more, De- 
 borah, my life — and Moses, give us a good song. 
 YVhat thanks do we not owe to Heaven for thus be- 
 stowing tranquillity, health, and competence! I think 
 myself now happier than the greatest monarch upon 
 earth. He has no such fire-side, nor such pleasant 
 faces about it. Y r es, Deborah, we are now growing 
 old; but the evening of our life is likely to he happy! 
 We are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, 
 *nd we shall leave a good and virtuous race of chil- 
 dren behind us. While we live they will be our 
 support and our pleasure here, and when we die thev 
 will transmit our honour untainted to posterity. -7. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 7 
 
 Dome, my son, we wait for a song: let ns have a 
 ■horus. But where is iny darling Olivia? that, 
 little cherub’s voice is always sweetest in the concert. 
 Just as 1 spoke, Dick came running in, ‘O papa, 
 |>apa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us; iny 
 isister Livy is gone from us for ever!’ — ‘ Gone, child !’ 
 L_‘ Yes, she is gone off with two gentlemen in a 
 bost-chaise; and oue of them kissed her, and said he 
 [would die for her; and she cried very much, and was 
 !for coining back ; but he persuaded her again, and 
 she went into the chaise, and said,’ “ O what will 
 my poor papa do, when he knows I am undone. 
 Mow, then,’ cried I, * my children, go and be mise- 
 iTable; for we shall never enjoy one hour more. And 
 
 0 may Heaven’s everlasting fury light upon him and 
 ,1ns ! Thus to rob me of my child! And sure it will, 
 j for takitw back my sweet innocent that I was lead, 
 ling up to Heaven. Such sincerity as my child was 
 possest of! But all our earthly happiness is now over! 
 Go, my children, go and be miserable and infamous; 
 jfor my heart is broken within me!’ — ‘ Father, cried 
 my son, ‘ is this your fortitude?’— ‘ Fortitude, child! 
 Yes, he shall see 1 have fortitude! Bring me my 
 
 ! pistols. I’ll pursue the traitor. While he is cm 
 
 1 earth. I’ll pursue him. Old as 1 am, he shall 
 find I can sting him yet. ’Ihe villain, perfidious 
 : villain !’ I had by this time reached down my pistols, 
 
 | when mv poor wife, whose passions were not so 
 : strong as mine, caught me in her arms. ‘ My 
 
 dearest, dearest husband,’ cried she, ‘ the Bible is 
 the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. 
 
 I Open that, my love, and read our anguish into 
 
 : patience, for she has vilely deceived us.’- ‘ In- 
 
 i deed. Sir,’ resumed my son, after a pause, ‘ your 
 | rage is too violent and unbecoming, it on should 
 (be my mother’s comforter, and you increase her 
 | pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character 
 I thus to curse your greatest enemy; you should not 
 have cursed him, villain as he is.’ — 1 1 did not curse 
 | him, child, did I?’ Indeed, Sir, you did ; yon 
 
78 VICAR or WAKEFIELD, 
 
 cursed him twice.’ — ‘ Then may Heaven forgive 
 me and him, if I did. And now, my son, I see it 
 was more than human benevolence that first taught 
 tis to bless our enemies. Blest be his holy name for 
 ail the good he has given, and for all that he hath 
 taken away. But it is not, it is not a small distress 
 that can wring tears from these old eyes, that have 
 not wept for so many years. My child! to undo 
 my darling! May confusion seize! — Heaven forgive 
 me! What am I about to say? — You may re- 
 member, my love, how good she was, and how 
 charming till this vile moment, all her care was 
 to make ns happy. Had she but died! But she is 
 gone, the honour of our family contaminated, and 1 
 must look out for happiness in other worlds than 
 nere. But, my child, you saw them go off ; per- 
 
 haps he forced her away. "If he forced her, she may 
 
 yet be innocent.’ ‘ Ah, no, Sir,’ cried the child ; 
 
 f he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and 
 she wept very much and leaned upon him, and they 
 drove oft very fast.’ — ‘ She’s an ungrateful creature,’ 
 cncd my wife, who could scarcely speak for weeping, 
 
 4 to use us thus; she never had the least constraint 
 put upon hey affections. The vile strumpet has 
 basely deserted her parents vvithout any provocation, 
 thus to bring vour grey hairs to the grave, and I must 
 shortly follow.’ 
 
 In this manner that night, the first of our real mis- 
 fortunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and 
 ill-supported sallies of enthnsiam. I determined, how- 
 ever to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and 
 reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed 
 our wretched child at breakfast, whete she used to give 
 hfe and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, as before, 
 attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. ‘ Never, ’ 
 cried she, ‘ shall that v ilest stain of our family again 
 darken these harmless doors. I will never call her 
 daughter more. iVo, let the strumpet live with her 
 vile seducer: she may bring us to shame, but she 
 shall never more deceive us.’ 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 79 
 
 ' Wife,’ said I, ‘ do not talk thus hardly : my de- 
 testation of her guilt is as great as yours; but ever 
 shall this house and this heart be .open to a poor re- 
 turning repentant sinnner. The sooner she returns 
 from her transgression, the more welcome shall she 
 be to me. For the first time the very best may err; 
 art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. 
 The first fault is the child of simplicity; but every 
 other the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched 
 creature shall be welcome to this heart and this house, 
 though stained with ten thousand vices. I will 
 again hearken to the music of her voice, again will 
 I hang fondly on her bosom, if I find but repen- 
 | tance there. — My son, bring hither my Bible and 
 ! my staff: I will pursue her, wherever she is ; and 
 ■ though I cannot save her from shame, I may prevent 
 the continuance of her iniquity. 
 
 CHAP. XVIII. 
 
 The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a lost Child to 
 Virtue. 
 
 THOUGH the child could not describe the gentle- 
 man’s person who handed his sister into the post- 
 chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upn our young 
 landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but 
 too well known. I therefore directed my steps to- 
 wards Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, 
 j and if possible to bring back my daughter : but be- 
 fore I reached his seat, I was met by one of my pa- 
 rishioners, who said he saw r a young lady resembling 
 my daughter, in a post-chaise with a gentleman, 
 whom by the description I could only guess to be Mr. 
 
 ; Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This infor- 
 l mation, however, did by no means satisfy me: there- 
 fore I went to the young squire's? and though it was 
 ! yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately ; he 
 j soon appeared with the most open familiar air, and 
 j seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter’s elopement, 
 i protesting upon his honour'that he was quite a stran- 
 ger to it. 1 now therefore condemned my former sets- 
 
to VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 picions, and could turn them only on Mr. Burchell, -i 
 who l recollected had of late several private conferences 
 with her; but the appearance of another witness j 
 left me no room to doubt of his villainy, who averred 
 that he and my daughter were actually gone to- 
 wards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where there 
 was a great deal of company. Being driven to that 
 state of mind in which we are more ready to act pre- 
 cipitately than to reason right, I never debated with 
 myself, whether these accounts might not have been 
 given by persons purposely placed in my way, to mis- 
 lead me, but resolved to pursue my daughter and her 
 fancied deluder thither. I walked along with ear- 
 nestness, and enquired of several by the way; but re- 
 ceived no accounts, till entering the town I was met 
 lay a person on horseback, whom 1 remembered to 
 have seen at the squire’s, and he assured me, that 
 if 1 followed them to the races, which were but thirty 
 miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them ; 
 for he had seen them dance there the night before, 
 and the whole assembly seemed charmed with my 
 daughter’s performance. Early the next day I walked 
 forward to the races, and about four in the afternoon I 
 came upon the course. The company made a very 
 brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in one 
 pursuit, that of pleasure; how different from mine,- 
 that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue! 1 thought I 
 perceived Mr. Burchell' at some distance from me; 
 but if as he dreaded an interview, upon my approach- 
 ing him, lie mixed among a crowd, and I saw him 
 no more. 
 
 1 now reflected that it would be to no purpose to 
 continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to return 
 home to an innocent family, who wanted my assist- 
 ance. But the agitations of my mind, and the fatigues 
 I had undergone, threw me into a fever, the symp- 
 toms of which 1 perceived before 1 came off the course. 
 This was another unexpected stroke, as I was more ; 
 than seventy miles distant from home: however, I re- 
 tired to a little alehouse by the road-side 5 and in this 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 81 
 
 place, the usual retreat of indigence and frugality, I 
 laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my dis- 
 order. I languished here for near three weeks; but 
 at last my constitution prevailed, though 1 was un- 
 provided with money to defray the expences of my 
 entertainment. It is possible the anxiety from this 
 last circumstance alone might have brought on a re- 
 lapse, had I not been supplied by a traveller who 
 stopped to take a cursory refreshment. This person 
 was no other than the philanthropic bookseller in St. 
 
 ! Paul’s Church-yard, who has written so many little 
 •books for children: he called himself their friend; 
 i but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no 
 ! sooner alighted but he was in haste to be gone, for 
 he was ever on business of the utmost importance, and 
 [was at that time actually compiling materials for the 
 ! history of one Mr. Thomas Trip. I immediately 
 I recollected this good-natured man’s red pimpled face, 
 
 | for he had published for me against the Deuteroga- 
 ! mists of the age, and from him I borrowed a 
 j few pieces, to be paid at mv return. Leaving the 
 I inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak, I resolved to 
 I return home by easy journies of ten miles a day. 
 
 My health and "usual tranquillity were almost re- 
 I stored, and 1 now condemned that pride which had 
 made me refractory to the hand of correction. Man 
 little knows what calamities are beyond his patience 
 to bear till he tries them : asin ascending the heights 
 of ambition, which look bright from below, every 
 step we arise shews us some new and gloomy prospect 
 of hidden disappointment; so in our descent from the 
 summit of pleasure, though the vale ot misery below 
 may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet the busy 
 j mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds, 
 i as we descend, something to flatter and please. Still 
 ; as we approach, the darkest objects appear to brighten, 
 
 ; and the mental eye becomes adapted to its gloomy 
 situation. 
 
 I now proceeded forward, and had walked about 
 two hours, when I perceived what appeared at adis- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 tance like a waggon, which I was resolved to over- 
 take: but when I came up with it, found it to he a 
 strolling company’s cart, that was carrying their 
 scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next vil- 
 lage, where thev were to exhibit. 
 
 i ite carl was attended only bv the person wliodrove 
 it, and one ol the company; as the rest of the players 
 were to follow the ensuing day. ‘ Oood company 
 upon the road,’ says the proverb, ‘ is the shortest 
 cut.’ I therefore entered into conversation with the 
 poor player ; and as 1 once had some theatrical powers 
 myself, 1 descanted on such topics with ray usual free- 
 dom ; but as J was but little acquainted with the 
 present state ol the stage, I demanded who wcie the 
 present theatrical writers in vogue, who the Drydens 
 and Otways ol the dav? ‘ 1 fancy, sir,’ cried the 
 payer, ‘ few of our modern dramatists would think 
 themselves much honoured by being compared to the 
 writers you mention. Dryden and Rowe’s manner. 
 Sir, are quite out ot fashion : our taste has gone back 
 a whole century; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and all 
 the plays of Shakspeare, are the only things that go 
 down.’ — ‘ Howl’ cried I, ‘is it possible the pre- 
 sent age can he pleased with that antiquated dialect, 
 that obsolete humour, those over-charged characters, 
 which abound in the works you mention ?’ — ‘ Sir,’ 
 returned my companior, ‘ the public think nothing 
 about dialect, or humour, or character; for that is 
 none of their business; they only go to be amused, 
 and find themselves happy when they can enjoy a 
 pantomime, under the sanction of Jonson’s or Shak- 
 speare’s name.’ — ‘ So then, 1 suppose,’ cried I, ‘ that 
 our modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shak- 
 speare than nature.’ — ‘ To say the truth,’ returned my 
 companion, ‘ I don’t know that they imitate any- 
 thing at all ; nor indeed does the public require it of 
 them. It is not the composition of the piece, but the 
 number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced, 
 that elicits applause. I have known a piece with not 
 one jest in the whole, shrugged into popularity, and 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 8$ 
 
 another saved by the poet’s throwing in a fit of the 
 gripes. No, Sir, the works of Congreve and Far- 
 quhar have too much wit in them for the present 
 taste ; our modern dialect is much more natural.’ 
 
 By this time the equipage of the strolling company 
 was arrived at the village; which, it seems, had been 
 (apprized of our approach, and was come out to gaze 
 at us: for my companion observed, that strollers al- 
 wvays have more spectators without doors than with- 
 in. 1 did not consider the impropriety of my being 
 in such company, till I saw a mob gather about me. 
 
 '■ I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the 
 ’ first ale-house that offered ; and being shewn into the 
 t common room, was accosted by a very well drest 
 gentleman, who demanded, whether I was the real 
 | chaplain of the company, or whether ic was only to 
 I be my masquerade character in the play. Upon in- 
 I forming him of the truth , and that I did not belong 
 j in any sort to the company, he was condescending 
 i enough to desire me and "the player to partake in a 
 | bowl of punch, over which he discussed modern po- 
 ] litics with great earnestness and interest. 1 sat him 
 ■: down in my own mind for nothing less than a par- 
 | liament-man at least; but was almost confirmed in 
 my conjectures, when upon asking what there was in 
 the house for supper, he insisted that the player and I 
 should sup with him at his house; with which re- 
 quest, after some entreaties, we were prevailed on to 
 comply. 
 
 CHAP. XIX. 
 
 The Description of a Person discontented with the 
 present Government, and apprehensive of the Loss 
 of our Liberties. 
 
 THE h ouse where we were to be entertained 
 standing at a small distance from the village, our in- 
 1 viter observed, that as the coach was not ready, h® 
 would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived at 
 one of the most magnificent mansions I had seen in 
 that part of the country. The apartment into which 
 we were shewn, was perfectly elegant and modem ; 
 
34 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 he went to give orders for supper, while the player, 
 with a wink, observed, that vve were perfectly in 
 luck. Our entertainer soon returned ; an elegant 
 supper was brought in, two or three ladies in an easy 
 dishabille were introduced, and the conversation be- 
 gan with some sprightliness. Politics, however, was 
 the subject on which our entertainer chiefly expa- 
 tiated; for he asserted that liberty was at once his 
 boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, 
 he asked me if 1 had seen the last Monitor; to which 
 replying in the negative, ‘ What, nor the Auditor, 
 ‘ 1 suppose?’ cried he. ‘ Neither, Sir,’ returned 1. 
 ‘ That’s strange, very strange,’ replied my entertainer. 
 ‘Now, I read all the politics that come out . The 
 Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the Chronicle, the 
 London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the se- 
 venteen Magazines, and the two Reviews ; and though 
 they hate each other, 1 love them all. Liberty, Sir, 
 liberty is the Briton’s boast ; and by all my coal -mines in 
 Cornwall, I reverence it’s guardians.’ — ‘ Then it is 
 to be hoped,’ cried I, ‘ you reverence the king,’ — • 
 ‘ Yes,’ returned my entertainer, ‘ when he does what 
 we would have him ; hut if he goes on as he has done 
 of late. I’ll never trouble myself more with his matters. 
 I say nothing. I think only ; I could have directed 
 some things better. 1 don’t think there has been a 
 sufficient number of advisers; he should advise with 
 every person willing to give him advice, and then we 
 should have things done in another guess manner.’ 
 — ‘ I wish,’ cried ], ‘ that such intruding advisers 
 were fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty of 
 honest men to assist the weaker side of our Consti- 
 tution, that sacred power that has for some years 
 been every day declining, and losing it’s due share of 
 influence in the stale. But these ignorants still con- 
 tinue the cry of liberty, and if they have any weight, 
 basely throw it into the subsiding scale.’ 
 
 ‘ How,’ cried one of the ladies, ‘ do I live to see 
 one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, 
 and a defender of tyrants? Liberty, that sacred gift 
 of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons !’ 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. , 85 
 
 I ‘ Can it be possible,’ cried our entertainer, ‘ that 
 here should be any found at present,- advocates 
 'or slavery ? Anv who are for meanly giving up 
 he privileges of Britons? Can any. Sir, be so ab- 
 ect ?’ 
 
 « No, Sir,’ replied I, ‘Iain for liberty, that attri- 
 bute of gods! Glorious liberty! that theme of mo- 
 dern declamation. I would have all men kings. I 
 kvould be a king myself. We have all naturally an. 
 iequal right to the throne ; we are all originally equal. 
 ’This is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a 
 let of honest men who were called levellers. They 
 tried to erect themselves into a community, where 
 all should be equally free. But alas! it would never 
 answer : for there were some among them stronger, 
 and some more cunning than others, and these be- 
 Icame masters of the rest ; for as sore as your groom 
 aides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal 
 than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger 
 ior stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. 
 Since then it is entailed upon humanity to submit, 
 land some are born to command, and others to obey, 
 the question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it 
 as better to have them in the same house with us, or 
 in the same village, or still farther oh' in the metro- 
 polis. Now, Sir, for my own part, as I naturally 
 hate the face of a tyrant, the farther he is removed 
 from me, the better pleased am I. The generality 
 I of mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have 
 itmanimously created one king, whose election at 
 once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts ty- 
 ranny at the greatest distance %)tn the greatest num- 
 jber of people. Now the great, who were tyrants 
 themselves before the election of one tyrant, are 
 naturally averse to a power raised over them, and 
 | whose weight must ever lean heaviest on the subor- 
 dinate orders. It is the interest of the great, there- 
 j fore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible; 
 [ because, whatever they take from that, is naturally 
 restored to themselves: and all they have to do in 
 
86 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 the state, is to undermine the single tyrant, bv which 
 they resume their primaeval authority. Now the 
 state may be so circumstanced, or its jaws may be so 
 disposed, or its men of opulence so minded, as all 
 to conspire in carrying on Inis business of undermining 
 monarchy. For, in the first place, if the circum- 
 stances of our state be such, as to favour the accu- 
 mulation of wealth, and make the opulent still more 
 rich, this will increase their ambition. An accu- 
 mulation of wealth, however, must necessarily be the 
 consequence, when, as at present, more riches How 
 in from external commerce than arise from internal 
 industry; for external commerce can only be managed 
 to advantage by the rich, and they have also at the 
 same timeall the emoluments arising from internal in- 
 dustry, so that the rich, with us, have two sources 
 of wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this 
 reason, wealth in all commercial states is found to 
 accumulate; and all such have hitherto in time be- 
 come aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of 
 ibis country may contribute to the accumulation of 
 wealth, as when by their means the natural ties that 
 bind the rich and poor together are broken; and it is 
 ordained, that the rich shall only marry with the 
 rich; or when the learned are held unqualified to 
 serve their country as counsellors, merely from a de- 
 fect of opulence; and wealth is thus made the object 
 of a wise man’s ambition : by these means, I say, and 
 such means as these, riches will accumulate. Now 
 the possessor of accumulated wealth, when furnished 
 with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other 
 method to employ tl^ superfluity of his fortune, but 
 in purchasing power; that is, dilferentlv speaking, 
 in making dependents, by purchasing the liberty of 
 the needv or the venal, of men who are willing to 
 hear the mortification of contiguous tyrannv for bread. 
 Th us each very opulent man generally gathers round 
 him a circle of the poorest of the people; and the 
 polity abounding in accumulated wealth may he com- 
 pared to a Cartesian system, each orb with n vortex 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. f 7 
 
 af its own. Those, however, who are willing 10 
 hove in a great man’s vortex, are only such as must 
 ae slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and 
 whose education are adapted to servitude, and who 
 know’ nothing of liberty except the name. But. there 
 (must still be a large number of the people without 
 the sphere of the opulent man’s influence, namely 
 that order of men which subsists between the very 
 rich and the very rabble; those men who are possest 
 of too large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring 
 ,man in power, and vet are too poor to set up for ty- 
 ranny themselves. In this middle order of mankind 
 laie generally to he found all the arts, wisdom, and 
 v irtues of society. This order alone is known to be 
 the true preserver of freedom, and may be called the 
 'people. Now it may happen, that this middle order 
 tof mankind may lose all us influence in a state, and 
 iits voice he in a manner drowned in that of the rab- 
 ble : for if the fortune sufficient for qualifying a per- 
 son at present to give his voice in state affairs, be ten 
 itimes less than was judged sufficient upon forming 
 [the constitution ; it is evident, that great numbers 
 of the rabble will thus he introduced into the poli- 
 tical system, and they, ever moving in the vortex of 
 the great, will follow where greatness shall direct. 
 In such a state, therefore, all that the middle order 
 •has left, is to preserve the prerogative and privileges 
 of the one principal governor with the most sacred 
 circumspection. For he divides the power of the 
 rich, and calls off the great from falling with ten- 
 fold weight on the middle order placed beneath them. 
 The middle order may be compared to a town, of 
 (which the opulent are formingThe siege, and which 
 the governor from without is hastening the relief. 
 While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over 
 them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the 
 most specious terms; to flatter them with sounds, 
 'and amuse them with privileges; but if they once 
 [defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the 
 town will be but a small defence to its inhabitants. 
 
' -f 
 
 88 vicar of Wakefield. 
 
 What they may then expect may be’seen by turn-1 
 ing our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where.! 
 the laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the! 
 law. I am then for, and would die for, monarchy,! 
 sacred monarchy: for if there be anything sacredl 
 amongst men, it must be the anointed Sovereign’! 
 of his people, and every diminution of his power in j 
 war or in peace, is an infringement upon the real 
 liberties of the subject. The sounds of liberty, patri- 
 otism, and Britons, have already done much ; it is to 
 be hoped, that the true sons of freedom will prevent 
 their ever doing more. I have known many of those 
 pretended champions for liberty in my time, yet do 
 i not remember one that was not in his heart, and in 
 his family, a tyrant.’ 
 
 My warmth, I found, had lengthened this harangue 
 beyond the rules of good breeding : but the impa- 
 tience of mv entertainer, who often strove to inter- 
 rupt it, could be restrained no longer. ‘ What!’ 
 cried he, ‘ then I have been all this while entertaining 
 a Jesuit in parson’s clothes: but by all the coal-mines 
 of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wil- 
 kinson.’ I now found I had gone too far, and asked 
 pardon for the warmth with which I had spoken. 
 
 * Pardon 1’ returned he, in a fury ; ‘ I think such prin- 
 ciples demand ten thousand pardons. What ! give 
 up liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie 
 down to be saddled with wooden shoes? Sir, I in- 
 sist upon your marching outof thishousc immediately, 
 to prevent worse consequences. Sir, I insist upon it.’ 
 
 1 was going to repeat my remonstrances; but just 
 then we heard a footman rap at the door, and the two 
 ladies cried out, ‘ Assure as death, there is our master 
 and mistress come home.’ It seems my entertainer 
 was all this while only the butler, who, in his mas- 
 ter’s absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for 
 a while the gentleman himself ; and, to say the truth, 
 he talked politics as well as most, country gentlemen 
 do." But nothing could now exceed my confusion, 
 upon seeing the gentleman and his lady to enter ; nor 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. $9 
 
 was their surprize, at finding such company and 
 ^good cheer, less than ours. ‘ Gentlemen,’ cried 
 the real master of the house, to me and my conr- 
 panion, ‘ my wife and I are your most humble 
 servants ; but I protest this is so unexpected a fa- 
 vour, that we almost sink under the obligation.’ 
 However unexpected our company might be to them, 
 their’s. I’m sure, was still more so to us, and 1 was 
 struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own ab- 
 surdity, when, whom should I next see enter the 
 room but my dear Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was 
 ! formerly designed to be married to my son George, 
 but whose match was broken oft' as already related, 
 i As soon as she saw me, she flew' to my arms with 
 the utmost joy. ‘ My dear Sir,’ cried she, ‘ to what 
 I happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a 
 visit? Iam sure my uncle and aunt will be in lap- 
 : tores when they find they have got the good Doctor 
 Primrose for their guest.’ Upon hearing my name, 
 j the old gentleman and lady very politely stept up, and 
 i welcomed me with the most cordial hospitality. Nor 
 could they forbear smiling on being informed of the 
 j nature of my present visit : but the unfortunate butler, 
 whom they at first seemed disposed to turn away, was 
 | at my intercession forgiven. 
 
 Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house be- 
 i longed, now insisted upon having the pleasure of my 
 May for some days; and as their niece, my charming 
 . pupil, whose mind, in some measure, had been 
 formed under my own instructions, joined in their 
 jntreaties, I complied. That night 1 wars shewn to 
 a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early, 
 Miss Wilmot desired to w'alk with me in the garden, 
 which was decorated in the modern manner. After 
 ! some time spent in pointing out the beauties of the 
 
 f la.ee, she'enquired, with seeming concern, when I last 
 ud heard from my son George. ‘ Alas! Madam,’ 
 \ cried I, * he has now been near three years absent, 
 i without ever writing to his friends or me. Where h» 
 | is I know not; perhaps I shall never see him or hap- 
 
<)0 VICAR OF WAKEFIEL'D. 
 
 piness more. No, my dear Madam, we shall never 
 more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by 
 our fire-side at Wakefield. My little family are now 
 dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought not only 
 ■want, but infamy upon us,’ The good-natured girl 
 let fall a tear at this account : but as I saw her pos- 
 sessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more 
 minute detail of our suffering. It was however some 
 consolation to me, to find that time had made no 
 alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected 
 several matches’ that had been made her since our 
 leaving her part of the country. She led me round 
 all the extensive improvements of the place, pointing 
 to the several walks and arbours, and at the same time 
 catching from every object a hint for some new ques-j 
 tion relative to my son. In this manner we spent 
 the forenoon, till the bell summoned us to dinner, 
 where we found the manager of the strolling com- 
 pany that I mentioned before, who was come to dis- 
 ease ol tickets for the Fair Penitent, which was to be 
 acted that evening; the part of Horatio by a young 
 gentleman who had never appeared on any stagy. 
 He seemed to be very warm in the praise of the new 
 performer, and averred that he never saw any who 
 bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was 
 not learned in a day. ‘ But? this gentleman,’ con- 
 tinued be, * seems born to tread the stage. His voice, 
 his figure, and attitudes, arcall admirable. We caught 
 him up accidentally in our journey down.’ This ac- 
 count in some measure excited our curiosity, and, at 
 the entreaty of the ladies, 1 was jarevailed upon to 
 accompany them to the play-house, which was no 
 other than a barn. As the company with which 
 1 went was incontestibly the chief of the place, 
 we were received with the greatest respect, and placed 
 in the front scat of tire theatre ; where we sat for soma 
 time with no small impatience to see Horatio make 
 It is appearance. The new performer advanced at 
 last; and let parents think of my sensations by their 
 own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. He 
 
VICAR Or WAKEFIEI.D. 9 * 
 
 was some to begin; when turning his eyes upon die 
 audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and 
 stood at once speechless and immoveable. ... 
 
 The actors behind the scenes who ascribed tins 
 pause to his natural timidity, attempted to encourage 
 him; but, instead of going on, he burst into a flood 
 of tears, and retired off the stage. I don’t know what 
 were mv feelings on this occasion, for they sueeeede 
 with too much rapidity for description ; but 1 was 
 soon awaked from this 'disagreeable reverie by Miss 
 Wilmot; who, pale, and with a trembling voice de- 
 sired me to conduct her back to her untie s. W hen 
 got home, Mr. Arnold, who was yet a strangei to 
 our extraordinary behaviour, being informed that the 
 new performer was my son, sent his coach, and an in- 
 vitation for him ; and as he persisted in his letusal to 
 appear again upon the stage, the players put another 
 in his placy, and we soon had him with us. Mr. 
 Arnold gave him the kindest reception, and lieeened 
 him with my usual transport; for 1 could never coun- 
 terfeit a false resentment. Miss Wilmot. s reception 
 was mixed wdth seeming neglect, and yet 1 could 
 perceive she acted a studied part. I he tumult in her 
 mind seemed not yet abated ; she said twenty 7 giddy 
 things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at 
 her own want of meaning. At intervals she would 
 take a sly peep at the glass, as if happy in the con- 
 sciousness of irresistible beauty 7 ; and often would ask 
 questions, without giving any manner ot attention 
 to the answers. 
 
 EKD OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
THE 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
 CHAP. I- 
 
 1 he History of a. Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing 
 JSovelty, but losing Content. 
 
 ^/^FTER we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely of- 
 t icred to send a couple of her footmen for my 
 son s baggage, which he at first seemed to decline; 
 hut upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to 
 in for in her, that a stick and a wallet were all the 
 moveable things upon this earth which lie could 
 boast of. ‘ Why, aye, ruv son,’ cried J, ‘ vou left me 
 but poor; and poor, J find, you are come" back : and 
 yet, 1 make no doubt, you have seen a great deal of 
 the world.-— Yes, Sir,’ replied my son ; ‘ hut travel- 
 ling after Fortune is not the way to secure her; and, 
 indeed, of late I have desisted from the pursuit.’ — ' I 
 fancy. Sir,’ cried Mrs. Arnold, * that the account of 
 your adventures would be amusing; the first part of 
 them I have often heard from my niece; but could 
 the company prevail for the rest, it would be an ad- 
 ditional obligation .’ — ‘ Madam,' replied my son, * I 
 promise you the pleasure you have in hearing, will 
 not be so half so great as my vanity in repeating them ; 
 :md yet in the whole narrative I can scarce promise 
 you one adventure, as my account is rather of what I 
 saw, than what I did. The first misfortune of my 
 life, which you all know, was great; but though it 
 distressed, it could not sink me. No person ever had 
 a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind 1 
 found Fortune at one time, the more I expected from 
 her another; and being now at the bottom of her 
 wheel, every new revolution might life, but could not 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. CjS 
 
 depress me. I proceeded therefore towards London 
 in a fine morning, no way uneasy about to-morrow, 
 but cheerful as the birds’ that carolled by the road; 
 and comforted myself with reflecting, that London 
 was the mart where abilities of every kind were sure 
 of meeting distinction and reward. 
 
 * Upon mv arrival in town, Sir, my first care was 
 to deliver your letter of recommendation to our cou- 
 sin, who Was himself in little better circumstances 
 than 1. My first scheme, you know. Sir, was to be 
 usher at an academy, Rod 1 asked his advice on thft 
 affair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true 
 Sardonic grin. “ Aye,” cried he, “ this is, indeed, 
 a very pretty career that has been chalked out for you. 
 
 I have been an usher to a boarding school myself : 
 and may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I had 
 rather be an under-turnkey in Newgate! I was up 
 early and late ; I was brow-beat by the master, hated 
 for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys 
 within, and never permitted to stir out to meet civi- 
 lity abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school ? 
 Let me examine you a little. Have you been bred 
 an apprentice to the business?” No. “ Then you 
 won’t do for a school. Can you dress the boys hair ?” 
 No. “ Then you won’t do for a school. Have you 
 had the small-pox?” No. “ Then you won’t do 
 for a school. Can you lie three in a bed.” No. 
 “:Then you will never do for a school. Have you 
 got a good stomach?” Yes. “ Then you will by no 
 means do for a school. No, Sir : if you are for a gen- 
 teel, easy profession, bind yourself seven years as an 
 apprentice to turn a cutler’s wheel; but avoid a school 
 by anv means. — Yet come, continued he, “ 1 see you 
 are a lad of spirit and some learning; what do you 
 think of commencing author like me? You have 
 read in books, no doubt, of men of genius starving 
 at the trade; at present I’ll shew you forty very dull 
 fellows about town that live by it in opulence. All 
 honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, 
 and write history and politics, and are praised ; men. 
 
f)4 VICAR OF WAKEFIF.LD. 
 
 Sir, who had they been bred coblers, would all their 
 lives have only mended shoes, but never made I 
 them.” 
 
 * Finding that there was no degree of gentility af- ! 
 fixed to the character of an usher, I resolved to accept. 1 
 his proposal; and having the highest respect for lite- j 
 rature, hailed the antiqna mater of Grub-Street with i 
 reverence. I thought it iuv glorv to pursue a track j 
 which Dryden and Otway trod before me. I consi- ; 
 tiered the goddess of this region as the parent of ex- ' 
 cellence ; and however an intercourse with the world 
 might give us good sense, the poverty she granted I 
 supposed to he the nurse of genius. 'Big with these 
 reflections, I sat down, and finding that the best 
 things remained to he said on the wrong side, L re^ 
 solved to write a book that should be wholly new. 
 
 ] therefore dressed up three paradoxes with some in- 
 genuity. J hey were lalse, indeed, but they were 
 new. The jewels of truth have been so often im- 
 ported by others, that nothing was left for me to im- 
 port, but some splendid things that at a distance 
 looked every bit as well. Witness, you powers, 
 what fancied importance sate perched upon my quill 
 ■while J was writing! The whole learned world, I 
 made no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems ; 
 but then 1 was prepared to oppose the whole learned 
 world. Like the porcupine, 1 sate self-collected, 
 with a quill pointed against every opposer.’ 
 
 . ‘ Welt said,’ my bov,’ cried 1 ; ‘ and what subject 
 eid you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over 
 the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt : j 
 goon. You published your paradoxes; well, and 
 what did the learned world say to your paradoxes?’ 
 
 ‘ Sir,’ replied my son, ‘ the learned world said 
 nothing to my paradoxes ; nothing at all. Sir. Every ; 
 man of them was employed in praising his friends 
 and himself, or condemning his enemies ; and un- 
 fbrtunatelv, as I hacl neither, I suffered the cruellest 'j 
 mortification, neglect. 
 
 { As 1 was meditating one day, in a coffee-house! 1 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 on the fate of mv paradoxes, a little ir.an happening 
 to enter the room, placed himself in the box before 
 me ; and, after some preliminary discourse, finding 
 me to be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, 
 begging me to subscribe to a new edition he was go- 
 ing to gi> e the world of Propertius with notes. This 
 demand necessarily produced a reply that 1 had no 
 money ; and that concession led him to enquire into 
 the nature of my expectations. Finding that my ex- 
 pectations were just as great as mv purse — “ 1 see," 
 cried he, “ you are unacquainted with the town. I’ll 
 teach yen a part of it. Look at these proposals ; upon 
 \ these very proposals 1 have subsisted very comfortably 
 j for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns 
 i from his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or 
 i a dowager from her country-seat, 1 strike for a sub- 
 scription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, 
 and then pour in mv proposals at the breach. If they 
 | subscribe readilv the first time, I renew my request 
 to beg a dedication fee; if they let me have that, I 
 1 smite them once more for engraving their coat of 
 j arms at the top. Thus,” continued lie, “ I live bv 
 I vanity, and laugh at it : but, between ourselves, I 
 ' am now too well known; I should be glad to borrow 
 I your face a bit : a nobleman of distinction has just 
 ‘ returned from Italy ; my face is familiar to his porter; 
 but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for it you 
 succeed, and we divide the spoil.” 
 
 ‘ Bless us, George,’ cried I, * and is this the era- 
 , ployment of poets now? Do men of their exalted 
 talents thus stoop to beggary? Can they so far dis- 
 i grace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise 
 for bread?’ 
 
 ‘ O no. Sir,’ returned he; ‘a true poet can never 
 ; be so base; for wherever there is genius, there is 
 i pride. The creatures 1 now 7 describe are only beggars 
 in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship 
 | for fame, so is he equally a coward to contempt, and 
 1 none but those who are unvvoithy protection, coruie> 
 , sceiid to solicit tt 
 
g6 VICAR OF WAKEFIELt). 
 
 ‘ Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indig- 
 nities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a se- 
 cond attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a 
 middle course, and write for bread. But I was un- 
 qualified for a profession, where mere industry alone 
 was to ensure success. I could not suppress my lurk- 
 ing passion for applause ; but usually consumed that 
 time in efforts after excellence which takes up but 
 little room, when it should have been more advan- 
 tageously employed in the diffusive productions of 
 fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore 
 come forth in the midst of periodical publications, 
 unnoticed and unknown. The public were more im- 
 portantly employed, than to observe the easy simpli- 
 city of my style, or the harmony of my periods. 
 Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My 
 essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, 
 eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog ; 
 while Philautus, Philalethes, Phileluthcros, and Phi- 
 lanthropos, all wrote better, because they wrote faster 
 than I. 
 
 * Now, therefore, I began to associate with none 
 but disappointed authors, like myself, who praised, 
 deplored, and despised each other. The satisfaction 
 we found in every celebrated writer’s attempts, was 
 inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in 
 another could please’ me. My unfortunate paradoxes 
 had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could 
 neither read nor write with satisfaction; for excellence 
 in another was my aversion, and writing was my 
 trade. 
 
 In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was 
 one day sitting on a bench in St. James’s-Park, a 
 young gentleman of distinction, who had been my! 
 intimate acquaintance at tire university, approached 
 me. W e saluted each other with some hesitation, he 
 almost ashamed of being known to one who made so 
 shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But 
 •mv suspicions 'soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill w?s 
 at the bottom a very good-natured fellow. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. Q7 
 
 * What did you say, George ?’ interrupted I. 
 ‘Thornhill! was not that his name? It can cer- 
 tainly be no other than my landlord.’ — ‘ Bless me/ 
 cried Mrs. Arnold, ‘ is. Mr. Thornhill so near a 
 neighbour of yours ? He has long been a friend in 
 ®ur family, and we expect a visit from him shortly.’ 
 
 ‘ My friend’s first care,’ continued my son, ‘ was 
 to alter my appearance by a very fine suit of his own 
 clothes, and then I was admitted to his table upon 
 |‘the footing of half friend, half underling. My bu- 
 siness was to attend him at auctions, to put him in 
 spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left 
 -hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and 
 to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when 
 he had a mind fora frolic. Besides this, I had twent? 
 other little employments in the family. I was to do 
 [many small things without bidding ; to carry the 
 cork screw; to stand god-father to all the butler’s 
 children; to sing when I was bid; to be never out 
 (of humour; always to be humble; and if 1 could, 
 Ito be very happy. 
 
 * In this honourable post, however, I was not 
 without a rival. A captain of marines, who was 
 formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my 
 patrdn’s affections. His mother had been laundress 
 to a man of quality, and thus he early acquired a 
 taste for pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman 
 made it the study of his life to be acquainted with 
 lords, though he was dismissed from several for his 
 stupidity, yet he found many of them, who were as 
 dull as himself, that permitted his assiduities. As 
 Battery was his trade, he practised it with the easiest 
 address imaginable; but it came aukward and stiff 
 from me; and as every day my patron’s desire of 
 flattery increased, so every hour, being better ac- 
 quainted with his defects, 1 became more unwilling 
 to give it. Thus I was once more fairly going to give 
 dp the field to the captain, when mv friend found 
 Occasion for my assistance. This was nothing less 
 than tfl fight a duel for him with a gentleaiau whose 
 sc. 
 
()8 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 sister it was pretended he had used ill. I readily com- S 
 plied with his request; and though I see you are dis- 
 pleased at my conduct, yet as it was a debt indispen- | 
 sibly due to' his friendship, I could not refuse. I 
 undertook the affair, disarmed my antagonist, and 
 soon after had the pleasure of finding that, the lady i 
 was only a woman of the town, and the fellow her | 
 bully and a sharper. This piece of service was repaid | 
 with the warmest professions of gratitude ; but as | 
 my friend was to leave town in a few days, he i 
 knew no other method of serving me, but by reconr- 1 
 mending me to his uncle Sir William Thornhill,! 
 and another nobleman of great distinction, who en-j 
 joved a post under the government. When he was 
 gone, mv first care was to carry his recomendatory 
 letter to bis uncle, a man whose character for every 
 virtue was Universal, yet just. 1 was received by his 
 servants with the most hospitable smiles ; for the 
 looks of the domestics ever transmit their master’s 
 benevolence. Being shewn into a grand apartment, 
 where Sir William soon came to me, I delivered my 
 message and letter, which he read, and after pausing 
 some minutes — “ Pray, Sir,” cried he, “ inform me 
 what you have done for my kinsman, to deserve this 
 warm recommendation. But I suppose, Sir, I guess 
 your merits: vou have fought for him ; and so you 
 would expeel a reward from me for being the instru- 
 ment of his vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my 
 present refusal may be some punishment for yem 
 guilt ; but still more, that it may he some induce- 
 ment to your repentance.” The severity of this re- 
 buke I bore patiently, because 1 knew it was just 
 My whole expectations now lay in my letter to tilt 
 great man. As the doors of the nobility are almost 
 ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in som^ 
 sly petition, 1 found it no easy matter to gain admit 
 tance. However, after bribing -the servants with hai 
 mv worldly fortune, i was at last shewn into a spa 
 cions apartment, mv letter being previously sent u| 
 for his lordship’s inspection. During this anxioui 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 09 
 
 interval 1 had full time to look round me. Every 
 thing was grand, and of happy contrivance ; the paint- 
 ings, the furniture, and gilding, petrified me with awe, 
 and raised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought 1 to 
 myself, how very great must the possessor of all these 
 things be, who carries in his head the business of the 
 state, and whose house displays half the wealth of the 
 kingdom; sure his genius must he unfathomable! 
 Du ring these awful reflections 1 heard a step come 
 j heavily forward. Ah, this is the great man himself! 
 
 ; No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was 
 ' heard soon after. This must be he ! No, it was 
 i only the great man’s valet de chambre. At last his 
 i lordship actually made his appearance. “ Are you,” 
 
 J cried he, “ the bearer of this here letter?” 1 answered 
 i with abow. “ I learn by this,” continued he, “as 
 I how that — ” Rut just at this instant a servant deli- 
 i vered him a card ; and without taking further notice, 
 
 | he went out of the room, and left me to digest my 
 own happiness at leisure. ' 1 saw no more of him, till 
 told by a footman that his lordship was going to his 
 coach at the door. Down I immediately followed, 
 
 ! and joined my voice to that of three or four motp, 
 who came like me to petition for favours. His lord- 
 ; ship, however, went too fast for us, and was gain- 
 : ing his chariot-door with large strides, when I hal- 
 looed out to know if I was to have any reply. He was 
 by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half 
 of which I only heard, the other half was lost in the 
 rattling of the chariot-wheels. 1 stood for some time 
 with my neck stretched out, in the posture of one that 
 was listening to catch the glorious sounds, till, look- 
 ing round me, I found myself alone at his lordship’s 
 gate. . _ 
 
 ‘ My patience,’ continued my son, ‘ was now 
 quite exhausted : stung with the thousand indignities 
 I had met with, 1 was willing to cast myself away, 
 and only wanted the gulph to receive me. 1 re- 
 garded myself as one of those vile things that nature 
 designed should be thrown by into her 1 umber- roopa, 
 k 2 
 
100 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 there to perish in obscurity. I had still, however, 
 half a guinea left, and of that 1 thought nature her- 
 self should not deprive me; but in order to be sure 
 of this, 1 was resolved to go instantly and spend it 
 while I had it, and then trust to occurrences for tine 
 rest. As 1 was going along with this resolution, it 
 happened that Mr. Crispe’s office seemed invitingly 
 open to give me a welcome reception. In this office 
 Mr. Crispe kindly offers all his majesty’s subjects a 
 generous promise of30l. a year, for which promise 
 all they give in return is their liberty for life, and 
 permission to let him transport them to America as 
 slaves. 1 was happy at finding a place where 1 could 
 lose my fears in desperation, and entered this cell 
 (for it had the appearance of one), with the devotion 
 of a monastic. Here 1 foun<l a number of poor 
 creatures all in circumstances like myself, expecting 
 the arrival of Mr. Crispe, presenting a true epitome 
 of English impatience. Each untractable soul at 
 variance with fortune, wreaked her injuries on their 
 own hearts : but Mr. Crispe at last came down, which 
 hushed our murmurs. He deigned to regard mewith 
 an air of peculiar approbation, and indeed he was the 
 first man who for a month past talked to me with 
 smiles. After a few questions he found 1 was fit 
 for every thing in the world. He paused awhile 
 upon the properest means of providing for me, and 
 slapping his forehead, as if he had found it, assured 
 me, that there was at that time an embassy talked of 
 from the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw In- 
 dians, and that he would use his interest to get me 
 made secretary. I knew in my own heart the fel- 
 low lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there 
 was something so magnificent in the sound. I fairly 
 therefore divided my half-guinea, one half of which 
 went, to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and 
 with the othefhalf I resolved to go to the next tavern, 
 to be there more happy than he. 
 
 * As I was going out with that resolution, I wa* 
 met at the door by a captain of a ship with whom I 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 101 
 
 had formerly some little acquaintance, and he agreed 
 to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I 
 never chose to make a secret of my circumstances, 
 he assured me that I was noon the very point of 
 ruin, in listening to the office-keeper’s promises; 
 for that he only designed to sell me to the planta- 
 tions. “ But,” continued he, “ I fancy you might 
 by a much shorter voyage be very easily put into a 
 very genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My 
 ship sails to-morrow for Amsterdam; what if you go 
 in her as a passenger? The moment you land, all you 
 | have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English, and I’ll 
 warrant you’ll get. pupils and money enough. 1 sup- 
 pose you understand English,” added he, “ bv this 
 i time, or the deuce is in it.” I confidently assured him 
 >. of that ; but expressed a doubt, whether the Dutch 
 would he willing to learn English. He affirmed with 
 j an oath that they were fond of it to distra.ction ; and 
 i upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and 
 embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English 
 in Holland. The wind was fair, our voyage short; 
 
 { and after having paid my passage with half my 
 moveables, I found myself fallen as from the skies, a 
 stranger in one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. 
 In this situation 1 was unwilling to let any time pass 
 unemployed in teaching. I addressed myself there- 
 fore to two or three of those I met, whose appearance 
 seemed most promising ; but it was impossible to 
 make ourselves mutually understood. It was not 
 till this very moment 1 recollected, that in order to 
 teach Dutchmen English it was necessary that they 
 should first teach me Dutch. How I came to over- 
 look so obvious an objection, is to me amazing; but 
 certain it is I overlooked it. 
 
 ‘ This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts 
 of fairly shipping back to England again; but hap- 
 pening into company with an Irish student, .who was 
 returning from Louvain, our conversation turned 
 upon topics of literature (for, by the way, it may be 
 pbserved, that I always forgot the meanness of my 
 K 3 
 
102 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 circumstances when I could converse upon such sub- 
 jects) ; from him I learned that there were not two 
 men in his whole university who understood 
 Greek. This amazed me. 1 instantly resolved to 
 travel to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek: 
 and in this design I was heartened by my brother stu- 
 dent, who threw out some hints that a fortune might 
 be got by it. 
 
 ‘ 1 set boldly forward the next morning. Every 
 day lessened the burthen of my moveables, like iEsop 
 and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for mv lodg- 
 ings to the Dutch as I travelled on. When f came 
 to Louvain, I was resolved not to go a sneaking to the 
 lower professors, but openly tendered my talents to 
 the principal himself. 1 went, had admittance, and 
 offered him my service as a master of the Greek lan- 
 guage, which 1 had been told was a desideratum in 
 his university. The principal seemed at first to 
 doubt of my abilities; but of, these I offered to con- 
 vince him, by turning a part of any Greek author he 
 could fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly 
 earnest in my proposal, he addressed me thus : 
 “ You see me, young man,” continued he; £ ‘ 1 ne- 
 ver learned Greek 4 and I don’t find I ever missed 
 it. I have had a doctor’s cap and gown without 
 Greek; I have ten thousand florins a year without 
 Greek ; I eat heartily without Greek ; and in short,” 
 continued he, “ as 1 don’t know Greek, 1 do not be- 
 lieve there is any good in it.” 
 
