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THE ENGLISH NOVEL BEFORE 
 THE NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 EXCERPTS 
 FROM REPRESENTATIVE TYPES 
 
 SELECTED BY 
 
 ANNETTE BROWN HOPKINS, Ph.D. 
 
 ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN GOUCHER COLLEGE 
 
 HELEN SARD HUGHES, A.M. 
 
 FORMERLY INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH IN WELLESLEY COLLEGE 
 
 GINN AND COMPANY 
 
 BOSTON • NEW YORK • CHICAGO • LONDON 
 

 COPYRIGHT, 191 5, BY 
 ANNETTE BROWN HOPKINS AND HELEN SARD HUGHES 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 
 315-3 
 
 //^^> 
 
 Cfte gtbcnarum jgregg 
 
 GINN AND COMPANY • I'RO- 
 PRIETORS • UOSTON • U.S.A. 
 
 APR I 1915 
 
 ^CI,A.'J98162 
 
PREFACE 
 
 An increasing tendency to recognize fiction as an apt vehicle 
 for instruction in literary method and literary history is leading 
 many schools and colleges to introduce courses in the history 
 and technique of the novel. Study of this sort naturally involves 
 discussion of the beginnings of the novel in earlier forms of nar- 
 rative such as appeared before and during the sixteenth century, 
 of its gradual rise through the next century and a half, and of 
 its rapid decline during the last decades of the eighteenth century. 
 Important as is this formative period in the history of the novel, 
 it is liable in the average course to suffer from inadequate treat- 
 ment because of the difficulty involved in obtaining and present- 
 ing the material. 
 
 It is to meet this difficulty that the present book of selec- 
 tions has been planned. The intention has been not to present 
 whole books in condensed form, such a task in a volume of this 
 character being obviously impossible ; but to offer from pre-nine- 
 teenth-century novels vivid and interesting excerpts which 
 should illustrate definite technical and historical features in the 
 development of the novel, and prove of sufficient length to give 
 an idea of the general character of a book without thwarting the 
 student's desire to read the book as a whole. 
 
 In order that the selections may be intelligible to the student, 
 explanatory footnotes and connecting Hnks in the form of sum- 
 maries have been supplied wherever it has seemed necessary. 
 But the editors, feeHng that many text-books err in giving too 
 much critical assistance, have purposely refrained from includ- 
 ing any critical material on the novel except what may be found 
 in the brief historical notes forming the introduction. Sufficient 
 aid of this nature, they hope, will be supplied by the bibliography. 
 The book is to illustrate, not to expound. It undertakes to rep- 
 resent various species of the novel : the romantic, the psycho- 
 
iv PREFACE 
 
 logical, the didactic, the picaresque, etc. ; and in these selec- 
 tions to show the skill of respective novelists in the handling of 
 plot, character, scene, incident, and purpose sufficiently to en- 
 able teacher and student to find the book of practical value in 
 the class-room. 
 
 Care has been taken to secure accurate texts of the novels 
 selected by comparing them with the most trustworthy editions 
 accessible, but neither space nor expediency has permitted dis- 
 cussion of variant readings. Care has been taken, also, to as- 
 certain exact dates of pubUcation for these novels, though in 
 some cases, such as "Oroonoko" and the first volumes of "Tris- 
 tram Shandy" wide difference of opinion has made it difficult 
 to reach a satisfactory decision. Where dates could not be deter- 
 mined from a more accurate source, "The Dictionary of National 
 Biography" has been followed. 
 
 The introduction is not intended as an epitomized history of 
 Enghsh fiction, but simply as a convenient guide to be used 
 in connection with the excerpts in placing them historically and 
 in showing what they illustrate technically. 
 
 In regard to the particular excerpts made, it may be said that 
 the editors, while reahzing the place in the growth of the novel 
 of such contributary forms as the tale in all periods, the char- 
 acter-writing and epistolary narratives of the seventeenth, and 
 the narrative essays of the eighteenth, century, felt that to increase 
 the illustration with such material would be to exceed the Kmits 
 of a single volume ; therefore it seemed wiser to keep to the 
 main channel of development. 
 