 * I was now too far from home to think of return- 
 ing; so I resolved to go forward. 1 had some know- 
 ledge of music, with a tolerable voice ; I now turned 
 what was once my amusement into a present means 
 of subsistence. I passed among the harmless peasants 
 in Flanders, and among such of the French as were 
 poor enough to be merry ; for 1 ever found them 
 sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever 
 1 approached a peasant’s house towards night-fall, I 
 played one of my most merry tunes, and that pro- 
 cured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. W. 3 
 
 next day. I once or twice attempted to play for pe-v 
 ple of fashion, but they always thought my per- 
 formance odious and ne\er rewarded me with a trifle. 
 This was to me the most extraordinary, as whenever 
 I used in better days to play for cpmpany, when 
 playing was mv amusement, my music never failed 
 to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially ; 
 but as it was now my only means, it was received 
 with contempt ; a proof how ready the world i» 
 to under-rate those talents by which a man is sup- 
 ported. 
 
 ‘ In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no de- 
 sign but just to look about me, and then to go for- 
 ward. The people of Paris are much fonder of 
 strangers that have money than of those that have 
 wit. As I could not boast much of either, 1 was 
 no great favourite. After walking about the town 
 four or five days, and seeing the outsides of the 
 best houses, I was preparing to leave this retreat 
 of venal hospitality ; when passing through one of 
 the principal streets, whom should I meet but our 
 cousin, to whom you first recommended me! This 
 meeting was very agreeable to me, and I believe not 
 displeasing to hmi. He enquired into the nature of 
 my journey to Paris, and informed me of his own 
 business there, which was to collect pictures, medals, 
 intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a gentleman 
 in London, who had just stept into taste and a larg& 
 fortune. 1 was the more surprized at seeing our 
 cousin pitched upon for this office, as he himself had 
 often assured me he knew nothing of the matter. 
 Upon asking how he had been taught the art of con- 
 noscentn so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing 
 was more easy. The whole secret consisted in a 
 strict adherence to two rules: the one always to ob- 
 serve, that the picture might have been better if the 
 painter had taken more pains ; and the other, to 
 praise the works of Pietro-Perugino. “ But,” says 
 he, 4< as 1 once taught you liovv to be an author i» 
 
1 04 VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 
 
 London, I'll now undertake to instruct you in the 
 art of picture-buying in Paris.” 
 
 ‘ With this proposal i very readily closed, as it 
 was living; and now all nrn ambition v/acs to live. 
 ] went therefore to Ids lodgings, improved my dreg* 
 by his assistance ; and after some time accompanied 
 him, to auctions of pictures where the English gentry 
 were expected to be purchasers. 1 was not a little 
 surprized at his intimacy, with people of the best 
 fashion, who referred themselves to his judgment 
 upon every picture or medal, as an unerring standard 
 of taste. He made very good use of mv assistance 
 upon these occasions; for when asked his opinion 
 he would gravely take me aside and ask mine, shrug, 
 look wise, return, and assure the company, that he 
 could give no opinion upon an affair of so much im- 
 portance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for- 
 a more supported assurance. I remember to have 
 seen him, after giving his opinion that the colouring; 
 of a picture was not mellow enough, very delibe- 
 rately take a brush with brown varnish that was ac- 
 cidentally lying by, and rub it over the piece with 
 great composure before all the company, and then 
 ask if he had not improved the tints. 
 
 ‘ When he had finished his commission in Paris, 
 he left me strongly recommended to several men of 
 distinction, as a peison very proper for a travelling tu- 
 tor; and after some time 1 was employed in that 
 capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to 
 Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour 
 through Europe. I was to be the young gentle- 
 man’s governor, hut with a promise that he should 
 always govern himself. My pupil in fact under- 
 stood the art of guiding ip money concerns much 
 better than 1. He was heir to a forrune of about 
 two hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle 
 in the West-Indies; and his guardians, to qualify 
 him for the management of it, had bound him ap- 
 prentice to an attorney. Thus avarice was his pre^ 
 tailing passion : a!! his questions on the road were, 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELB. H>* 
 
 how much money might be saved; which was th« 
 least expensive course of travel; whether any tiling 
 could be bought that would turn to account when 
 disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on 
 the way as could be seen for nothing he was ready 
 enough to look at ; but if the sight of them was to 
 be paid for, he usually asserted, that he had been 
 told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a 
 bill that he would not observe, how amazingly ex- 
 pensive travelling was ; and all this though he was 
 not yet twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as 
 we took a walk to look at the port and shipping, he 
 enquired the expence of the passage by sea home to 
 England. This he was informed was but a trifle, 
 compared to his returning by land ; he was therefore 
 unable to withstand the temptation; so paying me 
 the small part of my salary that was due, he took 
 leave, and embarked with only one attendant for 
 London. 
 
 ‘ I now therefore was left once more upon the world 
 at large: but then it was a thing I was used to. 
 However, my skill in music could avail me nothing 
 in a country where every peasant was a belter mu- 
 sician than I ; but by this time I had acquired ano- 
 ther talent which answered my purpose as well, and 
 this was a skill in disputation, in all the foreign 
 universities and convents there are, upon certain 
 days, philosophical theses maintained against every 
 adventitious disputant; for which, if the champion 
 opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity 
 in money, a dinner, and a bed for one night. In 
 this manner, therefore, 1 fought my way towards 
 England; walked along from city to city ; examined 
 mankind more nearly; and, if I may so express it, 
 saw both sides of the picture. My remarks, how- 
 ever, are but few : I found that monarchy was the 
 best government for the poor to live in, and com- 
 mon-wealths for the rich. I found that riches in ge- 
 neral were in every country another name for freedom; 
 and that no man is so fond of liberty himself, as not 
 
100 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 to be desirous of subjecting the will of some indi- 
 viduals m society to bis own. 
 
 4 Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pav 
 my respects first to you, and then to enlist as a volun- 
 teer in the first expedition that was. going forward ; 
 but on my journey (town my resolutions were changed 
 by meeting an oid acquaintance, who J found be- 
 longed to a company of comedians that were going to 
 make a summer campaign in the country. The com- 
 pany seemed not much to dissaprove of me for an 
 associate. They all, however, apprized me of the 
 importance of the task at which I aimed; that the 
 public was a many-headed monster, and only such 
 as had very good heads could please it; that acting 
 was not to be learnt in a day ; and that without some 
 traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and 
 only on the stage, these hundred years, I could 
 never pretend to please. The next" difficulty was 
 in fitting me with parts, as almost every character 
 was in keeping. I was driven for some time from 
 oue character to another, till at last Horatio was 
 fixed upon, which the presence of the present com- 
 pany has happily hindered me from acting.’ 
 
 CHAP. II. 
 
 The short Continuance of Friendship amongst the 
 
 Vicious, which, is coeval only with mutual Satis- 
 faction. 
 
 MY son’s account was too long to be delivered at 
 once : the first part of it was begun that night, and 
 he was concluding therestafter dinner the next day; 
 when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill’s equipage at 
 the door seemed to make a pause in the general sa- 
 tisfaction. r i he butler, who was now become iny 
 friend in the family, informed me in a whisper, that 
 the -squire had already made some overtures to Miss 
 YVil mot, and that her aunt and uncle, seemed highly 
 to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill’s enter- 
 ing, he seemed, at seeing mv son and me, to start 
 back; but I readily imputed that to surprize, and 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 107 
 
 not displeasure. However, upon our advancing to 
 salute him, he returned our greeting with the most 
 apparent candour; and after a short time, hi3 presence 
 seemed only to increase the general good humour. 
 
 After tea he called me aside to enquire after my 
 daughter; but upon my informing him that mv en- 
 quiry was unsuccessful, he seetnfcd greatly surprized; 
 adding, that he had been since frequently at my 
 house, in order to comfort the rest of the family, 
 whom he left perfectly well. He then asked if 1 had 
 I communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot, or 
 - my son : and upon my replying, that I had not told 
 them as yet, he greatly approved my prudence and 
 i precaution, desiring me by all means to keep it a se- 
 cret: ‘For at best,’ cried he, * it is but divulging 
 I one’s own infamy; and perhaps Miss Livy may not 
 j be so guilty as we all imagine. We were here inter- 
 : ruptedby a servant, who came to ask the squire to 
 stand up at country dances ; so that he left me quite 
 | pleased with the interest he seemed to take in my 
 concerns. His addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot 
 were too obvious to he mistaken ; and yet she seemed 
 i not perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in com- 
 pliance to the will of her aunt, than from real in- 
 clination. I had even the satisfaction to see her la- 
 vish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which 
 the other could neither extort by his fortune nor 
 assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's seeming composure, how- 
 ever, not a little surprized me: we had now con- 
 tinued here a week, at the pressing instances of Mr, 
 Arnold : hut each day the more tenderness Miss Wii- 
 mot shewed my son, Mr. Thornhill’s friendship 
 seemed proportionally to increase for him. 
 
 He had formerly made us the most kind assurances 
 | of using his interest to serve the family ; but now his 
 j generosity was not confined to promises alone. The 
 I morning 1 designed for my departure, Mr. Thornhill 
 i came to me with looks of real pleasure, to inform 
 me of a piece of service he had done for hi* friend 
 | George: this was nothing less than his having pro- 
 
108 VICAR OF WAKEriFLir. 
 
 cured him an ensign’s commission in one of the regi- 
 ments that was going to the West Indies, for which 
 he had promised but one hundred pounds, his interest? 
 being sufficient to get an abatement of the other two. 
 • As for this trilling piece of service,’ continued the 
 young gentleman, ‘ l desire no other reward but the 
 pleasure of having served my friend ; and as for the 
 hundred pounds to be paid, if you are unable to raise 
 it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay 
 me at your leisure’ This was a favour we wanted 
 words to express our sense of. I readily therefore, 
 gave my bond for the money, and testified as much 
 gratitude as if I never intended to pay. 
 
 George was to depart for town the next day to 
 secure his commission, in pursuance of his generous 
 patron’s directions, who judged it highly expedient 
 to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another should 
 step in with more advantageous proposals. The next 
 morning, therefore, our young soldier was early pre- 
 pared for his departure, and seemed the only person 
 among us that was not affected by it. Neither the 
 fatigues and dangers hewas going to encounter, nor the 
 friends and mistress (for Miss Wilmot actually loved 
 him) he was leaving behind, any way damped nis spi- 
 rits. After he had taken leave of the rest of the com- 
 pany, b 'gave him all that l had, myblessing. And now, 
 my boy,’ cried 1, ‘ thou art going to fight for thy 
 country, remember how thy brave grandfather fought 
 for his sacred king, when loyalty among Britons 
 was a virtue. Go, rnv hoy, and imitate him in all 
 but his misfortunes; if it was a misfortune to die 
 with lord Falkland. Go my hoy, and if you fall, 
 though distant, exposed and unwept by those that 
 love vou, the most precious tears are those with 
 which Heaven bedews the unburied head of a sol- 
 dier.’ 
 
 The next morning I took Leave of the good family, 
 lhat had been kind enough to entertain me so Ion*, 
 not without several expressions of gratitude to Mr, 
 Thornhill fax Ms late bounty. I left them in the 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. l(fc| 
 
 enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and 
 good-breeding procure, and returned towards home, 
 despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but 
 sending a sigh to Heaven to spare and forgive her. I 
 was now come within about twenty miles of home, 
 having hired a horse to carry me, as 1 was yet but 
 weak, and comforted myself with the hopes of soon, 
 seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night 
 (coming on, 1 put up at a little public-house by the road- 
 ;side, and asked for the landlord’s company over a pint 
 of wine. We sat heside his kitchen-fire, which was 
 'the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and 
 ithe news of the country. We happened, among other 
 topics, to talk of young SquireThornhill, who, the host 
 assured me, was hated as much as his uncle Sir Wil- 
 liam, who sometimes came down to the country, was 
 loved. He went on to observe, that he made it his 
 jwhole study to betray the daughters of such as received 
 him into their houses, and after a fortnight or three 
 weeks possession, turned them out unrewarded and 
 abandoned to the world. As we continued our dis- 
 course in this manner, his wife, who had been out to 
 get change, returned, and perceiving that her husband 
 was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, 
 she asked him in an angry tone, what he did there; 
 to which he only replied in an ironical way, by drink- 
 ing her health. * Mr. Symonds,' cried she, ‘ you 
 use me very ill, and I’ll bear it no longer. Here three 
 parts of the business is left for me to do, and the 
 fourth left unfinished, while you do nothing but soak 
 with the guest all day long, whereas, if a spoonful 
 of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a 
 drop.’ I now found what she would be at, and im- 
 mediately poured out a glass, which she received with 
 a curtsey, and drinking towards mv good health, 
 * Sir,’ resumed she, ‘ it is not so much for the value 
 ot the liquor 1 am angry, but one cannot help it when 
 the house is going out of the windows. If the 
 customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burden 
 L 
 
110 VICAR or WAKEFIELD, 
 
 lies upon my back, he’d as lief eat that glass as budge! 
 after them himself. There, now above stairs we have a] 
 young woman who has come to take up her lodgings] 
 here, and I don’t believe she has got any money, by 1 
 her Over-civility. I am certain she is very slow of] 
 payment, and I wish she were put in mind of it.’ — ] 
 ‘ What signifies minding her,’ cried the host; ‘ if 
 she be slow, she is sure.’ — I don’t know that,’ re- 
 plied the wife ; * but I know that I am sure she has 
 been here a fortnight, and we have not yet seen the 
 Cross of her money.’ — ‘ I suppose, my dear,’ cried he, 
 
 * we shall have it all in a lump.’ — ‘ In a lump,’ cried 
 the other, ‘ 1 hope we may get it any way ; and that I 
 am resolved we will this very night, or out she tramps,, 
 bag and baggage.’ — * Consider, my dear,’ cried the 
 husband, ‘she is a gentlewoman, and deserves more 
 respect.’ — ‘ As for the matter of that,’ returned the 
 hostess, ‘ gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a 
 sussarara. Gentry may be good things where they take ; 
 hut for my part 1 never saw much good of them at the 
 sign of the Harrow.’ Thus saying, she ran up a nar- 
 row flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a 
 room over head, and I soon percehed by the loudness 
 of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, 
 that no money was to be had from her lodger. I 
 could hear the remonstrances very distinctly : ‘ Out 
 Isay; pack out this moment ! tramp, thou Infamous 
 strumpet, or I’ll give thee a mark thou won’t be the 
 better for these three months. What! you trumpery, 
 to come and take up au honest house, without cross 
 or coin to bless yourself with ; come along, 1 say.’ — 
 
 ‘ O dear Madam,’ cried the stranger, ‘ pity me, pity 
 a poor abandoned creature, for one night, and death 
 will soon do the rest.’ I instantly knew the vole® 
 of my poor ruined child, Olivia. 1 fiew to her rescue! 
 while the woman was dragging her along bv the hair' 
 and I caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms; 
 
 ‘ Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, 
 my treasure, to your poor old father’s bosom. Though 
 the vicious forsake thee, there is yet one in the world 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. I'll 
 
 (.hat; will never forsake thee; though thou hast ten 
 .housand crimes to answer for, he will forget them. 
 — * O mv own dear,’ — for minutes she could say no 
 more, * mv own dearest good papa ! Could angels be 
 cinder! flow do I deserve so much ? The villain, I 
 hate him and myself to be a reproach to so much 
 goodness. You can’t forgive me. I know you can- r 
 not.’ — ‘ Yes my child, from my heart I c]o forgive 
 thee. Only repent, and we both shall be happy. Wc 
 $hall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia.’ — ‘ Ah! 
 never, Sir, never. The rest of my wretched life must 
 be infamy abroad, anti shame at home. But alas! 
 papa, you look much paler than you used to do. 
 jCould such a thing as 1 am give you so much un- 
 \ easiness? Sure you have too much wisdom to take 
 the miseries of my guilt upon yourself.’ — ‘ Our wis- 
 dom, young woman,’ replied 1. — ‘ Ah, why so cold 
 la name, papa?’ cried she. ‘ This is the first lime 
 you ever called me by so cold a name.’ — ‘ I ask par- 
 don, my darling,’ returned I; ‘but I was going to 
 I observe, that wisdom makes but a slow defence 
 against trouble, though at last a sure one.’ 
 
 The landlady now returned to know if we did not 
 •chose a more genteel apartment; to which assenting, 
 
 | we were shewn to a room where we could converse 
 I more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some 
 I degree of tranquility, I could not avoid desiring some 
 , account of the gradations that led to her present 
 ; wretched situation. ‘ That villain, Sir,’ said she, 
 j * from the first day of our meeting, made me ho- 
 i nourahle, though private proposals.’ 
 
 ‘ Villain, indeed,’ cried I ; ‘ and yet it in some mea- 
 sure surprises me, how a person of Mr. Burchell’s 
 j good sense, and seeming honour, could be guilty of 
 I such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family 
 | to undo it.’ 
 
 ‘ My dear papa,’ returned my daughter, ‘ you la- 
 bour under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never 
 ! attempted to deceive me. Instead of that, he took 
 every opportunity of privately admonishing me against 
 i. 2 
 
112 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 the artifices of Mr. Thornhill, who, I now find, was 
 even worse than he represented him.’ — 4 Mr. Thorn- 
 hill!’ interrupted 1, 1 can it be?’ — « Yes, Sir,’ returned 
 she, 4 it was Mr. Thornhill who seduced me, who 
 employed the two ladies, as he called them, but who 
 in fact were abandoned women of the town, without 
 breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their ar- 
 tifices, you may remember, would have certainly 
 succeeded, but for Mr Burchell’s letter, who directed 
 those reproaches at them, which were all applied to 
 ourselves. How he came to have so much influence 
 as to defeat their intentions, still remains a secret to 
 me; but I am convinced he was ever our warmest, 
 sincerest friend.’ 
 
 4 You amaze me, my dear,’ cried I, 4 but now 
 I find my first suspicions of Air. Ihornliili’s baseness 
 were too well grounded : but he can triumph in se- 
 curity ; for he is rich, and we are poor. But tell me, 
 my child; sure it was no small temptation that 
 could thus obliterate all the impressions of such an 
 education, and so virtuous a disposition as thine?’ 
 
 4 Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, 4 he owes all his tri- 
 fimph to the desire I had of making him, and not 
 myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our 
 marriage, which was privately performed by a popish 
 priest, was no way binding, and that 1 had nothing 
 to trust to but his honour.’ — 4 What,’ interrupted I, 
 ‘ and were you indeed married by a priest in or- 
 ders?’ — 4 Indeed, Sir, we were,’ replied she, 4 though 
 
 we were both sworn to conceal his name.’ ‘Why 
 
 then, my child, come to my arms again; and now 
 you are a thousand times more welcome than before : 
 for you are now his wife to all intents and purposes; 
 nor can all the laws of man, though written upon 
 tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred 
 connection.’ 
 
 ‘ Alas papa,’ replied she, 4 you are hut little ac- 
 quainted with his villanies : he has been married al- 
 ready, by the same priest, to six or eight wives more, 
 whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned.’ 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 113 
 
 ‘ Has he so!’ cried I, ‘ then we must hang the 
 priest, and you shall inform against him to-mor- 
 row.’— ‘ But, Sir,’ returned she, ‘ will that be right, 
 when I am sworn to secresv ?’ — c My dear,’ 1 re- 
 plied, ‘ if you ha\e made such a promise, I cannot, 
 nor will 1 tempt you to break it. Even though it may 
 benefit the public, you must not iniorm against him. 
 In all human institutions, a smaller evil is allowed 
 to procure a greater good ; as in politics, a province 
 may be given away to secure a kingdom; in medicine, 
 a limb may be lopt off, to preserve the body. But in 
 religion, the law is written, and inflexibly, never to 
 do evil. And this law, my child, is right ; for other- 
 wise, if we commit a smaller evil to procure a greater 
 good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in ex- 
 pectation of contingent advantage. And though the 
 advantage should certainly follow, yet the interval 
 between commission and advantage, which is allowed 
 to be guilty, may be that in which we are called 
 away to answer for the things we have done, and the 
 volume of human actions is closed lor ever. But I 
 interrupt you, my dear ; go on.’ 
 
 ‘ The very next morning,’ continued she, ‘ I 
 found what little expectation I was to have from his 
 sincerity. That very morning he introduced me to 
 two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had 
 deceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I 
 loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in hi6 
 affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult 
 of pleasure. With this view, 1 danced, dressed, and 
 talked; but still was unhappy. The gentlemen who 
 visited there told me every moment ot the power of my 
 charms, and this only contributed to increase my 
 melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite 
 away. Thus each day 1 grew more pensive, and he 
 more insolent, till at last the monster had the assurance 
 to offer me to a young baronet of his- acquaintance. 
 Need I describe, hir, how his ingratitude stung me. 
 My answer to this proposal was almost madness. I 
 desired to part. As I was going, he offered me <* 
 L 3 
 
114 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 purse; but 1 flung it at him with indignation, and 
 burst from him in a rage that for a while kept me 
 insensible ol the miseries of my situation. But I 
 soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, ab - 
 ject, guilty thing, without one friend in the world 
 to apply to. Just in that interval, a stage-coach 
 happen ing to pass by ; I took a place, it being my 
 only aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch 
 I despised and detested. I was set down here; 
 where, since my arrival, my own anxiety, and this 
 woman’s unkindness, have been my only compa- 
 nions. The hours of pleasure that I have passed 
 with my mamma and sister now grow painful to me: 
 their sorrows are much ; but mine are greater than 
 theirs; for mine are mixed with guilt and infamy.’ 
 
 ‘ Have patience, my child,’ cried I, ‘ and 1 hope 
 things will yet be better. Take some repose to- 
 night, and to-morrow I’ll carry you home to your 
 mother and the rest of the family, from whom you 
 will receive a kind reception. Poor woman! this 
 has gone to her heart : but she loves you still, Oli- 
 via, and will forget it.’ 
 
 CHAP III. 
 
 Offences are easily pardoned where there is Love 
 at bottom. 
 
 THE next morning I took my daughter behind 
 me, and set out on my return home. As we tra- 
 velled along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm 
 her sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution 
 to bear the presence of her oflended mother. J took 
 every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine coun- 
 try, through which we passed, to observe how much 
 kinder Heaven was to us, than we to each other j 
 and that the misfortunes of Nature’s making were 
 but very few. I assured her, that she should never 
 perceive any change in my affections, and that during 
 my life, which yet might be long, she misht depend 
 upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her 
 against the censures of the world, shewed her that 
 bo«ks were sweet unreproaching companions to the 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 115 
 
 miserable, and that if they could not bring us to en- 
 joy life, they would at least teach us to endure it. 
 
 The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that 
 night at an inn by the way, within about five-miles 
 from my house; and as L was willing to prepare my 
 family for my daughter’9 reception, 1 determined to 
 leave her that'night at the inn, and to return for her, 
 accompanied by my daughter Sophia early the next 
 morning. It was night before we reached our ap- 
 pointed stage: however, after seeing her provided 
 with a decent apartment, and having ordered our 
 hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I kissed her, 
 and proceeded towards home. And now my heart 
 caught new sensations of pleasure, the nearer I ap- 
 proached that, peaceful mansion. As a bird that had 
 been frighted from its nest, my affections out-went 
 my haste, and hovered round my little fire-side with 
 all the rapture of expectation. I called up the many 
 fond things 1 had to say, and anticipated the welcome 
 I was to receive. 1 already felt my wife’s tender 
 embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. 
 As 1 walked but slowly, the night wained apace. 
 The labourers of the day were all retired to rest ; the 
 lights were out in every cottage; no sounds were 
 heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed 
 watch dog, at a hoilow distance. I approached my 
 abode of pleasure, and before 1 was within a furlong 
 of the place, our honest mastiff came running to wel- 
 come me. 
 