 Again, it has seemed unnecessary to extend the period of 
 representation into the nineteenth century, because the more 
 modem novels are usually obtainable in the average library, 
 they are published in cheap editions, and they are of such a 
 nature as to be profitably read in their entirety. 
 
 Finally, we wish to acknowledge gratefully the counsel and 
 assistance of Professor John M. Manly in solving problems of 
 obscure chronology. 
 
 A. B. H., 
 H. S. H. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION vii 
 
 BIBLIOGRAPHY . xv 
 
 LE MORTE DARTHUR. (Completed, 1469; printed, 1485) i 
 
 Sir Thomas Malory 
 
 EUPHUES. THE ANATOMY OF WIT. (1579) 60 ^ 
 
 John Lyly 
 
 THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA. (Written, 15S0-1581; 
 
 published, 1 590) 88 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney 
 
 THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER: OR, THE LIFE OF JACK 
 
 WILTON. (1594) 121 
 
 Thomas Nashe 
 
 THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. (1678-1684)1 128 
 
 John Bunyan 
 
 OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE. (1688) 160 ^ 
 
 Mrs. Aphra Behn 
 
 THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND PIRACIES OF THE FAMOUS 
 
 CAPTAIN SINGLETON. (1720) 172 ^ 
 
 Daniel Def^oe 
 
 CLARISSA: OR, THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY. (1747-1748)2 239 
 Samuel Richardson 
 
 THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING. (1749) .... 303 l^ 
 Henry Fielding 
 
 THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, GENT. 
 
 (1759-1767)3 396 
 
 Laurence Sterne 
 
 THE EXPEDITION OF HUMPHRY CLINKER. (1771) 418 
 
 Tobias George Smollett ■^~~. 
 
 1 Part I, 1678 ; II, 1684. 2 Y\x%t four volumes, 1747 ; last four, 1748. 
 
 3 Published in nine volumes between 1759 and 1767. 
 
 V 
 
VI CONTENTS 
 
 EVELINA: OR, THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY'S ENTRANCE 
 
 INTO THE WORLD. (1778) 443 
 
 Fanny Burney 
 THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO : A GOTHIC STORY. (1764) ... 483 
 
 _;p?HORACE WaLPOLE 
 
 THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO. (1794) 578 
 
 -^ Mrs. Ann Radcliffe 
 
 THE MAN OF FEELING. (1771) 656 
 
 Henry Mackenzie 
 
 THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON. (Vol. I, 1783; 
 
 11,1787; 111,1789) 679 
 
 Thomas Day 
 
 NATURE AND ART. (1796) 706 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth Inchuald 
 
 THINGS AS THEY ARE : OR, THE ADVENTURES OF CALEB 
 
 WILLIAMS. (1794) 737 
 
 William Godwin 
 INDEX 787 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The MedicBval Period: Arthurian Romance. — Out of the great 
 diversity of fiction current in England before the sixteenth cen- 
 tury, romance, particularly Arthurian romance, appears as the 
 dominant type and the one which has exerted on succeeding 
 periods the most persistent influence. In relation to the novel 
 the mediaeval Arthurian romance stands probably closer than 
 any other species of fiction of that day, embodying as it does a 
 reflection of the courtly life of the period, an expression of the 
 interests of love and adventure, and the portrayal of certain 
 clearly defined though conventional types of character. "Le 
 Morte Darthur" by Sir Thomas Malory (completed, 1469; 
 printed, 1485) though late in point of time, is thoroughly medi- 
 aeval in spirit and marks the culmination in the development 
 of mediaeval Arthurian romance. Based mainly on the French 
 cyclic romances of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, 
 works which are in themselves all inclusive, it is really an epit- 
 ome of Arthurian adventure. For this reason, together with 
 the fact that it offers no difficulties of language such as would 
 attend the study of earlier English romances, the ''Morte Dar- 
 thur" has been chosen as the most suitable representative of 
 mediaeval fiction. 
 
 The Elizabethan Period. — In Elizabethan fiction may be 
 traced three strains, all showing the indebtedness of the English 
 Renaissance to Romance literatures: (i) The strain of the 
 Italian novelle, collections of realistic stories of everyday life, 
 may be traced in Lyly's "Euphues," together with the influ- 
 ence of certain manuals of courtesy and of courtly conduct such 
 as Castiglione's "II Cortegiano." (2) The strain of the pastoral 
 romance developed from Theocritus and Virgil by Boccaccio, 
 Sannazaro, and Ariosto in Italy and by Montemayor in Spain, 
 is found in England with the tradition of Arthurian romances of 
 chivalry; of this union Sidney's "Arcadia" is a notable fruit. 
 
viii INTRODUCTION 
 
 (3) The strain of the picaresque or rogue story of Spanish origin, 
 exempUfied in Spain by Mendoza's "Lazarillo de Tormes," 
 was developed in England through Nashe's "The Unfortunate 
 Traveller," one of the first of a long line of picaresque novels. 
 
 "Euphues. The Anatomy of Wit" by John Lyly (1579) was 
 a highly popular work, written probably for Elizabethan ladies. 
 It combines to some extent the realistic method of the novelle 
 and the purpose of the Renaissance courtesy book, attempting 
 to set forth the manners and ideals proper to noble persons of 
 the time. The selections illustrate the style, which later came 
 to be called euphuism, characterized by alliteration, antithesis, 
 word play, and the use of figurative material of a specific sort. 
 They illustrate also the measure of Lyly's skill in narration and 
 characterization, and the influence of the Renaissance upon the 
 thought and conduct of Elizabethan society. 
 
 "The Countess of Pembroke's Arcadia" by Sir Philip Sidney 
 (composed, 1580-81; publ., 1590) was written as a pastime for 
 the pleasure of his sister, the Countess, during the years of 
 Sidney's banishment from court, spent at Wilton House, the 
 charming country-seat of the Earl of Pembroke. Thus in 
 raison d^etre the story thoroughly supplies the motive and aim 
 of the romantic novel : an escape from the responsibilities of 
 actual Ufe into the world of the ideal. The book illustrates 
 admirably the Renaissance delight in sensuous beauty, an ele- 
 ment which is given wide scope for expression through the 
 pastoral setting. The passages chosen suggest the complexity 
 of plot, and show the beauty of Sidney's language in the descrip- 
 tion of Arcadian scenes, his humor, and his method of char- 
 acterization. 
 
 "The Unfortunate Traveller" by Thomas Nashe (1594) 
 is a prominent example of the romance of roguery, a type of story 
 comprising tricks, jokes, and adventures of a dubious sort by 
 which an unregenerate hero glorifies himself. The rogue story 
 comprises one phase of the reaction against romance which devel- 
 oped first in Spain in such work as "Lazarillo de Tormes," next 
 in England in Nashe's novel, and finally matured in France in 
 " Gil Bias." 
 
 The Seventeenth Century, a period of political disturbance in 
 
INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 England, contributed little directly to the development of the 
 novel. In the field of fiction it was a period of translation and 
 imitation, particularly of the Franch fabliaux and of the French 
 heroic romances in prose. But in spite of the general dearth of 
 original production there appeared during this time two impor- 
 tant and unique works. 
 
 "The Pilgrim's Progress" by John Bunyan (1678-84) is a 
 spiritual allegory conspicuous for its realism. As an allegory 
 it is true to life both in its abstract and its concrete aspects and 
 in the relation between the two. As a piece of narrative prose 
 it marks a great advance in the reaHstic use of specific detail, 
 and in simpHcity and directness of method and style. 
 