 It was now near midnight that I came to knock at 
 my door; all was still and silent; my heart dilated 
 with unutterable happiness; when, to my amazement, 
 I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and 
 every aperture red with conflagration ! 1 gave a loud 
 convulsive out-cry, and fell upon the pavement insen- 
 sible. This alarmed my son, who had till this been 
 asleep, and perceiving the flames, instantly waked 
 my wife and daugiiter, and all running out, naked, and 
 wild with the apprehension, recalled me to life with 
 their anguish. But it vvas only to objects of new 
 
1 16 VICAR OF WAKEFIELt). 
 
 terror; for the flames had by this time caught the 
 roof of our dwelling, part after part continuing to fall 
 in, while the family stood with silent agony looking 
 on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed upon them 
 and upon it by turns, and then looked round for my 
 two little ones ; but they were not to be seen. ‘ O 
 misery! Where,’ cried I, ‘ where are my little ones?' 
 — ‘ They are burnt to death in the flames,’ said my 
 wife calmly, f and I will die with them.’ That 
 moment I heard the cry of the babes within, who 
 were j ust awaked by the fire, aud nothing could have 
 stopped me. ‘ YV here, where are my children?’ cried 
 I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door 
 of the chamber in which they were confined, ‘ Where 
 are mv little ones ?’ — ‘ Here, dear papa; here we are!’ 
 cried they together, while the flames were just catch- 
 ing the bed where they lay. I caught them both in 
 my arms, and snatched them through the fire as 
 fast as possible, while just as 1 was got out, the roof 
 sunk in. ‘ Now,’ cried I, holding up my children, 
 ‘ now let the flames burn on, and all my possessions 
 perish. Here they are, I have saved my treasure. 
 Here, mv dearest, here are our treasures, and we 
 shall yet be happy.’ We kissed our little darlings 
 a thousand times, they clasped us round the neck, 
 and seemed to share our transports, while their mo- 
 ther laughed and wept by turns. 
 
 I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and 
 after some time began to perceive that my arm to the 
 shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It was 
 therefore out of my power to give my son any assist- 
 ance, either in attempting to save our goods, or pre- 
 venting the flames spreading to our corn. By this 
 time the neighbours were alarmed, and came running 
 to our assistance ; but all they could do was to stand, 
 likens, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among 
 which were the notes I had reserved for my daugh- 
 ters’ fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a box 
 with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two 
 or three things more of little consequence, which my 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIET.D. 117 
 
 son brought away in the beginning. The neighbours 
 | contributed, however, what they could to lighten 
 our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished 
 one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils ; so 
 that by day-light we had another, though a wretched 
 dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour, 
 and his children, were not the least assiduous in 
 providing us with every thing necessary, and offering 
 whatever consolation untutored benevolence could 
 suggest. 
 
 When the fears of my family had subsided, curio- 
 sity to know the cause of my long stay began to take 
 place; having therefore informed them of every par- 
 ticular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception 
 ; of our lost one, and though we had nothing but 
 1 wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure 
 her a welcome to what we had. This task would 
 j have been more difficult but for our recent calamity, 
 which had humbled my wife’s pride, and blunted it 
 j by more poignant afflictions. Being unable to go for 
 my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, 
 
 I I sent my son and daughter, who soon returned, sup- 
 I porting the wretched delinquent, who had not the 
 courage to look up at her mother, whom no instruc- 
 tions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconcilia- 
 tion ; for women have a much stronger sense of female 
 error than men. ‘ Ah, madam,’ cried her mother, 
 * this is but a poor place you are come to after so 
 much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can aftord 
 but little entertainment to persons who have kept 
 ; company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss 
 Livy, your poor father and 1 have suffered very 
 much of late; but I hope Heaven will forgive you.’ 
 During this reception, the unhappy victim stood pale 
 i and trembling, unable to weep or to reply ; but 1 could 
 ■ not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; where- 
 ' fore assuming a degree of severity in my voice and 
 manner, which was ever followed with instant sub- 
 mission, 4 I entreat, woman, that my words maybe 
 now marked once for all : I have here brought you back 
 
■4 IS VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 a poor deluded wanderer; her return to duty de- 
 mands the revival of our tenderness. The real hard- 
 ships of life are now coming fast upon us, let us not 
 therefore increase them bv dissension among each 
 Other. If we live harmoniously together-, we may 
 yet he contented, as there are enough of us to shut 
 out the censuring world, and keep each other in 
 countenance. Ihe kindness of Heaven is promised 
 to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the ex- 
 ample. Heaven, we are assured, is much more 
 pleased to view a repentant sinner, than ninety-nine 
 persons who have supported a course of undeviating 
 rectitude. And this is right; for that single effort 
 by which we stop short in the down-hill path to per- 
 dition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue, than an 
 hundred acts of justice.' 
 
 CHA P. IV. 
 
 hone lut the Guilty can he long and completely 
 * miserable. 
 
 SOME assiduity was now required to make our 
 present abode as convenient as possible, and we 
 were soon again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. 
 Being disabled myself from assisting my son in Our 
 usual occupations, 1 read to my family from the few 
 books that were saved, and particularly from such 
 as, by amusing the imagination, contributed to ease 
 the heart. Our good neighbours too came every day 
 with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in 
 which they were all to assist at repairing my former 
 dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last 
 among these visitors; hut heartily ofi'ered his friend- 
 ship. He would even have renewed his addresses ta 
 my daughter; but she rejected them in such a man- 
 ne.r as totally represt his future solicitations. Her 
 grief seemed formed for continuing, and she was the 
 only person of our little society that a week did not 
 restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that unblush- 
 ing innocence which once taught her to respect her- 
 self, and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety had 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 11$) 
 
 now taken strong possession of her mind, her beauty 
 began to be impaired with her constitution, and neg- 
 lect still more continued to diminish it. Every 
 tender epithet bestowed on her sister brought a pang 
 to her heart and a tear to her eye; and as one vice, 
 though cured, ever plants others where it has been, 
 so her former guilt, though driven out by repen- 
 tance, left jealousy and envy behind. I strove a 
 thousand ways to lessen her care, and even forgot 
 my own pain in a concern for her’s, collecting such 
 amusing passages of history, as a strong memory 
 and some reading could suggest. 1 Our happiness, 
 my dear,’ 1 would say, * is in the power ol One who 
 can bring it about by a thousand unforeseen ways 
 that mock our foresight. If example be necessary 
 to prove this, I’ll give you a story, my child, told 
 us by a grave, though sometimes a romancing his- 
 torian. 
 
 ‘ Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan 
 nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a 
 widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she 
 stood one day caressing her infant son in the open 
 window of an apartment, which hung over the river 
 Volturna, the child, with a sudden spring, leaped 
 from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared 
 in a moment. The mother, struck with instant 
 surprize, and making an effort to save him, plunged 
 in after; but far from being able to assist the infant, 
 she herself with great difficulty escaped to the oppo- 
 site shore, just when some French soldiers were 
 plundering the country on that side, who immediately 
 made her their prisoner. 
 
 ‘ As the war was then carried on between the 
 French and the Italians with the utmost inhuma- 
 nity, they were going at once to perpetrate those 
 two extremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. 
 This base resolution, however, was opposed by a 
 young officer, who, though his retreat required 
 the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and 
 brought her in safety to his native city. Her 
 
120 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 beauty at first caught his eye, her merit soon after 
 his heart. They were married ; he rose to the 
 highest posts; they lived long together, and were 
 happy. But the felicity ol a soldier can never be 
 called permanent: after an interval of several years, 
 the troops which he commanded having met with 
 a repulse, he was obliged to take shelter in the city 
 where he had lived with his wife. Here they suf- 
 fered a siege, and the city at length was taken. 
 Few' instances can produce more various instances 
 of cruelty, than those which the French and Ita- 
 lians at that time exercised upon each other. It 
 was resolved bv the victors, upon this occasion, 
 to put all the French prisoners to death; hut par- 
 ticularly the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as 
 he was principally instrumental in protracting the 
 siege. Their determinations were, in general, exe- 
 cuted almost as soon as resolved upon. The cap- 
 tive soldier was led forth, and the executioner with 
 his sword, stood ready, while the spectators in 
 gloomy silence awaited the fatal blow, which was 
 only suspended till the general, who presided as 
 judge, should give the signal. It was in this in- 
 terval of anguish and expectation, that Matilda 
 came to take the last farewell of her husband and 
 deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the 
 cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing 
 by a premature death in the river Volturna to be 
 the spectator of still greater calamities. The gene- 
 ral, who was a young man, was struck with sur- 
 prize at her beauty, and pity at her distress; but 
 with still stronger emotions when he heard her men- 
 tion her former dangers. He was her son, the 
 infant for whom she had encountered so much dan- 
 ger; acknowdedged her at once as his mother, and 
 fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed : 
 the captive was set free, and all the happiness that 
 love, friendship, and duty could confer on each were 
 united.’ 
 
 In this maimer I would attempt to amuse my 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 121 
 
 daughter: but she listened with divided attention; 
 for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she 
 once had for those of another, and nothing gave 
 her ease. In company she dreaded contempt; and in 
 solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the 
 colour of her wretchedness, when weieceiyed certain 
 information that Mr. Thornhill was going to l>e 
 married to M iss Wilmot, for whom I always sus- 
 pected he had a real passion, though he took every 
 opportunity before me to express his contempt 
 both of her person and fortune. This news served 
 only to increase poor Olivia’s affliction ; for such a 
 flagrant breach of fidelity was more than her courage 
 could support. I was resolved, however, to get more 
 certain information, and to deleat, it possible, the 
 completion of his designs, by sending my son to 
 old Wilmot’s, with instructions to know the truth 
 of the report, and to deliver Miss W ilrnot a letter, 
 intimating Mr. Thornhill’s conduct in my family. 
 My son went in pursuance ot my directions, and in 
 three days returned, assuring us of the truth ot the 
 account; but that he found it imposible to deliver 
 the letter, which he was therefore obliged to leave, 
 as Mr. Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting 
 round the country. They were to be married, he 
 said, in a few days, having appeared together at 
 church the Sunday before he was there, in great 
 splendour, the bride attended by six young ladies, 
 and he by as many gentlemen. Their approach- 
 ing nuptials filled the whole country with rejoicing, 
 and they usually rode out together in the grandest 
 equipage that had been in the country for many 
 years. All the friends of both families, he said, 
 were there, particularly the squire’s uncle. Sir Wil- 
 liam, who bore so good a character. He added that 
 nothing but mirth and feasting were going forward; 
 that alf the country praised the young bride’s beauty 
 and the bridegroom’s fine person, and that they were 
 immensely fond of each other; concluding, that 
 M 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 he could not help thinking Mr. Thornhill one of 
 the most happy men in the world. 
 
 Why, let him it he can.’ returned I : ‘ but, my 
 son, observe this bed of straw, and unsheltenn°* 
 roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor; my 
 wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my chil- 
 dren weeping round me for bread; you have come 
 home my child, to all this, vet here, even here, 
 you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds 
 exchange situations. O, my children, if you could 
 hut learn to commune with your own hearts, and 
 know what noble company you can make them, 
 you would little regard the elegance and splendour 
 of the worthless. Almost all men have been taught 
 to call life a passage, and themselves travellers. 
 The similitude still maybe improved, when we ob- 
 serve that the good are joyful and serene, like tra- 
 vellers that are going towards home ; the wicked 
 but by intervals happy, like travellers that are <min ,)- 
 into exile.’ ° 
 
 My compassion for my poor daughter, over- 
 powered by this new disaster, interupted what I 
 had farther to observe. I bade tier mother support 
 her, and after a short time she recovered. She ap- 
 peared from that time more calm, and I imagined 
 had gained a new degreee of resolution : but appear- 
 ances deceived me; for her tranquillity was the 
 languor of overwrought resentment. A supply of 
 provisions, charitably sent us by my kind parishi- 
 oners, seemed to diflusc new cheerfulness among 
 the rest of my family, nor was I dipleased at seeing 
 them once more sin ightly and at ease, it would have 
 been unjust to damp their satisfactions, merely to 
 condole with resolute melancholy, or to burden them 
 with a sadness they did not feel. T-hus, once more 
 the taie went round, and the song was demanded, 
 and cheerfulness condescended to hover round our 
 little habitation. 
 
123 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 CHAP. V. 
 
 I'rcsk Calamities. 
 
 THE next morning the sun arose with peculiar 
 warmth for the season ; so that we agreed to break- 
 fast together on the honey-suckle hank : where, 
 while we sate, my youngest daughter, at my request, 
 joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. 
 It was in this place my poor Olivia first met her 
 seducer, and every object served to recall her sad- 
 ness. But that melancholy, which is excited by 
 objects of pleasure, or inspired by sounds of har- 
 mony, soothes the heart instead of corroding it. 
 lder mother too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing 
 distress, and wept, and loved her daughter as before. 
 
 ‘ Do, my pretty Olivia,’ cried she, ‘ let us have that 
 little melancholy air your papa was so fond ol ; your 
 sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do, child ; it 
 will please your old father.’ She complied in a 
 manner so exquisitely pathetic, as moved me. 
 
 WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly. 
 
 And finds too late that men betray. 
 
 What charm can sooth he,r melancholy, 
 
 What art can wash her guilt away ! 
 
 The only art her guilt to cover. 
 
 To hide her shame from every eye, 
 
 To give repentance to her lover. 
 
 And wring his bosom, is — to die. 
 
 As she was concluding the last stanza, to which 
 an interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar 
 softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill’s equipage 
 at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly in- 
 creased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, 
 desirous of shunning her betrayer, returned to the 
 house with her sister. In a few minutes he was 
 alighted from his chariot, and making up to the 
 place where I was still sitting, enquired after my 
 health with his usual air of familiarity. ‘ Sir,’ re- 
 plied I, ‘ your present assurance only serves to ag- 
 gravate the baseness of vour character ; and there 
 was a time when I would have chastised yOur in- 
 M 2 
 
124 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 solence, for presuming thus to appear before me. 
 But now you are safe ; for age has cooled my pas- 
 sions, and my calling restrains them.’ 
 
 * I vow, my dear Sir,’ returned he, £ I am amazed 
 at all this ; nor can I understand what it means. I 
 hope you don’t think your daughter’s late excursion 
 with me had any thing criminal in it.’ 
 
 ‘ Go,’ cried 1, £ thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful 
 wretch, and every way a liar ; but your meanness 
 secures you from my anger! Yet, Sir, I am de- 
 scended from a family that would not have borne 
 this! And so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momen- 
 tary passion, thou hast made one poor creature 
 wretcned far life, and polluted a family that had no- 
 thing but honour for their portion.’ 
 
 ‘ If she or you,’ returned he, ‘ are resolved to be 
 miserable, I cannot help it. But you may still be 
 happy ; and whatever opinion you may have formed 
 of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to 
 jt. We can marry her to another in a short time ; 
 and, what is more, she may keep her lover beside; for 
 I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard 
 for her.’ 
 
 I found all my passions alarmed at this new de- 
 grading proposal ; for though the mind may often be 
 calm under great injuries, 'little villainy can at any 
 time get within the soul, and sting it into rage. 
 
 ‘ Avoid my sight, thou reptile,’ cried' I, ‘ nor con- 
 tinue to insult me with thy presence. Were my brave 
 son at home, he would not suffer this ; but 1 am old 
 and disabled, and every way undone.’ 
 
 * I find,’ cried he, ‘ you are bent upon obliging 
 me to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. 
 But as I have shewn you what may be hoped from 
 my friendship, it may not be improper to represent 
 what may be the consequences of my resentment. 
 My attorney, to whom your late bond has been trans- 
 ferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent 
 the course of justice, except by paying the money 
 myself, which, as I have been at some expences 
 
VICAR OP WAKEFIELD, 125 
 
 lately, previous to my intended marriage, is not so 
 easy to be done. And then my steward talks of 
 driving for the rent: it is certain he knows his duty; 
 for I never trouble myself with afluirs of that nature. 
 Yet still 1 could wish to serve you, and even to have 
 i you and your daughter present at my marriage, which 
 is shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is 
 even the request of my charming Arabella herself, 
 r whom 1 hope you will not refuse.’ 
 
 ‘ Mr. Thornhill,’ replied I, ‘ hear me once for all : 
 as to your marriage with any hut my daughter, that 
 I never will consent to ; and though your friendship 
 ; could raise me to a throne, or your resenlmen ( t sink 
 me to the grave, yet would 1 despise both. ^ hou hast 
 : once woefully, irreparably deceived me. 1 reposed 
 | my heart upon thine honour, and have found its 
 i baseness. Never more therefore expect friendship 
 ' from me. Go and possess what fortune has given 
 j thee, beauty, riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and 
 f leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, 
 i humbled as I am, shall" my heart still vindicate its 
 dignity; and though thou hast my forgiveness, thou 
 shalt ever have my contempt.’ 
 
 ‘ If so,’ returned he, ‘ depend upon it you shall 
 feel the effects of this insolence; and we shall shortly 
 see which is the fittest object ol scorn, you or me. 
 j ypon which he departed abruptly. 
 
 My wife and son, who were present at this inter- 
 | view, seemed terrified with the apprehension. My 
 daughters also, finding that he was gone, came out 
 to be informed of the result of our conference; which, 
 when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. 
 But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of 
 his malevolence: he had already struck the blow, 
 and I now stood prepared to repel every new eflort; 
 like one of those instruments, used in the art of war, 
 which, however thrown, still presents a point to re- 
 1 ceive the enemy. 
 
 We soon, however, found that he had not threat- 
 ened in vain ; for the very next morning his steward 
 M 3 
 
12f 5 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 came to demand my annual rent, which, by the train 
 of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. 
 1 he consequence of my incapacity was his drivin 
 mv catUe that evening, and their being appraised an 
 sole, .he next day .or less than half their value. My 
 wife and children now therefore intreated me to com- 
 ply upon any terms, rather than incur certain de- 
 struction. J hey even begged of me to ad mit his 
 visits once more, and used all their little eloquence 
 to paint the calamities I was going to endure : the 
 terrors of a prison in so rigorous a season as the pre- 
 sent with trie danger that threatened my health from 
 the fate accident that happened by the fire. But I 
 continued inflexible. 
 
 ‘ Why, my treasures,’ cried I, * why will you 
 
 \° per f uade me to the thing that is not 
 n 6 ht. My duty has taught me to forgive him, 
 but my conscience will not permit me to approve! 
 Would you have me applaud to the world what my 
 heart must internally condemn ? Would you have 
 me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous be- 
 trayer ; and to avoid a prison, continually suffer the 
 more galling bonds of mental confinement? No 
 never If we aie to be taken from this abode, only 
 let us hold to the right, and wherever we are thrown, 
 we can still retire to a charming apartment, when 
 we can look round our own hearts with intrepidity 
 and with pleasure!* * * 
 
 In this manner we spent that evening. Early the 
 next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abun- 
 dance in the night, my son was employed in clearing 
 it away, and opening a passage before the door. He 
 tad not been thus engaged Jong, when he came run- 
 ning in with looks all pale, to tell us that two stran- 
 gers^ whom he knew to be officers of justice, were 
 making towards the house. 
 
 Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching 
 the bed where I lay, alter previously informing me 
 of their employment and business, made me their 
 
 bc-a 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 127 
 
 prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the 
 county gaol, which was eleven miles oil. 
 
 « My friends,’ said I, ‘ this is severe weather m 
 which you have come to take me to a prison ; and it 
 is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of my 
 arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and 
 it has thrown me into a slight fever, and 1 want 
 clothes to cover me, and 1 am now too weak and 
 old to walk far in such deep snow : but if it must 
 
 be so — ’ _ 
 
 I then turned to my wife and children, and directed 
 them to get together what few things were left us, 
 and to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I 
 intreated them to be, expeditious ; and desired my 
 son to assist his eldest sister, who, from a conscious- 
 ness that she was the cause of all our calamities, was 
 fallen, and had lost anguish in insensibility. I en- 
 couraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped 
 our afl righted little ones in her arms, that clung to 
 her bosom in silence, dreading to look round at the 
 strangers. In the mean time my youngest daughter 
 prepared for our departure ; and as she received several 
 hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were ready 
 to depart. 
 
 1 CHAP. VI. 
 
 No Situation, however wretched it seems, hit has 
 some sort of Comfort attending it. 
 
 WE set forward from this peaceful neighbourhood, 
 and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being 
 enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for 
 some days to undermine her constitution, one of the 
 officers, who had an horse, kindly took hei behind 
 him : for even these men cannot entirely divest them- 
 selves of humanity. My son led one of the little 
 ones by the hand, and my wife the other; while I 
 leaned upon my youngest girl, whose tears fell not 
 for her own, but my distresses. 
 
 We were now got from my late dwelling about 
 two miles, when we saw a crowd running and 
 shouting behind us, consisting of about fifty of my 
 
128 t VICAR OP WAKEFIELD, 
 poorest parishioners, These, with dreadful impre- 
 cations, soon seized upon the two officers of justice, 
 and swearing they would never see their minister go 
 to a gaol while they had a drop of blaod to shed in 
 his defence, were going to use them with great se- 
 verity. I he consequence might have been fatal, 
 had I not immediately interposed, and with some 
 difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the 
 enraged multitude. My children, who looked upon 
 niy delivery now as certain, appeared transported with 
 joy, and were incapable of containing their raptures. 
 i3ut they were soon undeceived, upon hearing me 
 address the poor deluded people, who came as they 
 imagined to do me service. 
 
 * What ! my friends,’ cried 1, ‘ and is this the 
 way you love me? Is this the manner you obey the 
 instructions 1 have given you from the pulpit? Thus 
 to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on 
 yourselves and me! Which is your ring-leader? 
 Shew me the man that has thus seduced you. As 
 sure as he lives, he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! 
 my poor deluded flock, return back to the duty you 
 owe to God, to your country and to me. I shall yet 
 perhaps one day see you in greater felicity here, 
 and contribute to make your lives more happy. 
 Jhit let it at least be my comfort, when I pen my 
 fold hr immortality, that not one here shall be 
 wanting.’ 
 
 lliey now seemed all repentance, and melting into 
 tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. 
 
 I shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them 
 my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any 
 iurther interruption. Some hours before night we 
 reached the town, or rather village; for it consisted 
 but of a few mean houses, having lost all its former 
 opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient supe- 
 riority but the gaol. 
 
 L pon entering we put up at an inn, where we had 
 such refreshments as could most readily be procured, 
 and I supped with my family with my usual cheer- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 12i) 
 
 fulness. After seeing them properly accommodated 
 for that night, I next attended the sheriff’s officers 
 to the prison, which had formerly been built for the 
 purposes of war, and consisted of one large apart- 
 ment, strongly grated, and paved with stone, com- 
 mon to both felons and debtors at certain hours in 
 the four and twenty. Besides this, every prisoner 
 had a separate cell, where he was locked in for the 
 night. 
 
 I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but 
 lamentations, and various sounds of misery; but it 
 was very different. The prisoners seemed all em- 
 ployed in one common design, that of forgetting 
 thought in merriment or clamour. I was apprized 
 of the usual perquisite required upon these occasions, 
 and immediately complied with the demand, though 
 the little money 1 had was very near being all ex- 
 hausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor, 
 and the whole prison was soon filled with riot, laugh- 
 ter, and profaneness. 
 
 * How,’ cried I to myself, f shall men so very 
 wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ! I 
 feel only the same confinement with them, and I 
 think 1 have more reason to be happy.’ 
 
 With such reflections I laboured to become cheer- 
 ful : but cheerfulness was never yet produced by 
 effort, which is itself painful. As 1 was sitting 
 therefore in a corner of the gaol, in a pensive pos- 
 ture, one of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sit- 
 ting by me, entered into conversation. It was my 
 constant rule in life, never to avoid the conversation 
 of any man who seemed to desire it: for if good, I 
 might profit by his instruction ; if bad, he might be 
 assisted by mine. I found this to be a knowing 
 man, of strong unlettered sense, but a thorough 
 knowledge of the world, as it is called ; or, more 
 properlv speaking, of human nature on the wrong 
 side. He asked me if 1 had taken care to provide 
 myself with a bed, which was a circumstance I had 
 never once attended to. 
 
130 vicar op Wakefield. 
 