 "Oroonoko" by Mrs. Aphra Behn (1688) is sometimes spoken 
 of as the first humanitarian novel in English. It is noteworthy 
 not only as an early manifestation of the humanitarian interest, 
 but also as an attempt to give accurate local color. Until very 
 recently, "Oroonoko" has been held of particular significance 
 in the development of realistic fiction. Though it has been con- 
 ceded that the first part of the story is pure romance, the latter 
 part in which the scene is laid in the South American colony 
 of Surinam has been accepted as reaHstic portrayal, the result 
 of the author's personal experience amid the scenes described. 
 All writers on the novel, so far as we know, have entertained 
 this view, until the appearance in 1913 of a study by Mr. Ernest 
 Bernbaum ^ which is subversive of all former theories. Mr. 
 Bernbaum points out convincingly that Mrs. Behn's account is 
 compounded of pertain serious misstatements and of other de- 
 tails Scientifically accurate, but not at all necessitating first-hand 
 observation. Most of the facts of natural history with which 
 she deals are to be found in comparable form in a pamphlet, 
 now rare, entitled "An Impartial Description of Surinam,"^ pub- 
 lished in 1667. The comparisons which Mr. Bernbaum presents 
 between Mrs. Behn and her source offer interesting studies in 
 narrative technique. His final comment places her technically 
 in a significant position with relation to her successors. 
 
 ' "Anniversary Papers by the Colleagues and Pupils of George Lyman Kittredge," 
 Mrs. Behn's "Oroonoko," Ginn and Company, 1913, pp. 419 flE. 
 ^ George Warren, London, 1667. 
 
X INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Eighteenth Century is conspicuous for three groups of 
 writers : The trio of major novehsts marking the highest reach 
 of the novel before the nineteenth century — Defoe, Richardson, 
 and Fielding ; the group who stand only a Httle below them, yet 
 showing unmistakable signs of decadence — Smollett, Sterne, 
 and Goldsmith ^ ; and finally, a large number of minor writers 
 who exhibit the disintegration of the novel form under the stress 
 of thought and feeling rising out of the spiritual ferment of the 
 revolutionary era. In this last group come the Novel of Man- 
 ners, represented by Miss Burney and Miss Edgeworth ^ ; 
 the Gothic Novel, represented by Horace Walpole and Mrs. Rad- 
 cliffe ; the Novel of Feeling, represented by Mackenzie ; and the 
 Novel of Purpose, with an emphasis upon education as seen in 
 the work of Mrs. Inchbald and Thomas Day, and upon social 
 problems as exemplified in WiUiam Godwin. 
 
 "The Life, Adventures, and Piracies of the Famous Captain 
 Singleton"^ by Daniel Defoe (1720) is, as the title imphes, a 
 story of reahstic adventure of the picaresque type. The selec- 
 tions illustrate Defoe's method of direct narration, his skill in 
 characterizing his central figures, and his remarkable power of 
 creating verisimilitude by the use of concrete, circumstantial 
 detail. 
 
 "Clarissa Harlowe" by Samuel Richardson (1747-48) is 
 both a novel of manners and a novel of purpose. Though devel- 
 oped through a realistic medium the natural progress of the story 
 is continually obstructed and the coloring heightened by a deHb- 
 erate moral purpose permeating the whole, and culminating in 
 numerous supererogatory letters after the close of the story, 
 proper. The epistolary form adopted by Richardson probably 
 grew out of such series of fictitious letters, in vogue during the 
 seventeeth and early eighteenth centuries, as "Two Hundred 
 and Eleven Sociable Letters" (1664) by Margaret Duchess of 
 
 * Selections from "The Vicar of Wakefield" were omitted, because the book is well known 
 and is easily obtainable in cheap editions. 
 