 ‘ That’s unfortunate,’ cried he, ‘ as you are al- 
 lowed nothing but straw, and your apartment is very 
 large and cold. However, you seem to be something 
 of a gentleman, and as I have been one myself in my 
 time, part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your 
 service.’ 
 
 1 thanked him, professing my surprise nt. finding 
 such humanity in a gaol, in misfortunes; adding, to 
 let him see that I was a scholar, that the sage ancient 
 seemed to understand the value of company in afflic- 
 tion, when he said, ton kosmon aire, ci clos ton elairon, 
 ‘ ;md in fact,’ continued I, ‘ what is the world if it 
 affords only solitude?’ 
 
 ‘ You talk of the world. Sir,’ returned my fellow- 
 prisoner; ‘ the world is in its dotage; and yet the 
 cosmogony, or creation of the world, has puzzled 
 the philosophers of every age. What a medley of 
 opinions have they not broached upon the creation of 
 the world! Sanconiathon, Manetho, Berosus, and 
 Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain : the 
 latter has these words, Anar clion ara kai atelutaion 
 
 to pan, which implies ’ — ‘ I ask pardon. Sir,’ 
 
 cried 1, ‘for interrupting so much learning ; but I 
 think I have heard all this before. Have I not had 
 the pleasure of once seeing y*u at Welbridge fair, 
 and is not your name Ephraim Jenkinson ?’ At this 
 demand he only sighed. ‘ I suppose you must re- 
 collect,’ resumed I, ‘ one Dr. Primrose, from whom 
 you bought a horse.’ 
 
 He now at once recollected me, for the gloominess 
 of the place and the approaching night had prevented 
 his distinguishing my features before. ‘ Yes, Sir,’ 
 returned Mr. Jenkinson, ‘ I remember you perfectly 
 well ; I bought an horse, but forgot to pay for him". 
 Your neighbour Flamborough is the only prosecutor 
 I am any way afraid of at the next assizes; for he 
 intends to swear positively against me as a coiner. 
 1 am heartily sorry, Sir, I ever deceived you, or in- 
 deed any man; for you see,’ continued he, shewing 
 his shackles, ‘ what my tricks have brought me to.’ ; 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. 131 
 
 ‘ Well, Sir,’ replied I, ‘ /our kindness in offering 
 me assistance, when you could expect no return, 
 shall be repaid with my endeavours to soften or 
 totally suppress Mr. Flamborough’s evidence, and 1 
 will send my son to him for that purpose the first 
 opportunity ; nor do 1 in the least doubt but 
 he will comply with my request ; and as to my own 
 evidence, you need be under no uneasiness about 
 fhat.’ 
 
 ! ‘ Well, Sir,’ cried be, * all the return I can make 
 
 shall be your’s. You shall have more than half my 
 Shed -clothes to-night, and I’ll take care to stand your 
 friend in the piison, where 1 think 1 have some in- 
 fluence.’ 
 
 I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprized 
 at the present youthful change in his aspect; for at 
 the time 1 had seen him before, he. appeared at least 
 sixty. ‘ Sir,’ answered he, 4 you are little acquainted 
 'with the world ; I had at that time false hair, and 
 have learned the art of counterfeiting every age from 
 ■seventeen to seventy. Ah, Sir, had I but bestowed 
 half the pains- in learning a trade, that 1 have in 
 learning to be a scoundrel, 1 might have been a rich 
 man at this day. But rogue as I am, still 1 may be 
 your friend, and that, perhaps, when you least ex- 
 pect it.’ 
 
 We were now prevented from farther conversation 
 by the arrival of the gaoler’s servants, who came to 
 call over the prisoners’ names, and lock up for the 
 night. A fellow also with a bundle of straw for 
 iny bed attended, who led me along a dark narrow 
 passage into a room paved like the common prison, 
 .and in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the 
 I clothes given me by my fellow- prisoner; which 
 done, my conductor, who was civil enough, bade 
 me a good night. After my usual meditations, and 
 having praised my heavenly corrector, I laid myself 
 down, and slept with the utmost tranquillity till 
 morning. 
 
132 
 
 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 CHAP. VII. 
 
 A Reformation in the Gaol. To make Laws complete, 
 they should reward as well as punish. 
 
 THE next morning early I was awakened by my 
 family, whom I found in tears at my bed-side. The 
 gloomy strength of every thing about us, it seems, 
 had daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, 
 assuring them I had never slept with greater tran- 
 quillity, and next enquired after my eldest daughter, 
 who was not among them. They informed me, that 
 yesterday’s uneasiness and fatigue had increased her 
 fever, and it was judged proper to leave her behind. 
 My next care was to send my son to procure a room 
 or two to lodge my family in, as near the prison as 
 conveniently could be found. He obeyed, but could 
 only find one apartment, which was hired at a small 
 expence, for his mother and sisters, the gaoler with 
 humanity consenting to let him and his two little 
 brothers lie in the prison with me. A bed- was 
 therefore prepared for them in a corner of the room, 
 which I thought answered very conveniently. I was 
 willing, however, previously to know whether my 
 little children chose to lie in a place which seemed 
 to fright them upon entrance. 
 
 ‘ Well,’ cried I, ‘ my good boys, how do you like 
 vour bed ? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this 
 room, dark as it appears.’ 
 
 ‘ No, papa,’ says Dick, ‘ I am not afraid to lie any- 
 where, where you are.’ 
 
 ‘ And. I,’ says Bill, who was yet but four years 
 old, ‘ love every place best that my papa is in.’ 
 
 After this, 1 allotted to each of the family what 
 they were to do. My daughter was particularly di- 
 rected to watch her declining sister’s health; my wife 
 was to attend me; my little boys were to read to me: 
 
 ‘ And as for you, my son,’ continued I, * it is by the 
 labour of your hands we must all hope to be sup- 
 ported. Your wages, as a day-labourer, will be full 
 sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 133 
 
 and comfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years 
 old, and hast strength, and it is given thee, my sen, 
 for very useful purposes : for it must save from fa- 
 mine your helpless parents and family. Prepare then 
 this evening to look out for work against to-morrow, 
 and bring home every night what money you earn 
 for our support.’ 
 
 Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, 1 
 walked down to the common prison, where 1 could 
 enjoy more air and room. Prut I was not long there. 
 When the execrations, lewdness, and -brutality, that 
 invaded me on every side, drove me back to my 
 apartment again. Here 1 sat for some time ponder- 
 ing upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, 
 finding all mankind in open arms against them, were 
 labouring to make themselves a future and tremen- 
 dous enemy. 
 
 Their insensibility excited my highest compas- 
 I sion, and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. 
 
 ; It even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to at- 
 ! tempt to reclaim them. I resolved therefore once 
 more to return, and in spite of their contempt' to give 
 them my advice, and conquer them by perseverance. 
 Going therefore among them again, I informed Mr. 
 
 ; Jenkinson of my design; at which he laughed hear- 
 tily, but communicated it to live rest. I he proposal 
 was received with the greatest good humour, as it 
 promised to afford a new fund ol entertainment, to 
 persons who had now no other resource for mirth 
 : but what could be derived from ridicule or de- 
 bauchery- 
 
 I therefore read them a portion of the service with 
 a loud unaffected voice, and found my audience per- 
 fectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, 
 groans of contrition burlesqued, winking and cough- 
 ing, alternately excited laughter. However, I con- 
 I tinned with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible 
 that what I did might amend some, but could itself 
 receive no contamination from any. 
 
 After reading, 1 entered upon my exhortation, 
 
 N 
 
534 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 which was rather calculated at first to amuse them 
 than to reprove. I previously observed that no other 
 motive but their welfare could induce me to this ; 
 that I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got no- 
 thing by preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear 
 them so very profane ; because they got nothing by 
 it, and might lose a great deal ; * For be assured, my 
 friends,’ cried I, ‘ (for you are my friends, however 
 the world may disclaim your friendship) though you 
 swore twelve thousand oaths in a day, it would not 
 put one penny in your purse. Then what signifies 
 calling every moment upon the devil, and courting 
 his friendship, since you find how scurvily he uses 
 vou. He has given you nothing here, you find, but 
 a mouthful of oaths and an empty belly ; and by the 
 best accounts ] have of him, he will give you nothing 
 that's good hereafter. 
 
 ‘ used ill in our dealings with one man, we 
 naturally go elsewhere. Were it not worth your 
 while then, just to try how you may like the usage 
 of another master, who gives you fair promises at 
 least to come to him? Surely, my friends, of all 
 stupidity in the world, his must he the greatest, who, 
 after robbing an house, runs to the thief-takers for 
 protection. And yet how are you more wise ? You 
 are all seeking comfort from one that has already be- 
 trayed you, applying to a more malicious being than 
 any thief-taker of them all ; for they only decoy and 
 then hang you ; but he decoys and "hangs, and ’what 
 is worst of ail, will not let you loose after the 
 hangman has done.’ 
 
 When I had concluded, I received the compli- 
 ments of my audience, some of whom came and 
 shook me by the hand, swearing that I was a very 
 honest fellow, and that they desired my further ac- 
 quaintance. I therefore promised to repeat my lec- 
 ture next day, and actually conceived some hopes of 
 making a reformation here : for it ever had been my 
 opinion, that no man was past the hour of amend- 
 ment, every heart lying open to the shafts of reproof 
 
vicar of Wakefield. 135 
 
 if the archer could but take a proper aim. When I 
 had thus satisfied my mind, I went back to my apart- 
 jtnent, where my wife prepared a frugal meal, while 
 Mr. Jenkinson begged leave to add his dinner to ours, 
 fend partake of the pleasure, as he was kind enough to 
 express it, of my conversation. He had not yet 
 iieen my family, for as they came to my apartment by 
 a door in the narrow passage already described, by 
 this means they avoided the common prison. Jenkin- 
 Ison at the first interview therefore seemed not a little 
 struck with the beauty of my youngest daughter, 
 [which her pensive air contributed to heighten ; and 
 my little ones did not pass unnoticed. 
 
 T Alas, doctor,’ cried he, * these children are too 
 handsome and too good for such a place as this !’ 
 
 ' ‘ W 7 hy, M r. Jenkinson,’ replied I, ‘ thank Hea- 
 ven, my children are pretty tolerable in morals, and 
 if they be good, it matters little for the rest.’ 
 i ‘ I fancy, Sir,’ returned my fellow prisoner, ‘ that 
 it must give you a great comfort to have this little 
 family about you.’ 
 
 ‘ A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson,’ replied I, ‘ yes, 
 it is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without 
 them for all the world ; for they can make a dungeon 
 seem a palace. There is but one way in this life of 
 wounding my happiness, and that is by injuring 
 them.’ 
 
 ‘ I am afraid, then, Sir,’ cried he, ‘ that I am in 
 some measure culpable; for I think 1 see here,’ 
 (looking at my son Moses) * one that 1 have injured, 
 and by whom 1 wish to be forgiven.’ 
 
 My son immediately recollected his voice and fea- 
 tures, though he had before seen him in disguise, 
 and taking him by the hand, with a smile forgave 
 him. ‘ Yet,’ continued he, ‘I can’t help wondering 
 at what you could see in my face, to think me a pro- 
 per mark for deception.’ 
 
 ‘ My dear Sir,’ returned the oth,er, * it was not 
 your face, but your white stockings and the black 
 ribband in your hair, that allured me. But no dis- 
 N d 
 
136 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 paragement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men 
 than you in my time; and yet, with all my tricks, 
 the blockheads have been too many for me at last.’ 
 
 ‘ I suppose,’ cried my son. ‘ that the narrative of_ 
 such a life as your’s must be extremely instructive and ' 
 amusing.’ 
 
 ‘ Not much of either,’ returned Mr. Jenkinson. 
 
 * Those relations which describe the tricks and vices 
 only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in 
 life, retard our success. The traveller that distrusts 
 every person he meets, and turns back upon the ap- 
 pearance of every man that looks like a robber, sel- 
 dom arrives in time at his journey’s end. 
 
 ‘ Indeed I think, from my own experience, that 
 the knowing one is the silliest feliow under the sun. 
 I was thought cunning from my very childhood; 
 when but seven years old, the ladies would s:i\ that I 
 was a perfect little man ; at fourteen I knew the world, 
 cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at twenty, though 
 I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought me so 
 cunning, that no one would trust me. Thus I was 
 last obliged to turn sharper in my own defence, and 
 have lived ever since, my head throbbing with schemes 
 to deceive, and my heart palpitating with fears of de- 
 tection. 1 used often to laugh at your honest simple 
 neighbour Fiamborough, and one way or another 
 generally cheated him once a vear. Yet still the ho- 
 nest man went forward without suspicion, and grew 
 rich, while I still continued tricksy and cunning, and 
 was poor, without the consolation of being honest. 
 However,’ continued he, ‘ let me know your case,’ 
 and what has brought you here ; perhaps,' though I 
 have not skill to avoid a gaol myself, I may extricate 
 my friends.’ 
 
 Incompliance with this curiosity, I informed him 
 of the whole train of accidents and follies that had 
 plunged me into my present troubles, and mv utter 
 inability to get free. 
 
 After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, 
 he slapt his forehead, as if lie had hit upon, some- 
 
VICAR Of WAKEFtELD, 137 
 
 thing material, ami took his leave, saying, he would 
 try what could be done. 
 
 CHAP. VIII. 
 
 The same Subject continued. 
 
 THE next morning I communicated to my wife 
 and children the scheme I had planned of reforming 
 the prisoners, which they received with universal 
 disapprobation, alledging the impossibility and im- 
 propriety of it; adding, that my endeavours would 
 no way contribute to their amendment, but might 
 probably disgrace my calling. 
 
 ‘ Excuse me,’ returned l ; ‘ these people, however 
 fallen, are still men, and that is a very good title 
 to my affections. Good counsel rejected returns to 
 enrich the giver’s bosom ; and though the instruc- 
 tion I communicate may not mend them, yet it will 
 assuredly mend myself. If these wretches, my chil- 
 dren, were princes, there would be thousands ready 
 to offer their ministry : but, in my opinion, the 
 heart that is buried in a dungeon, is as precious as 
 that seated upon a throne. Yes, my treasures, if I 
 can mend them I will; perhaps they will not all 
 despise me. Perhaps I may catch up but even one 
 from the gulph, and that will be great gain ; for 
 is there’ upon earth a gem so precious as the human 
 soul ?’ 
 
 Thus saying, I left them and descended to the 
 common prison, where I found the prisoners very 
 merry, expecting my arrival, and each prepared with 
 some gaol-trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as 
 I was going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as 
 if by accident, and then asked my pardon. A second, 
 who stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting 
 through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my 
 book. A third would cry Amen in such an affected 
 tone as gave the rest great delight. A fourth had 
 slilv picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there 
 was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure 
 than all the rest ; for observing the manner in which 
 J had disposed my books on the table before me, he 
 K 3 
 
138 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 very dexterously displaced one of them, and put an 
 obscene jest book of his own in the place. How- 
 ever I took no notice of all that this mischievous 
 gronpe of little beings could do ; but went on per- 
 fectly sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt 
 would excite mirth only the first or second time, 
 while what was serious would be permanent. My 
 design succeeded, and in less than six days some were 
 penitent and all attentive. 
 
 It was now that I applauded my perseverance and 
 address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches di- 
 vested of every moral feeling, and now began to 
 think of doing them temporal services also, by ren- 
 dering their situation somewhat more comfortable. 
 Their time had hitherto been divided between famine 
 and excess, tumultuous riot and bitter repining. 
 Their only employment was quarrelling among each 
 other, playing at cribbage, and cutting tobaeo stop- 
 pers. From this last mode of idle industry 1 took 
 the hint of setting such as chose to work at cutting 
 pegs for tobacconists and shoemakers, the proper 
 wood being bought by a general subscription, and 
 when manufactured, sold by mv appointment: so 
 that each earned something every day, a trifle indeed, 
 but sufficient to maintain him. 
 
 I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the 
 punishment of immorality, and rewards for pecu- 
 liar industry. Thus, in less than a fortnight, 1 
 had formed them into something social and humane, 
 and hadthep U nsure of regarding myself as a legislator, 
 who had brought men from their native ferocity into 
 friendship and obedience. 
 
 And it were highly tb be wished, that legislative 
 power would thus direct the law rather to reforma- 
 tion than severity. That it would seem convinced 
 that the work of eradicating crimes is not by making 
 punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead 
 of our present prisons, which find or make men 
 guilty, which inclose wretches for the commision of 
 one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 13 § 
 
 for the perpetration of thousands; it were to be 
 wished we had, as in other parts of Europe, places of 
 penitence and solitude, where the accused might beat- 
 tended by such as could give them repentance if guilty, 
 or new motives of virtue il innocent. And this, but 
 not the increasing punishments, is the way to mend 
 the state: nor can 1 avoid even questioning the vali- 
 dity of that right which social combinations have as- 
 sumed, of capitally punishing oflences of a slight 
 nature. In cases of murder their right is obvious, 
 as it is the duty of us all, from the law of self-de- 
 fence, to cut off that man who has shewn a disregard 
 for the life of another. Against such all nature rises 
 in arms; but it is not so against him who steals my 
 property. Natural law gives me no right to take 
 away his life, as bv that the horse he steals is as 
 much his property as mine. If then, I have any 
 right, it must be from a compact made between us, 
 that he who deprives the other of his horse shall die. 
 But this is a false compact; because no man has a 
 right to ha rter his life, no more than take it away, 
 as it is not his own. And beside the compact is in- 
 adequate, and would be set aside even in a court of 
 modern equity, as there is a great penalty for a trifling 
 convenience, since it is far better that two men 
 should live, than one man should ride. But a com- 
 pact that is false between two men, is equally so be- 
 tween an hundred and an hundred thousand; for as 
 ten millions of circles can never make a square, so 
 the united voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest 
 foundation to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, 
 and untutored nature says the same thing. Savages, 
 
 ■ that are directed by natural law alone, are very ten- 
 der of the lives of each other; they seldom shed blood 
 butto retaliate former cruelty. 
 
 Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, 
 had but few executions in times of peace; and in all 
 commencing governments that have the print of na- 
 ture still strong upon them, scarce any crime is held 
 capital. 
 
140 _ VICAR OF WAREFlEtfi. 
 
 it is among the citizens of a refined community 
 thit penal laws, which are in the hands of the 
 rich, are laid upon the poor. Government, while 
 it grows older, seems to acquire the rnoroseness of 
 age; and as if our property were become dearer 
 in proportion as it increased, as if the more enor- 
 mous our wealth, the more extensive our fears, all 
 our possessions are paled up with new edicts every 
 day, and hung round with gibbets to scare every in- 
 vader. 
 
 I cannot tell, whether it is from the number of 
 our penal laws, or the licentiousness of our people, 
 that this country should shew more convicts in a year 
 than halt the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps 
 it is owing to both ; for they mutually produce each 
 other. When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a na- 
 tion beholds the same punishment affixed to dissi- 
 milar degrees of guilt, front perceiving no distinction 
 in the penalty, the people are led to lose all sense of 
 distincion in the crime, and this distinction is the 
 bulwark of all morality : thus the multitude of laws 
 produce new vices, and new vices call for fresh re- 
 straints. 
 
 It were to be wished then that power, instead of 
 contriving new laws to punish vice, instead of draw- 
 ing hard the cords of society till a convulsion come 
 to burst them, instead of cutting away wretches as 
 useless, before we have tried their utility, instead of 
 converting correction into vengeance, it were to be 
 wished that we tried the restrictive arts of govern- 
 ment, and made law the protector but not the tyrant 
 of the people. We should then find, that creatures 
 whose souls are held as dross, only wanted the hand 
 of a refiner; we should then find that wretches, now 
 shut up for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a 
 momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve 
 to sinew the state in times of danger; that as their 
 faces are like ours, their hearts are so too; that few 
 minds are so base ; as that perscrverance cannot 
 amend ; that a man may see his last crime without 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 141 
 
 trying for it; and that very little blood will seive to 
 cement our security. 
 
 CHAP. IX. 
 
 Happiness and Misery rather the Result of Prudence 
 than of Virtue in this Life ; temporal Evils or be- 
 Hetties being regarded by Heaven as F kings rnerely 
 in themselves trifling, and unworthy its Care in 
 the Distribution. 
 
 I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, 
 but had not since mv arrival been visited by mv dear 
 Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having 
 communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morn- 
 ing the poor girl entered my apartment, leaning on 
 her sister’s arm. The change which I saw in her 
 countenance struck me. The numberless graces 
 that once resided there were now lied, and the hand 
 of death seemed to have moulded every feature to 
 alarm me. Pier temples were sunk, her forehead was 
 tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek. 
 
 ‘ I am glad to see thee; mv dear,’ cried I ; ‘ but 
 why this dejection, Livy? I hope, my love, you 
 have too great a regard for me, to permit disap- 
 pointment thus to undermine a life which 1 prize as 
 my own. Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see 
 
 happier days.’ • 
 
 * You have ever, Sir/ replied she, ‘ been kind 
 to me, and it adds to my pain, that 1 shall never 
 have an opportunity of sharing that happiness you 
 promise. Happiness, 1 fear, is no longer reserved 
 for me here; and 1 long to be rid of a place where 1 
 have onlv found distress. Indeed, Sir, I wish you 
 would make a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill; 
 it may, in some measure, induce him to pity you, and 
 it will give me relief in dying.’ 
 
 < Never, child,’ replied I, ‘ never will I be 
 brought to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute; 
 for though the world may look upon your offence 
 with scorn, let it be mine to regard it as a mark of 
 credulity not of guilt. My dear, I am no ways mi- 
 
142 VICAR OF WAKEFIELO. 
 
 serable in this place, however dismal it may seem $ 
 and be assurer), that while yon continue to bless me' 
 by living, he shall never have my consent to make 
 you more wretched by marrving another.’ 
 
 Alter the departure of my daughter, my fellow- 
 prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly 
 enough expostulated upon my obstinacy, in refusing 
 a submission which promised to give me freedom. 
 He observed, that the rest of the family were not to 
 be sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she 
 the only one who had offended me. ‘ Beside,’ added 
 he, ‘ I don’t know if it be just thus to obstruct the 
 union of man and wife, which you do at present, bv 
 refusing to consent to a match which you cannot 
 hinder, but may render unhappy.’ 
 
 ‘ Sir,’ replied I, * you are unacquainted with the 
 man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no 
 submission I can make could procure me liberty even 
 for an hour. 1 am told, that even in this very room, 
 a debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. 
 But though my submission and approbation could 
 transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apart- 
 ment he is possessed of ; yet I would grant neither, 
 as something whispers me, that it would be giving a 
 sanction to adultery. While my daughter lives, noother 
 marriage of his sliall ever be legal in my eye. Were 
 she removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, 
 from any resentment of my own, to attempt putting 
 asunder those who wish for a union. No, villain as 
 he is, I should then wish him married, to prevent 
 the consequences of his future debaucheries. But 
 now should 1 not be the most cruel of all fathers, to 
 sign an instrument which must send my child to the 
 grave, merely to avoid a prison myself ; and thus, to 
 escape one pang, break my child’s heart with a 
 thousand.’ 
 
 He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but 
 eonld not avoid observing, that he feared my daugh- 
 ter’s life was already too much wasted to keep me 
 long a prisoner. £ However,’ continued he, * though 
 

 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 143 
 
 you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have 
 tio objections to laying your case before the uncle, 
 who has the first character in the kingdom for every 
 thing that is just and good. I would advise you 
 to send him a letter by the post, intimating all his 
 nephew’s ill usage, and my life for it, that in three 
 days you shall have an answer.’ I thanked him 
 for the hint, and instantly set about complying; 
 but I wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had 
 been laid out that morning in provisions; however, he 
 supplied me. 
 
 For the three ensuing days 1 was in a state of 
 anxiety, to know what reception my letter might meet 
 with; but in the mean time was frequently solicited 
 by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than 
 remain here, and every hour received repeated ac- 
 counts of the decline of my daughter’s health. The 
 third day and the fourth arrived, but 1 received no 
 answer to my letter: the complaints of a stranger 
 against a favourite nephew, were no way likely to 
 succeed; so that these hopes soon vanished like all mv 
 former. Mv mind, however, still supported itself, 
 though confinement and bad air began to make a vi- 
 sible alteration in my health, and my arm that had 
 suffered in the fire grew worse. My children, how- 
 ever, sat by me, and while I was stretched on my 
 straw, read to me by turns, or listened and wept at 
 my instructions. But my daughter’s health declining 
 faster than mine, every message from her contri- 
 buted to increase mv apprehensions and pain. The 
 fifth morning after 1 had written the letter which was 
 sent to Mr. William Thornnill, l was alarmed with 
 an account that she was speechless. Now it was 
 that confinement was truly painful; my soul was 
 bursting from it's prison to be near the pillow of 
 my child, to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive, 
 her last wishes, and teach her soul the wav to 
 Heaven 1 Another account came ; she was expiring, 
 and yet I was debarred the small comfort of weeping 
 by her. My fellow-prisoner some time after came 
 
144 * VICAR OF WAKEFIELD., 
 
 with the last account. He bade me be patient; she 
 was dead! The next morning he returned, and (bund 
 me with my two little ones, now my onlv com- 
 panions, who were using all their innocent efforts to 
 comfort me. They In treated to read to me, and bade me 
 not to cry, for 1 was now too old to weep. ‘ And is not 
 my sister an angel now, papa,’ cried the eldest, ‘ and 
 why then are you sorry for her? I wish I were an 
 angel out of this frightful place, if my papa were with 
 me.’ — ‘ Yes,’ added my youngest darling, ‘ Heayen, 
 where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and there 
 are none but good people there, and the people here 
 are very bad.’ 
 
 Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle, 
 by observing, that now my daughter was no more, 
 I should seriously think of the rest of my family, and 
 attempt to save my own life, which was every day 
 declining for want of necessaries and wholesome air. 
 He added, that it was now incumbenton me to sacri- 
 fice any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare 
 of those who depended on me for support : and that I 
 was now, both by reason and justice obliged to try to 
 reconcile my landlord. 
 
 ‘ Heaven be praised,’ replied I, ‘ there is no pride 
 left me now. 1 should detest my own heart, if I 
 saw either pride or resentment lurking there. On 
 the contrary, as my oppressor has been once my 
 parishioner, I hope one day to present him up an un- 
 polluted soul at the eternal tribunal. Klo, sir, I 
 have no resentment now; and though he has taken 
 from me what I held dearer than all his treasures, 
 though he has wrung my heart, for 1 am sick almost 
 to fainting, very sick, my fellow prisoner, yet that 
 shall never inspire me with vengeance. I am now 
 willing to approve his marriage, and if this sub- 
 mission can do him any pleasure, let him know, 
 that if 1 have done him any injury I am sorry for 
 it.’ Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote 
 down my submission nearly as 1 have expressed it, 
 to which 1 signed my name. My son was employed 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 145 
 
 to carry the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at 
 his seat in the country. He went, and in about six 
 hours returned with a verbal answer. He had soma 
 difficulty, he said, to get a sight of his landlord ; as 
 the servants were insolent and suspicious : but he acci- 
 dentally saw him as he was going out upon business 
 preparing for his marriage, which was to be in three 
 days. He continued to inform us, that he stept up 
 in the humblest manner, and delivered the letter, 
 which, when Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that 
 all submission was now too late and unnecessary ; 
 that he had heard of our application to his uncle, 
 
 I which met with the contempt it deserved ; and as 
 for the rest, that all future applications should 
 be directed to his attorney, not to him. He ob- 
 • served, however, that as he had a very good 
 opinion of the discretion of the two young' ladies, 
 they might have been the most agreeable in- 
 tercessors. 
 
 ‘ Well, Sir,’ said I to my fellow-prisoner, * you 
 now discover the temper of the man who oppresses 
 me. He can at once be facetious and cruel ; but 
 let him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in 
 spite of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now 
 drawing towards an abode that looks brighter as 
 I approach it: this expectation cheers my afflictions; 
 and though 1 leave an helpless family of orphans 
 behind me, yet they will not be utterly forsaken; 
 some friend, perhaps, will be found to assist them 
 for the sake of their poor father, and some may 
 charitably relieve them for the sake of their hea- 
 venly father.’ 
 
 Just as I spoke, my wife, whom 1 had not seen 
 that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and 
 making efforts, but unable to speak. * Why, my 
 love,’ cried I, * why will you thus increase my 
 afflictions by your own ? What though no sub- 
 mission can turn our severe master, though he has 
 doomed me to die in this place of wretchedness, 
 and though we have lost a darling child, yet still 
 o 
 
146 VICAR OP WAKEFIELB. 
 
 you will find comfort in your other children when 
 
 J shall be no more.’ ‘ We have indeed lost,’ 
 
 returned she, ‘ a darling child. My Sophia, my 
 clearest is gone : snatched from us, carried off by 
 ruffians!’ 
 
 * How, Madam!’ cried my fellow-prisoner ; ‘ Mis$ 
 Soph ia carried off by villains ! Sure it cannot be?’ 
 
 She could only answer with a fixed look, and a 
 flood of tears. But one of the prisoner’s wives, who 
 was present, and came in with her, gave us a more 
 distinct account: she informed us, that as my wife, 
 my daughter, and her herself, were taking a walk to- 
 gether on the great road, a little way out of the village, 
 a post-chaise and pair drove up to them, and in- 
 stantly stopt : upon which a wcll-drest man, but 
 not Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daugh- 
 ter round the waist, and forcing her in, hid the 
 postilion drive on, so that they were out of sight in a 
 moment. 
 
 ‘ Now,’ cried I, * the sum of my miseries is made 
 up, nor is it in the power of any tiling on earth 
 to give me another pang. What! not one left! 
 not leave me one! the monster! the child that was 
 next my heart! she had the beauty of an angel, and 
 almost the wisdom of an angel. But support that 
 woman, nor let her fall. Not to leave me one!’ — 
 * Alas, mv husband,’ said my wife, ‘ you seem 
 to want comfort even more than I. Our distresses 
 are great ; but I could bear this and more, if ! saw 
 vou but easy. They may take away my children, 
 and all the world, if they leave me but you.’ 
 
 My son, who was present, endeavoured to mode- 
 rate our grief; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped 
 that we might still have reason to be thankful. — 
 ‘ My child,’ cried I, ‘ look round the world, and 
 see if there be any happiness left me now. Is not 
 every ray of com fort-shut out; while all our bright 
 prospects only Ire beyond the grave.’ — ‘ My' clear 
 father,’ returned he, ‘ I hope there is still something 
 ffut will give you an interval of satisfaction ; for 
 
VICAR Of WAKEFIELD. 147 
 
 I have a letter from my brother George.’ — ‘ What 
 of him, my child, ’ interrupted I, ‘ does lie know 
 our misery? 1 hope mv hoy is exempt from any 
 part of what his wretched family suffers ?’ — •* Yes, 
 Sir,’ returned he, * he is perfectly gay, cheerful, 
 and happv. His letter brings nothing but good 
 news; he is the favourite of his colonel, who pro- 
 mises to procure him the very next lieutenancy that 
 becomes vacant’.’ 
 
 ‘ And are you sure of this,’ cried my wife ; ‘ are 
 vou sure that nothing ill has befallen my boy?’— 
 Nothing indeed. Madam,’ returned my son ; ‘ you 
 shall see the letter, which will give you the highest 
 pleasure : and if any thing can procure you comfort, 
 I am sure that will.’ — ‘ But are you sure,’ still 
 repeated she, ‘ that the letter is from himself, and 
 that he is really so happy?’ — ‘ Yes, Madam,’ re- 
 plied he, ‘ it is' certainly his, and he will one day 
 be the credit and the support of our family’’ — 
 ‘ Then I thank Providence,’ cried she, ‘ that my last 
 letter to him has miscarried.’- — ‘ Yes, my dear,’ con- 
 tinued she, turning to me, ‘ 1 will now confess, 
 that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in 
 other instances, it has been favourable here. By 
 the last letter I wrote mv son, which was in the bit- 
 terness of anger, I desired him, upon his mother’s bHss- 
 sing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice 
 done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. But 
 thanks be to Him who directs all things, it has mis- 
 carried, and I am atrest.’ — ‘Woman,’ cried I, ‘ thou 
 hast done very i’ll, and at another time my reproacnes 
 might have been more severe. Oh ! what a tremen- 
 dous gulph hast thou escaped, that would have 
 buried both thee and him in endless ruin. Pro- 
 vidence, indeed, has here been kinder to us than 
 we to ourselves. It has reserved that son to he the 
 father and protector of my children when I shall be 
 away. How unjustly did I complain ot being stript 
 ofevery comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, 
 and insensible of our afflictions; still kept in reserve 
 o 2 
 
*48 . VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 to support his widowed mother, and to protect his 
 brothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left? 
 he has no sisters now, they are all gone, robbed 
 Irom me, and I am undone !’ — ‘ Father,’ interrupted 
 my son, ‘ I beg you will give me leave to read his let- 
 ter, I know it will please you.’ Upon which with 
 my permission, he read as follows : 
 
 ‘ Honoured Sir, 
 
 ‘ I HAVE called off my imagination a few mo- 
 ‘ ments from the pleasures that surround me, to fix 
 i t upon objects, that are still more pleasing, the dear 
 little fire-side at home. My fancy draws that harm- 
 less groupe as listening to every line of this with 
 ‘ g reat composure. I view those faces with delight, 
 ‘ which never felt the deforming hand of ambition or 
 distress. But whatever your happiness may be at 
 ‘ home, I am sure it will be some addition to it, to 
 ' hear that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, 
 
 * and every way happy here. 
 
 ‘ Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to 
 
 * leave the kingdom; the colonel, who professes 
 ‘ himself my friend, takes me with him to all com- 
 panies where he is acquainted; and after my first 
 visit, 1 generally find myself recieved with in- 
 
 ‘ creased respect upon repeating it. I danced last 
 
 ‘ night with Lady G- , and could I forget you 
 
 know whom, I might be perhaps successful. 
 But it is my fate still to remember others, while 
 
 * I am myself forgotten by most of my absent 
 ‘ friends; and in this number, I fear, Sir, that I 
 
 must consider you, for I have long expected the 
 pleasure of a letter from home to no purpose. 
 ‘ Olivia and Sophia too promised to write, but seem 
 ‘ }° have forgot me. Tell them they are two arrant 
 ‘ little baggages, and that I am this moment in a most 
 ‘ violent passion with them: yet still, I know not 
 how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart 
 is respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell 
 ‘ them. Sir, that after all I love them affectionately; 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 14 () 
 
 * and be assured of my ever remaining your dutiful 
 ‘ son.’ 
 
 ‘ In all our misery/ cried I, ‘ what thanks have 
 vve not to return, that one at least of our family is 
 exempted from what we suffer. Heaven be his guard, 
 and keep my boy thus happy to be the support of his 
 widowed mother, and the father of these two babes, 
 which is all the patrimony I can now bequeath him! 
 May he keep their innocence from the temptations of 
 want, and be their conductor in the paths of ho- 
 nour! I had scarce said these words, when a noise, 
 like thatof a tumult, seemed to proceed from the pri- 
 son below; it died away soon alter, and clanking of 
 fetters was heard along the passage leading to my 
 apartment. The keeper of the prison entered, holding 
 a man all bloody, wounded, and fettered with the 
 heaviest irons. I looked with compassion on the 
 wretch as he approached me, but with horror, when I 
 found itwas mv own son. ‘ My George! my George! 
 and do I behold thee thus! Wounded! fettered! 
 Is this thy happiness! Is this the manner you re- 
 turn to me ? O that this sight could break my heart at 
 once, and let me die ! 
 
 * Where, Sir, is your fortitude?’ returned my son, 
 with an intrepid voice ; ‘ 1 must suffer; my life is for- 
 feited, and Jet them take it.’ 
 
 I tried to restrain my passion for a few minutes in 
 silence, but 1 thought 1 should have died with the 
 effort. ‘ O, my bov, my heart weeps to behold thee 
 
 thus, and 1 cannot, cannot help it. In the mo- 
 ment that 1 thought thee blest, and prayed for thy 
 safety, to behold thee thus again ! chained, wounded. 
 And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I 
 am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this day; 
 to see my children all untimely falling about me, 
 while f continue a wretched survivor in the midst 
 of ruin ! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul, fall 
 heavy upon the murderer of my children. May he 
 live, like me, to see — ’ 
 
150 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 Hold, Sir,’ replied my son, ‘ or I shall blush fori 
 thee. How, bir, forgetful of vour age, vour holy j 
 calling, thus to arrogate the justice of Heaven, and 
 fling those curses upward that must soon descend to 
 crush thy own grey head with destruction i No, Sir, ; 
 let it be your care now to fit me for that vile death L ! 
 must shortly suffer, to arm me with hope and re-i 
 solution, to give me courage to drink of that bitter- ’ 
 ness which must shortly be my portion.’ 
 
 My child, you must not die: I am sure no . 
 offence of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. 
 My George could never be guilty of any crime to 
 make his ancestors ashamed of him.’ 
 
 ‘ Mine, Sir,’ returned my son, f is, 1 fear, an un- 
 pardonable one. W/ hen 1 received my mother’s let- ; 
 ter from home, I immediately came down, deter- 
 mined to punish the betrayer of our honour, and sent 
 him an order to meet me, which he answered, notin 
 pei son, but by dispatching four of his domestics to 
 seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, 
 and, 1 fear, desperately: but the rest made me their 
 prisoner. Phe coward is determined to put the law 
 in execution against me; the proofs are undeniable ; 
 
 I have sent a challenge; and as I am the first trans- 
 gressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. 
 Hut you have often charmed me with your lessons 
 of fortitude; let me now. Sir, find them in vour 
 example.’ 
 
 And, my son, you shall find them. I am now 
 raised above this world, and all the pleasures it Can 
 produce. Prom this moment I break from my heart 
 all the ties that held it down to earth, and will pre- 
 pare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will 
 point out the way, and my soul shall guide yours in 
 the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I 
 now see and aui convinced you can expect no pardon 
 here, and I can only exhort you to seek it at that 
 greatest tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. 
 Rut let us not be niggardly in our exhortation, but 
 let all our fellow prisoners have a share,— -Good gaoler. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 151 
 
 let them be permitted to stand here, while I attempt 
 to improve them.’ Thus saying I made an effort to 
 rise from my straw, but wanted strength, and was 
 able only to recline against the wall. The prisoners 
 assembled according to directions, for they loved to 
 hear my counsel ; my son and his mother supported 
 me on either side; I looked, and saw that none were 
 wanting, and then addressed them with the following 
 exhortation. 
 
 CHAP. X. 
 
 The equal Dealings of Providence demonstrated with 
 regard to the happy and the miserable here beloiv. 
 That, from the Nature of Pleasure and Pain, the 
 wretched must be repaid the Balance of their buffer- 
 ings in the Life hereafter. 
 
 ‘ MY friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, 
 when l reflect on the distribution of good and evil 
 here below, 1 find that much has been given man to 
 enjoy, yet still more to suffer. Though we should 
 examine the whole world, we shall not find one man 
 so happy as to have nothing left to wish for: but we 
 daily see thousands, who by suicide shew they have 
 nothing left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that 
 we cannot be entirely blest; but yet we may be 
 completely miserable. 
 
 ‘ Whv man should thus feel pain, why our wretch- 
 edness should be requisite in the formation of uni- 
 versal felicity ; why, when all other systems are made 
 perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, 
 the great system should require, for its perfection, 
 parts that are not only subordinate to others, but 
 imperfect in themselves; these are questions that 
 never can be explained; and might be useless if known. 
 On this subject Providence has thought fit to elude 
 our curiosity, satisfied with granting us motives to 
 consofation. 
 
 ‘ In this situation, man has called in the friendly 
 assistance of philosophy ; and Heaven, seeing the in- 
 capacity of that to console him, has given him the 
 
‘a® 1 _ _ VICAR or WAKETICLp. 
 
 aid of religion. The consolations of philosophy are 
 very amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us, that 
 life is filled with comforts, if we will butenjov them : 
 and, on the other hand, that though we unavoidably 
 nave tniseiies here, life is short, and they will soon 
 be over. I bus do these consolations destroy each 
 othet ; for if life is a place of comfort, its shortness 
 must be misery: and if it belong, our griefs are pro- 
 tracted. Thus philosophy is weak ; but religioticom- 
 joits in an higher strain. Man is here, it tells us, 
 fitting up his mind, and preparing it for another 
 abode. When the good man leaves the body, and is 
 ml a glorious mind, he will find he has been making 
 himself a heaven of happiness here ; while the wretch, 
 that has been maimed and contaminated by his vices’ 
 shrinks from his body with terror, and finds that he 
 has anticipated the vengeance of Heaven. To religion, 
 then, we must hold, in every circumstance of our 
 hfe, for our truest comfort: 'for if already we are 
 happy, it is a pleasure to think that we can make 
 that happiness unending; and if we are miserable, it 
 is very consoling to think that there is a place of rest. 
 Jims, to the [fortunate, religion holds out a conti- 
 nuance of bliss; to the wretched a change from pain. 
 
 But though religion is very kind to all men, it 
 has promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy; the 
 sick, the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, 
 and the prisoner, have ever most frequent promises 
 in our sacred law. The Author of our religion 
 everywhere professes himself the wretch’s friend; 
 and, unlike the false ones of this world, bestows 
 all his caresses upon the forlorn. The unthinking 
 hap e censured this as a partiality, as a preference, 
 without merit to deserve it. But they never reflect, 
 that it is not in the power of even Heaven itself to 
 make the offer ot unceasing felicity as r great a gift 
 to the happy as to the miserable. To the first, 
 eteinity is but a single blessing; since, at most, it 
 but increases what they already possess. To the lat- 
 ter, it is a double advantage ; for it diminishes their 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 153 
 
 pain here, and rewards them with heavenly bliss here- 
 after. 
 
 c But Providence is in another respect kinder to 
 the poor than the rich ; for as it thus makes the life 
 after death more desirable, so it smooths the passage 
 there. The wretched have had a long familiarity 
 with every face of terror. The man of sorrows lays 
 himself quietly down, with no possessions to regret, 
 and but few ties to stop his departure: he feels only 
 nature’s pang in the final separation, and this is no 
 way greater than he has often fainted under before; 
 for," after a certain degree of pain, every new breach 
 : that death opens in the constitution, nature kindly 
 ' covers with insensibility. 
 
 ‘ Thus Providence has given the wretched two 
 advantages over the happy in this life ; greater feli- 
 city in dying, and in Heaven all that superiority of 
 pleasure which arises from contrasted enjoyment : 
 and this superiority, my friends, is no small advan- 
 1 tage, and seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor 
 man in the parable; for though he was already in 
 Heaven, and felt all the rapture? it could give, yet 
 it was mentioned, as an addition to his happiness, 
 that he had once been wretched, and now was com- 
 forted; that he had known what it was to be mise- 
 rable, and now felt what it was to be happy. 
 
 ‘ Thus, my friends, you see religion does what 
 philosophy could never do: it shews the equal deal- 
 ings of heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and 
 levels all human enjoyments to nearly the same stan- 
 dard. It gives to both rich and poor the same bap- 
 ; piness hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; but 
 if the rich have the advantage of enjoying pleasures 
 here, the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing 
 what it was once to be miserable, when crowned 
 with endless felicity hereafter; and even though it 
 should be called a small advantage, yet being an 
 eternal one, it must make up by duration what the 
 ' temporal happiness of the great may have exceeded by 
 intenseness. 
 
t'54 VICAR or WAKE FIELD. 
 
 f Ihese are therefore the consolations which the 
 wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which! 
 they are. above the rest of mankind; in other respect*’ 
 they are below them. They who would know the] 
 miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. To! 
 declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, is| 
 onlv repeating what none either believe or practise.! 
 I ne men who have the necessaries of living are 
 not poor, and they who want them must he miserable.! 
 \es, my friends, we must be miserable. No vainj 
 cH or ts of a refined imagination can sooth the wants! 
 ot nature, can give elastic sweetness to the darks 
 vapour of a dungeon, or ease the throbbings of a| 
 broken heart. Let the philosopher from la is couch! 
 Of softness' tell us we can resist all these. Alas! thu 
 effort by which we resist them is still the greatest pain. 1 
 Death is slight, and any man may sustain it ; but! 
 torments are dreadful, and these no man can endure,] 
 ‘ J o us, then, my friends, the promises of hap-, 
 piness in Heaven should be peculiarly dear: for if 
 our reward he in this life alone, we are indeed 
 of all men the most miserable. When 1 look round 
 these gloomy walls, made to terrify, as well as to 
 confine us; this light, that only serves to shew the 
 horrors of the place; those shackles, that tyranny 
 has imposed, or crime made necessary ; when I sur- 
 vey these emaciated looks, and hear those groans ; 
 O, my friends, what a glorious exchange would 
 Heaven be for these! To fly through regions un- 
 con nned as air, to bask in the sunshine of eternal 
 bliss, to carol over endless hymns of praise, to have 
 no master to threaten or insult us, but the form of 
 goodness for ever in our eyes; when I think of 
 these things, death becomes the messenger of very 
 glad tidings; when 1 think of these things, hi* 
 sharpest arrow becomes the staff' of my support: 
 when 1 think of these things, what is there in life 
 worth having? when I think of these things, 
 vyhat is there that, should not he spurned away? 
 Kings in their palaces should groan for such ad« 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIEI.t). 155 , 
 
 antages ; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn 
 or them. 
 
 « And shall these things be ours? Ours they will 
 :ertainly be, if wc but try for them; and what is a 
 omfort, we are shut out from many temptations 
 [hat would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for 
 [hem, and they will certainly be ours ; and what is 
 [till a comfort, shortly too: 'lor if we look back on 
 bast life, it appears but a very short span, and what- 
 ever we may think ol the rest of life, it will yet be 
 found of less duration ; as we grow older, the days 
 eeem to grow shorter, and our intimacy with time 
 fever lessens the preemption of his stay . 1 hen let us 
 
 take comfort now, for we shall soon be at our jour- 
 ney’s end; we shall soon lay down the heavy burden 
 laid by Heaven upon ns; and though death, the oniy 
 friend of the wretched, for a little while mocks tire 
 •weary traveller withtheview, and.likethehorizon, still 
 flies before him; yet the time will certainly and shortly 
 come, when we shall cease from our toil; when the 
 .luxurious great ones of the world shall no more tread 
 us to the earth; when we shall think with pleasure 
 on our sufferings below ; when we shall be surrounded 
 with all our friends, or such as deserved our friend- 
 ship; when our bliss shall be unutterable, and still, 
 to crown all, unending.’ 
 
 C H A P. XI. 
 
 Happier Prospects begin to appear. Let us le in- 
 flexible, and Fortune will at last change in our 
 
 Favour. 
 
 WHEN I bad thus finished, and my audience was 
 {retired, the gaoler, who was one of the most humane 
 lot' his profession, hoped I would not be displeased, 
 ;as what he did was but his duty ; observirg, that he 
 | must be obliged to remove my son into a stronger cell, 
 
 ! but he should he permitted to visit me every morning. 
 I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping mv 
 ■boy’s hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of 
 | the great duty that was befors him. 
 
 . 
 
156 _ VICAR OF WAKfiFIE-LD. 
 
 I again, therefore, laid me down, and one of my 
 little ones sate by my bed-side reading, when Mr. Jen- 
 kinson entering, informed me that there was news of 
 my daughter ; for that she was seen by a person about 
 two hours before in a strange gentleman’s company, 
 and that they had stopped at a neighbouring village 
 lor refreshment, and seemed as if returning to town. 
 He had scarce delivered this news, when the gaoler 
 came with looks of haste and pleasure, to inform me 
 that my daughter was found. Moses came running in a 
 moment after, crying out that his sister Sophv was be- 
 low, and coming up with our old friend Mr. Burchell. 
 
 Just as lie delivered this news, my dearest mrl en- 
 tered, and , with looks almost wild with pleasure, ran to 
 kiss me in a transport of affection. Her mother’s tears 
 and silence also shewed her pleasure. • Here, papa,’ 
 cried the charming girl, ‘ here is the braJe man 
 to whom I owe my delivery; to this gentleman’s 
 intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness and 
 safety.’ A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose pleasure 
 seemed even greater than her’s, interrupted what she 
 was going to add. 
 
 ‘ Ah, Mr. Burchell,’ cried I, ‘ this is but a 
 wretched habitation you now find us in ; and we 
 are now very different from what you last saw us. 
 You were ever our friend: we have long discovered 
 our errors with regard to you, and repented of our 
 ingratitude. After the vile usage you then received 
 at my hands, I am almost ashamed to behold vour 
 face ; yet I hope you’ll forgive me, as I was deceived 
 by a base, ungenerous wreleh, who, under the mask 
 of friendship, has undone me.’ 
 
 ‘ It is impossible,’ replied Mr. Burchell, * that I 
 should forgive you, as you never deserved my' resent- 
 ment. I partly saw your delusion then, and as it 
 was out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it!’ 
 
 ‘ It was ever my conjecture,’ cried I, ‘ that your 
 mind was noble; but now 1 find it so.— But tell me 
 my dear child, how thou hast been relieved, or who 
 the ruffians were that carried thee away ?’ 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 157 
 
 ‘ Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, * as to the villain who 
 carried me oft, I am yet ignorant. For as niy mam- 
 ma and I were walking out, he came behind us, and 
 almost before I could call for help, forced me into 
 the post-chaise, and in an instant the horses drove 
 away. I met several on the road, to whom I cried 
 out tor assistance ; but they disregarded my entreaties. 
 In the mean time the ruffian himself used every art 
 to hinder me from crying out : he flattered and 
 threatened me by turns, and swore that if I continued 
 but silent, he intended no harm. In the mean time, 
 I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and 
 whom should I perceive, at some distance, but your 
 old friend Mr. Burchell, walking along with his 
 usual swiftness, with the great stick for which we 
 used so much to ridicule him. As soon as we came 
 within hearing, I called out to him by name, and en- 
 treated his help. I repeated my exclamations several 
 times; upon which, with a very loud voice, he bid 
 the postilion stop; but the boy took no notice, but 
 drove on with still greater speed. 1 now thought he 
 could never overtake us, when in less than a minute, 
 I saw Mr. Burchell come running up by the side 
 of the horses, and with one blow, knock the pos- 
 tilion to the ground. The horses, when he was fal- 
 len, soon stopt of themselves ; and the ruffian, step- 
 ping out, with oaths and menaces, drew his sword, 
 and ordered him at his peril to retire; but Mr. Bur- 
 chell, running up, shivered his sword to pieces, and 
 then pursued him for near a quarter of a mile : but he 
 made his escape. I was at this time come out my- 
 self, willing to assist my deliverer ; but he soon re- 
 turned to me in triumph. The postilion, who was 
 recovered, was going to make his escape too; but 
 Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril to drive back 
 to town. Finding it impossible to resist, he re- 
 luctantly complied, though the wound he had received 
 seemed, to me at least, to be dangerous. Fie con- 
 tinued to complain of the pain as we drove along, so 
 that he at last excited Mr. Burchell’s compassion ; 
 
 P 
 
I i>8 TICAR OF v.'AK KPTELb. 
 
 w’no, at my request, exchanged him ior another at an 
 inn where we called on our return.’ 
 
 ‘ Welcome, then,’ cried 1, ‘my child, and thou, 
 her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes. Though 
 our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready 
 to receive you. And now, Air. Harebell, as vou 
 have delivered my girl, if you think her a rccompence, 
 she is yours; if you can stoop to an alliance with 
 a family so poor as mine, take her, obtain her con- 
 stent, as I know you have her heart, and you have 
 mine. And let me tell you. Sir, that I "give you 
 no small treasure; she has been celebrated for beauty, 
 it is true, but that is not my meaning, I give you up 
 a treasure in her mind.’ ^ 1 
 
 ‘ But I suppose, Sir,’ cried Mr. Burch ell, * that 
 you arc apprised of my circumstances, and of my 
 incapacity to support her as she deserves ?’ 
 
 ‘ it your present objection,’ replied I, ‘ be meant 
 as an evasion of my oiler, I desist; but I know no* 
 man so worthy to deserve her as you; and, if I could 
 give her thousands, and thousands sought her from 
 me, yet my honest, brave Harebell should be my 
 dearest choice.’ 
 
 To all this silence alone seemed to give a morti- 
 fying refusal ; and, without the least reply to my offer, 
 he demanded if we could not be furnished with 
 refreshments from the next inn; to which beitw 
 answered in the affirmative, he ordered them to send 
 in the best dinner that could be provided upori such 
 short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their best 
 wine, and some cordials for me: adding, with a 
 smile, that he would stretch a little for once; and„ 
 though in a prison, asserted he was never better 
 disposed to be merry. The waiter soon made his ap- 
 pearance with preparations for dinner; a table was- 
 lent us by the gaoler, who seemed remarkably assi- 
 duous; the wine was disposed in order, and two very 
 well dressed dishes were brought in. 
 
 My daughter had not yet heard of her poor bro- 
 ther’s melancholy situation, and we all seemed tm- 
 
VICAR or WAKEFIELD. I -If) 
 
 willing to damp her cheerfulness bv the relation . But 
 it was in vain that I attempted to appear cheerio!; the 
 circumstances ofmv uniortunate sen broke through all 
 c ll'orts to dissemble; so that I was at last obliged to 
 damp onr mirth by relating his misfortunes, and 
 wishing he might be permitted to share with ns in 
 this liule interval of satisfaction. After my guests 
 were recovered born their consternation my account 
 had produced, I requested also that Air. Jenkinson, 
 a fellow prisoner, might be admitted; and the gaoler 
 granted vnv request with an air ol unusual submission. 
 The clanking of mv son’s irons was no sooner heard 
 along the passage, than his sister ran impatiently to 
 meet him; while Mr. Burchell, in the mean time, 
 asked me if my son’s name was George ; to which 
 replying in the affirmative, he still continued silent. 
 As soon as my bov came into the room, 1 could per- 
 ceive he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of asto- 
 nishment and reverence. £ Come on,’ cried I, ‘my 
 son ; though we are fallen very low, yet Providence 
 has been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from 
 pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her 
 deliverer: "to that brave man it is that I am indebted 
 for yet having a daughter; give him, my boy, the 
 hand of friendship ; he deserves our warmest gratitude.’ 
 
 My son seemed all this while regardless of what I 
 said, and still continued fixed at a respectful distance. 
 My dear brother,’ cried his sister, * why don’t you 
 thank my good deliverer? the brave should ever love 
 each other.’ 
 
 He still continued his silence and astonishment; till 
 our guest at last perceived himself to be known, and, 
 assuming all his native dignity, desired my son to 
 come forward. Never betore had 1 seen any thing so 
 truly majestic as the air he assumed upon this occa- 
 sion. The greatest object in the universe, says a 
 certain philosopher, is a good man struggling with 
 adversity; yet there is still a greater, which is the good 
 man that comes to relieve it. Alter he had regarded 
 my son for some tune with a superior air, ‘ I again 
 
loo, VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 find, said he, ‘ unthinking boy, that the same 
 cnme— But here he was interrupted by one of the 
 gaoler s servants, who came to inform us that a person 
 ot distinction, who had driven into town with a 
 chariot and several attendants, sent his respects to the 
 gentleman that was with us, and begged to know 
 when he should think proper to be waited upon ‘ Bid 
 the fellow wait,’ cried our guest, ‘ till I shal’l have 
 leisure to receive him and then turning to my son, 
 ‘ I again find. Sir,’ proceeded he, « that you areguiity of 
 the same ofience for which yon once had my reproof, 
 and for which the law is now preparing its justest 
 punishments. You imagine, perhaps, that contempt 
 tor your own life gives you a right to take that of 
 another : but where. Sir, is the diflerence between a 
 duellist who hazards a life of no value, and the nrur- 
 derer who acts with greater security ? Is it anv di- 
 minution of the gamester’s fraud, when he alledges 
 that he has staked a counter?’ 
 
 Alas, Sir,’ cried I, 'whoever you are, pi tv the 
 poor misguided creature; for what "he has done' was 
 iH obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the bit- 
 terness of her resentment, required- him upon her 
 blessing to avenge her quarrel. Here, Sir, is the letter, 
 whicti will serve to convince you of her imprudence, 
 and diminish his guilt.’ 
 
 He took the letter, and hastily read it over. ‘This, 
 says he, ‘ though not a perfect excuse, is such a pal- 
 liation of his fault, as induces me to forgive him. 
 
 And now. Sir, continued he, kindly taking my son 
 by the hand, ‘ I see you are surprised at finding me 
 here; but 1 have often visited prisons upon occa- 
 sions less interesting. I am now come to see justice 
 done a worthy man, for whom I have the most sin- 
 cere esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator 
 of thy father’s benevolence. I have at his little 
 dwelling enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery, 
 anu have received that happiness that courts could not 
 give, from the amusing simplicity round his fire-side, 
 i fy nephew has been apprized of my intentions ot 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIF.LT). l6l 
 
 coming here, and, I find, is arrived ; it would be 
 wronging him and you to condemn him without ex- 
 amination; if there be injury there shall be redress; 
 and this 1 may say without boasting, that none have 
 ever taxed the injustice ot Sir William Thornhill.’ 
 
 We now found the personage w hom we had long 
 entertained as an harmless, amusing companion, vyas 
 no other than the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, 
 to whose virtues and singularities scarce any were 
 strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a 
 rnsn oflarge fortune and great interest, to whom se- 
 nates listened with applause, and whom party heard 
 with conviction; who was the friend of his country, 
 but loval to his king. My poor wife recollecting her 
 former familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehen- 
 sion ; but Sophia, whoa few moments before thought 
 him her own , now perceiving the immense distance 
 to which he was (emoved by fortune, was unable to 
 conceal her tears. 
 
 f Ah, Sir,’ cried my wife, with a piteous aspect, 
 f how is it possible that I can ever have your forgive- 
 ness; the slights you received from me the last time 
 I had the honour of seeing you at our house, and 
 the jokes which 1 audaciously threw out ; these. Sir, 
 I fear, can never be forgiven.’ 
 
 ‘ My dear, good lady,’ returned he with a smite, 
 
 * if you had your joke, i had my answer; I’ll leave it 
 to all the company if mine were not as good as your’s. 
 To say the truth, 1 know nobody whom I am dis- 
 posed to be. angrv with at present but the fellow who 
 so frighted my little girl here. I had not even time 
 to examine the rascal’s person, so as to describe him 
 in an advertisement. Can you tell me, Sophia, my 
 dear, whether you should know him again?’ 
 
 * Indeed, Sir,’ replied she, ‘ I can’t be positive; vet 
 now I recollect, he had a large mark over one of his 
 eye-brows.’ — ‘ 1 ask pardon, Madam,’ interrupted 
 Jenkinson, who was by ; ‘ but be so good as to in- 
 form me if the fellow wore his own red hair ? — ‘ Yes, 
 1 think so,’ cried Sophia. — ‘ And did your honour,’ 
 v d 
 
5 9 2 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 continued he, turning to Sir William, r observe the 
 length of his legs?’ — • I can’t be sure of their length,’ 
 cried the baronet, * but I am convinced of their 
 swiftness; for he out-ran me, which is what I 
 thought few men in the kingdom could have done.’ 
 — ‘ Please your honour,’ cried Jenkinson, ‘ I know 
 the man ; it is certainly the same ; the best runner 
 in England ; he has beaten Pinwire of Newcastle : 
 Timothy Baxter is his name, I know him perfectly, 
 and the very place of his retreat this moment. If your 
 honour will bid Mr. Gaoler let two of his men go with 
 me, 1 11 engage to produce him to you in an hour at 
 farthest. Upon this the gaoler was called, who in- 
 stantly appearing, Sir William demanded if he knew 
 him. ‘ Yes, please your honour,’ replied the gaoler, 
 1 1 know Sir YVilliam Thornhill well, and every body 
 that knows any tiling of him will desire to know more 
 of him.’ — ‘ Well, then,’ said the baronet, ‘ my re- 
 quest is, that you will permit this man and two of 
 your servants to go upon a message by my authority; 
 and as I am in the commission of the peace, I under- 
 take to secure you .’ — ‘ Your promise is sufficient,’ re- 
 plied ihe other, * and you may at a minute’s warning 
 send then* uver England, whenever your honour 
 thinks fit.’ 
 
 In pursuance of the gaoler’s compliance, Jenkinson 
 was dispatched in search of Timothy Baxter, while 
 we were amused with the assiduity of our youngest boy 
 Bill, who had just come in and climbed up to Sir 
 William’s neck in order to kiss him. His mother 
 was immediately going to chastise his familiarity, but 
 the worthy man prevented her, and taking the child, 
 all ragged as he was, upon his knee, ‘ What Bill, you 
 chubby rogue,’ cried he, ‘ do you remember vour 
 old friend Burchell ?— and Dick too, my honest ve- 
 teran, are you here? you shall find I have not forgot 
 you. So saying, he gave each a large piece of gin- 
 gerbread, which the poor fellows eat very heartily, as 
 they had got that morning but a very scanty breakfast. 
 
 We now sat down to dinner, which was almost 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. _ Iv3 
 
 cold : but previously, my arm still continuing pain- 
 ful, Sir William wrote a prescription, tor he had 
 made the study of physic his amusement, and was 
 more than moderately skilled in the profession : this 
 being sent to an apothecary who lived in the place, 
 my arm was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous 
 relief. We were waited upon at dinner by the gaoler 
 himself, who was willing to do our guest all the ho- 
 nour in his power. But before we had well dined, 
 another message was brought from his nephew, de- 
 siring permission to appear, in order to vindicate 11s 
 innocence and honour; with which request the ba- 
 ronet complied, and desired Mr. Thornhill to be 
 introduced. 
 
 CHAP. XII. 
 
 Former Benevolence now repaid with unexpected 
 Interest. 
 
 Mr. Thornhill made his entrance with a smile, 
 which he seldom wanted, and was going to embrace 
 his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air ot 
 disdain. ‘ No fawning. Sir, at present, cried the 
 baronet, with a look of severity; ‘ the only way to 
 my heart is by the road of honour; but here 1 see 
 only complicated instances of falsehood, covyardice, 
 and oppression. How, is it. Sir, that this poor 
 man, for whom I know you professed a friendship, 
 is used thus hardly? His daughter vilely seduced, 
 as a recom pence for his hospitality, and he himse 
 thrown into prison, perhaps but for resenting t e 
 insult? His son too, whom you feared to iace as a 
 
 man — ’ , . . , 
 
 ‘ Is it possible, Sir,’ interrupted his nephew, 
 « that my uncle should object that as a crime, which 
 his repeated instructions alone have persuaded me to 
 avoid?’ ... . . 
 
 * Your rebuke,’ cried Sir William, ‘ is just ; yeu 
 have acted in this instance prudently and well, though 
 not quite as your father would have done: my bro- 
 ther indeed was the soul of honour; but thou yes. 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 you have acted in this instance perfectly right, and it 
 nas my warmest approbation.’ 
 
 And I hope,’ said the nephew, ‘ that the rest of 
 my conduct will not be found to deserve censure. 
 
 I appeared, Sir, w.th this gentleman’s daughter at 
 some places of public amusement; thus what was 
 levity, scandal called by a harsher name, and itt was 
 reported 1 had debauched her. I waited on her fa- 
 ther m person, willing to clear the thing to his satis- 
 faction, and he received me only with insult and 
 .use. As for the rest, with regard to his being 
 m:re, my attorney and steward can best inform you, 
 as 1 commit the management of business entirely to 
 them. If he has contracted debts, and is unwil- 
 mg, 01 even unable to pay them, it is their busi- 
 ness to proceed in this manner; and I sec no hard- 
 
 or m J us tice in pursuing the most legal means of 
 redress. 
 
 ‘ If this,’ cried Sir William, ‘be as von have 
 stated it, mere is nothing unpardonable in your of- 
 t euces ; and though your conduct might have been 
 more generous, m not suffering this gentleman to he 
 oppressed by subordinate tyranny, yet it has been 
 at least equitable,’ 
 
 He cannot contradict a single particular,’ replied 
 the squire, ‘ I defy him to do so, and several of mv 
 servants are ready to attest what 1 say. Thus Sir ’ 
 continued he, finding that 1 was silent, for in fact I 
 could not contradict him; ‘ thus. Sir, my own 
 innocence is vindicated: but though, at your en- 
 1rc.at\, am l early to forgive this gentleman every 
 other offence, yet his attempts to lessen me in your 
 esteem, excite a resentment that I cannot govern , 
 and this too at a time when his son was actually pre- 
 paring to take away my life; this I say was' such 
 femlt, that I am determined to let the law take its 
 com^. heie the challenge that was sent me, 
 
 anr tuo witnesses to prove it; one of my servants 
 nas been wounded dangerously; and even though 
 Riy uncle himself should dissuade me, which I know 
 
VICAR Of WAKEFIELD. 1 f>5 
 
 be will not, yet I will see public justice done, and he 
 shall suffer for it.’ 
 
 ‘ Thou monster,’ cried my wife, ‘ hast thou not 
 had vengeance enough already, but must my poor boy 
 feel thy cruelty? I hope that good Sir William will 
 protect us, for my son is as innocentas a child ; 1 am 
 sure he is, and never did harm to man.’ 
 
 * Madam,’ replied the good man, ‘ your wishes for 
 his safety are not greater than mine ; but I am sorry 
 to find his guilt too plain, and if my nephew per- 
 sists — ’ But the appearance of Jenkinson and the 
 gaoler’s two servants now called off our attention, 
 who entered hauling in a tall man, very genteelly 
 drest, and answering the description already given of 
 the ruffian who carried off" my daughter. ‘ Here,’ cried 
 Jenkinson, pulling him in, ‘ here, we have him, 
 and if ever there was a candidate for Tyburn, this is 
 one.’ 
 
 The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner 
 and Jenkinson, who had him in custody, he seemed 
 to shrink backward with terror. His face became 
 pale with conscious guilt, and he w r ould have with- 
 drawn ; but Jenkinson, who perceived his design, 
 stopt him. ‘ What, ’squire,’ cried he, ‘ are you 
 ashamed of your two old acquaintances, Jenkinson 
 and Baxter? But this is the way that all great men 
 forget their friends, though I am resolved we will 
 not forget you. Our prisoner, please your honour,’ 
 continued he, turning to Sir William, * has already 
 confessed all. This is the gentleman reported to be 
 dangerously wounded : he declares that it was Mr. 
 Thornhill who first put him upon this affair; that 
 he gave him the clothes he now' wears, to appear 
 like a gentleman, and furnished him with a post- 
 chaise. The plan was laid between them, that he 
 should carry off the young lady to a place of safety, 
 and that there he should threaten and terrify her; 
 but Mr. Thornhill was to come in, in the mean 
 time, as if by accident, to her rescue, and that they 
 should fight awhile, and then he was to have run off'; 
 
1( -'0 ; t VICAR DI’ WAKEFIELD. 
 
 l«'i which means i\l r . Ihornhili would have the bet- 
 ter opportunity of gaining her affections himself, 
 under the character of her defender. 
 
 Sir W illiarn remembered the coat to have been fre- 
 quently worn by his nephew, ami all the rest, the pri- 
 soner himself confiraied by a more circumstantial ac- 
 count: and concluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often 
 declared to him, that he was in love with both sisters 
 at the same time. 
 
 , Meat en ! cried Sir W ilhatn; ‘ what a viper have 
 I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of public 
 justice too as lie seemed to be! Rut he shall have it; 
 secure him Mr. Gaoler — yet hold, 1 fear there is not 
 legal evidence to detain him.’ 
 
 L pon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humi- 
 lity, entreated that two such abandoned wretches 
 ipight not be admitted as evidence against him, but 
 that his servants shook! be examined. ‘ Your ser- 
 vants !’ replied Sir William; * wretch, cal! them 
 Your s no longer, but come let ns hear what those 
 feijows have to say; let his butler be called.’ 
 y* lien the butler was introduced, he soon per- 
 ceived by his former master’s looks, that all his 
 power was now ever. ‘ Tell me,’ cried Sir William 
 sternly, 5 have you ever seen vour master, and that 
 fellow dressed up in his clothes, in company to- 
 gether?’ — ‘ Yes, please your honour,’ cried' the 
 butler, a thousand times : he was the man 
 that always brought him his ladies.’ — ‘ IIow,’ inter- 
 rupted young Mr. Thornhill, ‘ this to my* face! 
 
 Yes? replied the butler, ‘ or to any man’s face, 
 to ted you a truth, Master ihornhili, I never 
 either loved you or liked you, and 1 don’t care if f 
 tell you now a piece of my mind.’ — * Now then,’ , 
 cried .Tenkinson, c tell h t s honour whether you know 
 any thing of me.’ — ‘ l can’t say,’ replied the butler,’ 
 
 ‘ that I know much good of you. The night 
 that gentleman s daughter was deluded to our house, 
 you were one of them?— ‘ So then? cried Sir William, 
 
 I find y on have brought a very line witness to prove 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. lG7 
 
 your innocence ! thou stain to humanity to associ- 
 ate with such wretches! — But (continuing his ex- 
 amination), you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was 
 the person who brought him this, old gentleman’s 
 daughter.’ — ‘ No, please your honour,’ replied the 
 butler, ‘ he did not bring iter, lor the ’squire him- 
 self undertook that business; but he brought the 
 priest that pretended to marry them.’ — ‘ It is but too 
 true,’ cried Jenkii.son, ‘ 1 cannot deny it; that was 
 tire cm- lovment assigned to me, and I confess it to my 
 confusion.’ 
 
 ‘ Good Heavens!’ exclaimed the baronet, ‘ how 
 ■every new discovery of bis villainy alarms me! all 
 his guilt is now too plain, and 1 find his present 
 prosecution was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, 
 
 ■ and revenge: at rav request, Mr. Gaoler, set this 
 l young officer, now your prisoner, free, and trust to 
 : me for the consequences. I’ll make it my business 
 I to set the affair in a proper light to my friend the 
 magistrate who has committed him. But where is 
 I tiie unfortunate voting lady hersell ? let her appear to 
 i; confiont this wie'ch; I long to know by what arts 
 I he has seduced her. Intreat her to come in. Where 
 is she ?’ 
 
 ‘ Ah, Sir,’ said I, ‘ that question stings me to tire 
 heart; I was once indeed happy in a daughter, hut 
 her miseries’ — Another interruption here prevented 
 -me: for who should makeherappearan.ee but Miss 
 Arabella Wilmot, who was the next day to have 
 , been married to Mr. Thornhill. Nothing could 
 >; equal her surprize at seeing Sir William and his 
 E nephew here before Iter, for her arrival was quite 
 jj accidental. It happened that she and the old gen- 
 1 t '.unan her father were passing through the town, 
 | on the way to her aunt’s, who had insisted that her 
 1 -nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should he consummated 
 j at her house; knit stopping for refreshment, they put 
 up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was 
 'i •hem from the window that the young lady hap* 
 r.encd to observe one of my little boys playing' in the 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 street, and instantly sending a footman to bring the 
 child to her, she learnt from him some account of 
 our misfortunes ; but was still kept ignorant of young 
 Mr. Thornhill’s being the cause. Though her father 
 made several remonstrances on the impropriety of her 
 going to a prison to visit us, yet they were ineffectual : 
 she desired the child to conduct her, which he 
 did, and it was thus she surprized us at a juncture so 
 unexpected. 
 
 Nor can I go on, without a reflection on those 
 accidental meetings, which, though they happen 
 every day, seldom excite our surprize but upon some 
 extraordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous con- 
 currence do we not owe every pleasure and conveni- 
 ence of our lives ! How many seeming accidents must 
 unite before we can be clothed or fed! The peasant 
 must be disposed to labour, the shower must fall, the 
 wind fill the merchant’s sail, or numbers must want 
 the usual supply. 
 
 We all continued silent for some moments, while 
 my charming pupil, which was the name I generally 
 gave this young lady, united in her looks compassion 
 and astonishment, which gave new finishing to her 
 beauty. ‘ Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill,’ cried she 
 to the ’squire, who she supposed was come here to 
 succour, and not to oppress us, ‘ I take it a little un- 
 kindly that you should come here without me, or 
 never inform me of the situation of a family so dear 
 to us both : you know I should take as much plea- 
 sure in contributing to the relief of my reverend old 
 master here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. 
 But I find that, like your uncle, you take a "pleasure 
 in doing good in secret.’ 
 
 ‘ He find pleasure in doing good!’ cried Sir Wil- 
 liam, interrupting her; ‘no, my dear, his pleasures 
 areas base as he is. You see in him, Madam, as 
 complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A 
 wretch, who, after having deluded this poor man’s 
 daughter, after plotting against the innocence of hep 
 ■sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the' 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. l6() 
 
 eldest "sow into fetters, because he had the courage to 
 face his betrayer. And, give me leave, Madam, now 
 to congratulate you upon an escape from the embraces 
 of such a monster.’ 
 
 * O goodness !’ cried the lovely girl, ‘ how have I 
 been deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me for certain 
 that this gentleman’s eldest son, Captain Primrose, 
 was gone off to America with his new married lady.’ 
 
 * My sweetest Miss,’ cried my wife, * he has told 
 you nothing but falsehoods. My son George never 
 left the kingdom, nor never was married. Though 
 you have forsaken him, he has always loved you too 
 ■well to think of any body else; and I have heard him 
 say he would die a batchelor for your sake.’ She then 
 proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son’s 
 passion; she set his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a 
 proper light; from thence she made a rapid digression 
 to the ’squire’s debaucheries, his pretended mar- 
 riages, and ended with a most insulting picture of his 
 cowardice. 
 
 ‘ Good Heavens !’ cried Miss Wilmot, * how very 
 near have I been to the brink of ruin ! But how great 
 is my pleasure to have escaped it! Ten thousand 
 falsehoods has this gentleman told me! He had at 
 last art enough to persuade me that my promise to the 
 only man I esteemed was no longer binding, since he 
 had been unfaithful. By his falsehoods I was taught 
 to detest one equally brave and generous !’ 
 
 But by this time my son was freed from the incum- 
 brances of justice, as the person supposed to be 
 wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr. Jen- 
 kinson also, who had acted as his valet de chambre, 
 had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with 
 whatever was necessary to make a genteel appearance. 
 II e now, therefore, entered handsomely dressed in 
 his regimentals, and without vanity (for I am above 
 it) he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever wore a 
 military dress. As he entered, he made Miss Wilmot 
 a modest and distant bow, for he was not yet ac- 
 quainted with the change which the eloquence of hi$ 
 
1/0 VrCAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 mother had wrought 'in his favour. But no deco- 
 rums could restrain the impatience of his blushing 
 mistress to he forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all 
 contributed to discover the real sensations of her 
 heart, for having forgotten her former promise, and 
 having suffered herself to be deluded by an impos- 
 tor. My son appeared amazed at her condescension, 
 and could scarce believe it real. — Sure, Madam,’ 
 cried he, ‘ this is b*ti t delusion! 1 can never have me- 
 rited this! To he blest thus is to be too happy.’ — 
 ‘ No, Sir,’ replied she, * I have been deceived, basely 
 deceived, else nothing could hate ever made me un- 
 just to my promise. You know mv friendship, you 
 have long known it; but forget what 1 have, done, 
 you shall now have them repeated; and be assured, 
 that if your Arabella cannot be your’s, she shall ne- 
 ver he another’s.’ — c And no other’s you shall be,’ 
 
 This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who 
 immediately flew to the inn where the old gentleman 
 was, to inorm him of every circumstance that had 
 happened. But in the meantime the ’squire, per- 
 ceiving that he was on every side undone, now find- 
 ing that no hopes were left from flattery or dissimu- 
 lation-, concluded that his wisest way would be to 
 turn and face his pursuers. Thus laying aside all 
 shame he appeared the open and hardy villain. * I 
 find then,’ cried he, ‘ that I am to expect no justice 
 here; but I am resolved it shall lie done me. You 
 shall know, Sir,’ turning to Sir William, ‘ I am no 
 longer a poor dependant upon your favours : I scorn 
 them. Nothing can keep Miss Wilmot’s fortune 
 from me, which, 1 thank her father’s assiduity, is 
 pretty large. The articles, and a bond for her for- 
 tune, are signed, and safe it) m\ possession. It was 
 her fortune, not her person, that induced me to wish 
 for this match ; and possessed of the one, let who will 
 take the other.’ 
 
 M his was an alarming blow; Sir William was sen- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 17 1 
 
 slide of '.he justness of his claims, for he had been in- 
 strumental m drawing up the marriage-articles him- 
 self. Miss Wilmot, therefore perceiving that her 
 fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, she 
 asked if the loss of fortune could lessen her value to 
 him? ‘ Though fortune,’ said she, ‘ is out of my 
 power, at least I have my hand to give.’ 
 
 ‘ And that, Madam,’ cried her real lover, ‘ was, 
 indeed, all that you ever had to give : at least all I ever 
 thought worth the acceptance. And 1 now protest, 
 in v Arabella, by all that’s happy, your want of for- 
 tune. this moment increases my pleasure, as it serves 
 to convince my sweet girl of mv sincerity.’ 
 
 Mr. Wilmot. now entering, he seemed not a little 
 pleased at the danger his daughter had just escaped, 
 and readily consented to a dissolution of the match. 
 But, finding that her fortune, which was secured to 
 Mr. Tltornhiil by bond, would not he given up, 
 nothing could exceed his disappointment. He now- 
 saw that his money must all go to enrich one who 
 had no fortune of his own. He could hear his being 
 a rascal, but to want an equivalent to his daughter’s 
 fortune was wormwood. lie sat therefore, for some 
 minutes, employed, in the most mortifying specula- 
 tion, till Sir William attempted to lessen his anxiety. 
 
 ‘ 1 must confess, Sir,’ cried he, ‘ that your present 
 disappointment does not entirely displease* me. \ our 
 immoderate passion for wealth is now justly punished. 
 But though the voting lady cannot be rich, she has 
 still a sufficient competence to give content. Here 
 you see an honest young soldier, who is willing to 
 take her without fortune; they have long loved each 
 other; and, for the friendship I bear his lather, mv 
 interest shall not be wanting in his promotion. 
 Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, 
 and for once admit that happiness which courts your 
 acceptance.’ 
 
 ‘ Sir William,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘ be as- 
 sured I never vet forced her inclinations, nor will I 
 now. 1 f she still continues to love this young gentle- 
 
 o 2 
 
>7~ VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 man, let her have him with all my heart. There is 
 still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your pro- 
 mise will make it something more. Only let my old 
 friend hern (meaning me) give me a promise of settling 
 six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he should 
 come to his fortune, and I am ready this night to be 
 the first to join them together,’ 
 
 As it now remained with me to make the young 
 couple happy, I readily gave a promise of making the 
 settlement he required ; which, to one who had such 
 little expectations as 1, w^as no great favour. We 
 had now therefore the satisfaction of seeing them 
 fly into each other’s arms in a transport. ‘ After all 
 my misfortunes,’ cried my son George, ‘to be thus 
 rewarded! Sure this is more than 1 could ever have 
 presumed to hope for. To be possessed of all that’s 
 good, and after such an interval of pain! my warmest 
 wishes could never rise so high !’ — ‘ Yes, my George,’ 
 returned his lovely bride, ‘ now let the wretch take 
 my fortune; since you are happy without it, so aui I. 
 O what an exchange have I made, from the basest 
 of men to the dearest, blest! Let him enjoy 
 our fortune, I now can be happy even in indigence.’ 
 
 ‘ And I promise you,’ cried the ’squire, with a mali- 
 cious grin, ‘ that I shall he very happy with what 
 you despise.’ — ‘ Hold, hold. Sir,’ cried Jenkinson, 
 
 ‘ there are two words to that bargain. As for that 
 lady s fortune, Ssr, you shall never touch a single 
 sUver of it.’ Pray, your honour,’ continued he to 
 Sir W illiatn, ‘ can the ’squire have this lady’s fortune 
 ifhe be married to another?’— ‘ How can you make 
 such a simple demand ?’ replied the baronet; ‘un- 
 doubtedly be cannot.’ — ‘ I am sorry for that,’ cried 
 Jenkinson; ‘ for as we have been fellovv-sporters, 1 
 have a friendship for him. But I must declare, well 
 as I love him, that his contract is not worth a to- 
 bacco-stopper, for he is married already.’ — ‘ You 
 lie like a rascal,’ returned the ’squire, who seemed 
 roused by this insult; ‘ I never was legally married to 
 jmy woman,’ — ‘ Indeed, begging your honour’s par- 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 173 
 
 don,’ replied the other, ‘you were: and I hone you 
 will shew a proper return of friendship to your honest 
 Jenk inson, who brings you a wife; and if the com- 
 pany restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they shall 
 see her.’ So saying he went oil' with his usual ce- 
 lerity, and left us ail unable to form any probable 
 conjecture of his design. ‘ Aye, let him go,’ cried the 
 ’squire; ‘ whatever else I may have done, 1 defy him 
 there. I am too old now to be frightened with 
 squibs.’ 
 
 ‘ I am surprized,’ said the baronet, ‘ what the fel- 
 low can intend by this. Some low piece of humour, 
 I suppose?’ — ‘ Perhaps, Sir,’ replied I, ‘ he may 
 have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect 
 on the various schemes this gentleman has laid to 
 seduce innocence, perhaps some one more artful than 
 the rest, has been found able to deceive him. When 
 we consider what numbers he has ruined, how many 
 parents now feel with anguish the infamy and 
 the contamination which he has brought into their 
 families, it would not surprize me if some of them — 
 Amazement? l)o 1 see mv lost daughter! Do 1 
 hold her! It is, it is, my life, mv happiness. I 
 thought thee lost, my Olivia, yet still 1 hold thee, 
 and still thou shalt live to bless me.’ The warmest 
 transports of the fondest lover were not greater than 
 mine, when 1 saw him introduce mv child, and held 
 my daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke 
 her raptures. ‘ And art thou returned to me, my 
 darling,’ cried 1, ‘to be my comfort in age !’ — ‘ That 
 she is,’ cried Jenk inson, ‘and make much of her, 
 lor she is your own honourable child, and as honest 
 a woman as any in the whole room, let the other be 
 who site will. — And as for yon, ’squire, as sure as 
 you stand there, this young lady is your lawful 
 wedded wife. And to convince you that i speak no- 
 thing but the truth, here is the licence by which you 
 were married together.’ So saying, he put the licence 
 into tire baronet’s hands, who read it, and found it 
 perfect in every respect. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ cou- 
 Q J 
 
174 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 tinued he, ‘ I findthatyou are surprized at all this; 
 but a very few words will explain the difficulty. That 
 there ’squire of renown, for whom 1 have great 
 friendship, but that’s between ourselves, has often 
 employed me in doing odd little things for him. 
 xYmong the rest, he commissioned me to procure him 
 a false licence and a false priest, in order to deceive 
 this young ladv. But as I was very much his friend, 
 what did 1 do but go and get a true licence an d a true 
 priest, and marry them both as fast as the cloth could 
 make them. Perhaps you’ll think it was generosity 
 made me do all this. But no: to my shame I con- 
 fess it, my only design was to keep the licence, and 
 let the ’squire know that I could prove it upon him 
 whenever I thought proper, and so make him come 
 down whenever I wanted money.' A burst of plea- 
 sure now seemed to fill the whole apartment ; our joy 
 even reached to the common room, where the prison- 
 ers themselves sympathized. 
 
 And shook their chains 
 
 In transport and rude harmony. 
 
 Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even 
 Olivia’s cheeks seemed flushed with pleasure. To be 
 thus restored to reputation, to friends and fortune at 
 once, was rapture sufficient to stop the progress of 
 decay, and restore former health and vivacity. But 
 perhaps among all, theie was not one who felt sincerer 
 pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child 
 in my arms, I asked my heart it' these transports were 
 not delusive. ‘ How could you,’ cried I, turning to 
 Jenkinson, ‘ how could you add to my miseries by the 
 story of her death ? But it matters not ; my pleasure 
 at finding her again is more than a recompence for 
 the pain. 
 
 ‘ As to your question,’ replied Jenkinson, * that is 
 easily answered.’ I thought the only probable means 
 of freeing you from prison, was by submitting to 
 the ’squire, and consenting to his marriage with the 
 other young lady; but these you had vowed never 
 to grant while your daughter was living: there 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 175 
 
 was therefore no other method to bring things to 
 bear, but by persuading you that she was dead ; I 
 prevailed on your wife to join in the deceit, and we 
 have not had a fit opportunity of undeceiving you till 
 now.’ 
 
 In the whole assembly now there appeared only two 
 bices that did not glow with transport. Mr. Thorn- 
 hill's assurance had entirely forsaken him; he now 
 saw the gulph of infamy and want before him, and 
 trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on his 
 knees before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing 
 misery, implored compassion. Sir William was going 
 to spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, 
 and after pausing a few moments, ‘ Thy vices, crimes, 
 and ingratitude,’ cried he, ‘ deserve no tenderness ; 
 yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken ; a bare com- 
 petence shall be supplied to support the wants oi life, 
 but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, shall 
 be put in possession of a third part of that fortune, 
 which once was thine, and from her tenderness alone 
 thou art to expect any extraordinary supplies for the 
 future.’ He was going to express his gratitude for 
 such kindness in a set speech ; but the baronet pre- 
 vented him, by bidding him not aggravate his mean- 
 ness, which was already but too apparent. He or- 
 dered him at the same time to be gone, and from all his 
 former domestics to chuse one, such as he should think 
 proper, which was all that should be granted to at- 
 tend him. 
 
 As soon as he left us, Sir William very politely 
 stept up to his new niece with a smile, and wished 
 her joy. His example was followed by MtssM ihnot 
 and her father ; my wife too kissed her daughter with 
 much affection, as to use her own expression, she was 
 now made an honest woman of. Sophia and Moses 
 followed in turn, and even our benefactor Jenkinson 
 desired to be admitted to that honour. Our satis- 
 faction seemed scarce capable ot increase. Sir Wil- 
 liam, whose greatest pleasure was in doing good, now 
 looked round, with a countenance open as the sun. 
 
1 7^ VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 
 
 ami saw nothing but joy in the looks of all except, that 
 oS mydaughter Sophia, who, for some reasons we could 
 not comprehend, did not seem perfectly satisfied. 
 
 I think now,' cried he, with a smile, ‘ that all the 
 company, except one or two, seem perfectly happy. 
 
 1 here only remains an act til justice lor me to do. 
 ^ on are sensible, Sir,’ continud lie, turning to me, 
 of the obligations we both owe Mr. Jenkinson. And 
 U is but just we should both reward him for it. Miss 
 Sophia will, I atn sure, make him very happy, and 
 he shad have from me five hundred pounds as her 
 fortune, and upon this, lam sure thev can live verv 
 comfortably together, Conte, Miss Sophia, what say 
 vou to this match of my making? Will you have 
 him My poor girl seemed almost sinking into her 
 mother's arms at the hideous proposal. ‘ Have him, 
 Sir!’ cried she faintly : ‘no, Sir, never.’ — ‘ What,’ 
 erien lie again, ‘ not .Mr. Jenkinson, your benefactor, 
 a handsome young fellow, with five hundred pounds 
 and good expectations ‘ 1 beg. Sir,’ returned she, 
 scarce able to speak, ‘ that you'll desist, and not make 
 me so very wretched.’ — ‘ Was ever such obstinacy 
 known,’ cried lie again, ‘to refuse a man whom the 
 family has such infinite obligations to, who has pre- 
 served your sister, and who has five hundred pounds! 
 What, not have him!'—- No, Sir, never,’ replied she 
 angrily; ‘ I’d sooner die first.’ — ‘ If that be the case 
 then,’ cried he, ‘ if vou will not have him — I think I 
 must have you myself.’ And so saving, he camdit 
 her to his breast with ardour. * My loveliest niy 
 most sensible oi girls, cried he, ‘ how could vou over 
 ihinkyftnr own Bnrchell could deceive you,' or that 
 Sir V. illiam Ihornhill could ever cease to admire a 
 m is ness that loved him for himself alone ? 1 have 
 
 some years sought foi a woman, who, a stran°-er to 
 my fortune, could think that 1 had merit as a "man. 
 A iter having tried in vain, even among the pert and 
 f he ugly, how great at last must lie my rapture, to 
 have made a conquest over such sense and such 
 heavenly beauty! I hen turning to Jenkinson, ‘ As 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 177 
 
 I cannot. Sir, part with this young lady myself, for 
 she has taken a fancy to the cut of my face, all the 
 recompence I can make is to give you her fortune, and 
 
 ! mu may call upon my steward to-morrow for five 
 lundred pounds.’ Thus we had all our compliments 
 to repeat, and Lady Thornhill underwent the same 
 round of ceremony that her sister had done before. 
 .In the mean time Sir William’s gentleman appeared, 
 to tell us that the equipages were ready to carry us to 
 the inn, where every thing was prepared for our 
 reception. My wife and I led the van, and left those 
 gloomy mansions of sorrow. The generous baronet 
 | ordered forty pounds to be distributed among the 
 prisoners, and Mr. Wilmot, induced by his example, 
 i gave half that sum. We were received below by the 
 shouts of the villagers, and I saw and shook by the 
 hand two or three of my honest parishioners, who 
 were among the number. They attended us to our 
 inn, where a sumptuous entertainment was provided, 
 and coarser provisions distributed in great quantities 
 among the populace. 
 
 After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the 
 alternation of pleasure and pain which they had sus- 
 tained during the day, I asked permission to with- 
 draw, and leaving the company in the midst of their 
 mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out 
 my heart ingratitude to the'Giver of jov as well as 
 sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning. 
 
 C H A P. XIII. 
 
 The Conclusion. 
 
 THE next morning as soon as I awaked, I found 
 my eldest son sitting at my bed-side, who came to 
 increase iny joy with another turn of fortune in my 
 favour. First having released me from the settlement 
 that I had made the day before in his favour, he let 
 me know that, my merchant who had failed in town 
 was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up ef- 
 fects to a much greater amount than what was due to 
 i his creditors. My boy’s generosity pleased me almost 
 
1.78 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 as much as this unlooked-for good fortune. But I 
 had some doubts whether I ought in justice to accept 
 his offer. While i was pondering upon this Sir Wil- 
 liam entered the room, to whom i communicated my 
 doubts. Mis opinion was, that as mv son was already 
 possessed of a very affluent fortune by his marriage, I 
 might accept His offer without any hesitation. His 
 business, however, was to inform me, that as he 
 had the night before sent for the licences, and ex- 
 pected them every hour, he hoped that I would not 
 refuse mv assistance in making all the company happy 
 that morning. A footman entered, while we were 
 speaking, to tell us that the messenger was returned; 
 and as 1 was bv this time ready, i went down, where 
 I found all the company as merry as affluence and 
 innocence could make them. However, as they were • 
 now preparing for a very solemn ceremony, their 
 laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of the 
 grave, becoming, and sublime deportment, they 
 should assume upon this mystical occassian, and read 
 them two homihes and a thesis of mv own composing, 
 in order to prepare them. Yet they still seemed per- 
 fectly refractory- and ungovernable. Even as we were 
 going along to church, to which I led the way, all 
 gravity bad quite forsaken them, and I was often 
 tempted to turn back in indignation. In church a 
 new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. 
 This was, which couple should be married first; my 
 soil’s bride wanuly insisted that Lady Thornhill (that 
 was to be) should take the lead: but this the other 
 refused with equal ardour, protesting she would not 
 be guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argu- 
 ment was supported for some time between both with j 
 equal obstinacy and good breeding. But as I stood 
 all this time with iny book ready, I was at last quite 
 tired, of the contest, and shutting it, ‘ I perceive,’ 
 cried I, ‘ that none of yon have a mind to be married, 
 and l think we had as good go hack again; for I sup- 
 pose there will be no business done here to day.’ This 
 at once reduced them to reason. The baronet and his 
 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 17y. 
 
 lady were first married, and then my son and his 
 lovely partner. 
 
 I had previously that morning given orders that a 
 coach should be sent for my honest neighbour Fiam- 
 borough and his family ; by which means, upon our 
 return to the inn, we had pleasure of finding the two 
 Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. Jenkin- 
 son gave his hand to the c-ldest, and my son Moses 
 led up t ire other (and I have since found that he has 
 taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent and 
 bounty he shall have whenever he thinks proper to 
 demand them). We were no sooner returned to the 
 inn, but numbers of my parishoners, hearing of mv 
 success came to congratulate me, but among t he rest 
 were those who rose to rescue me, and whom ] for- 
 merly rebuked with such sharpness. ' I told the story to 
 Sir Y\ illium, my son-in-law, who went out and re- 
 proved them with great severity ; but finding them 
 quite disheartened by this harsh reproof, he gave them 
 half-a-guinea a-piece to drink his health, and raise 
 their dejected spirits. 
 
 Soon after this we were called to a verv genteel en- 
 tertainment, which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill’s 
 cook. And it may not he improper to observe, with 
 respect to that gentleman, that lie now resides in qua- 
 lity of companion at a relation’s house being verv 
 well liked, and seldom sitting at the side-table, ex"- 
 cept when there is no room at the other; for they 
 make no stranger of him. His time is pretty much 
 taken up in keeping his relation, who is a little me- 
 lancholy, in spirits, and-in learning to blow the French 
 horn. My eldest daughter, however, still remembers 
 him with regret : and she has even told me, though I 
 make a great secret of it, that when he reforms, she 
 maybe brought to relent. But to return, for Ians 
 not apt to digress thus; when we were t » sit down to 
 dinner, our ceremonies were going to tie renewed. 
 The question was, whether mv eldest dau t'nter „ as being 
 a matron, should not sit above the two young brides : 
 but the debate was cut short by mv soi/Geofge, who 
 
180 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 
 
 proposed that the company should set indiscriminately, 
 every gentleman by his lady. This was received with 
 great approbation by all, excepting my wife, who, I 
 could perceive, was not perfectly satisfied, as she ex- 
 pected to have had the pleasure of sitting at the head of 
 the table, and carving all the meat for all the company. 
 JBut notwithstanding this, it is impossible to de- 
 scribe our good-humour. I can’t say whether We 
 had more wit amongst ns now than usual ; but 1 am 
 certain we had more laughing, which answered the 
 »nd as well. One jest 1 particularly remember ; old 
 Mr. Wilmat drinking to Moses, whose head was 
 turned another way, my son replied, * Madam, I 
 thank you.’ Upon which the old gentleman, wink- 
 ing upon the rest of the company, observed that he 
 was thinking of his mistress. At which jest I thought 
 the two Miss Flamboroughs would have died with 
 laughing. As soon as dinner was over, according to 
 my old custom, I requested that the table might be 
 taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing all my fa- 
 mily assembled once more by a chearful fire-side. My 
 two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest of the 
 company by their partners. I had nothing now on 
 this side of the grave to wish for; all my cares were 
 over, my pleasures were unspeakable. It now onlv 
 remained, that my gratitude in good fortune should 
 exceed my former submission in adversity. 
 
 THE END 
 
 Printed by R. M ‘Donald, 
 13 , Sreiu Arbour Ceiilfc