 2 Miss Edgeworth was omitted because her work belongs to the nineteenth century. 
 
 ^ "Captain Singleton" rather than "Robinson Crusoe" was chosen because it is a better 
 example of the picaresque novel than is the latter, and it is the picaresque novel that the 
 editors particularly wish to illustrate here. Moreover, "Captain Singleton" leads the 
 student to a serious study of Defoe's technique from unhackneyed material and from a 
 story more typical of the author's style than is "Robinson Crusoe." 
 
INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 Newcastle, and "The Letters, of a Portuguese Nun" (1678). 
 The method gives certain technical advantages : a varied point 
 of view, emotional vividness, and opportunity for minute self- 
 revelation. The selections chosen exhibit Richardson's attitude 
 toward his heroine as the chief vehicle for his moral purpose, 
 his sentimentality, his dramatic power in the handhng of inci- 
 dent, and his realistic use of specific detail in scene, character- 
 ization, and action. 
 
 "The History of Tom Jones" by Henry Fielding (1749) is a 
 novel of manners with a well-defined strain of adventure. The 
 author's critical attitude toward himself, his work, and the public 
 is attested by numerous chapters in serio-humorous vein scat- 
 tered throughout the book, which, taken together, form a compe- 
 tent body of literary criticism. The selections from "Tom 
 Jones," including some of these chapters, aim to present the hero's 
 career father fully up to the moment of his departure from Mr. 
 Allworthy's. Further than this it seemed unwise to" venture, 
 because of the difficulties offered by the increasing complication 
 of plot. This portion of the story well illustrates Fielding's 
 humor and irony, his skill in describing character in action, 
 and his power of vivid reconstruction of middle-class country 
 life in the eighteenth century. 
 
 "The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gent." by Rev. 
 Laurence Sterne (1759-67) marks the period of decadence by 
 the breaking down of the novel form and the preponderance of 
 sentiment. The book is famous, not only for the unique quali- 
 ties of its wit and style, but also for the creation of a few great 
 characters, foremost among whom stands "My Uncle Toby," 
 happily presented in these selections. 
 
 "Humphry CHnker" by Tobias George Smollett (1771) is a 
 story of love, adventure, and mystery told in epistolary form. 
 It reflects the period of decadence in the breaking down of plot, 
 in the descent from character to caricature, and in the display of 
 farcical humor. The selections give various phases of Smollett's 
 humor, the beginning of the serious love interest, and the intro- 
 duction of the titular hero. 
 
 "Evelina" by Fanny Burney (Madame d'Arblay) (1778), 
 another example of the epistolary method, is an excellent repre- 
 
xii INTRODUCTION 
 
 sentative of the novel of manners of the type perfected by Jane 
 Austen. In technique it is decidedly superior to many of its 
 contemporaries in the noveUstic field. The excerpts get the 
 story under way, and depict two of the heroine's poignant experi- 
 ences in London, heightened by a faithfully realistic portrayal of 
 urban background. 
 
 "The Castle of Otranto" by Horace Walpole (1764). Among 
 the better types of fiction in this period of decHne the Gothic 
 novel holds a prominent place. This species of novel illustrates 
 that important activity of the Romantic Movement which 
 sought to reconstruct the mediaeval past, expressing itself among 
 other ways, in the erection of sham castles, and in the imposi- 
 tion upon the public of sham ballads and sham epics. The 
 motive of the novel, however, was ethically upon a higher plane 
 than that of these other literary forms. " The Castle of Otranto," 
 important as the first pure specimen of the type, and exhibiting, 
 unrelieved, all the unique machinery of the Gothic genre is here 
 given in its entirety. Additional value now attaches to the book 
 because it is out of print, and therefore very difficult of access. 
 All these facts, together with the comparative brevity of the 
 story, have urged its appearing here in complete form. 
 
 "The Mysteries of Udolpho" by Mrs. Ann RadcHffe (1794) 
 marks the highest development attained by the Gothic novel in 
 the eighteenth century. It reveals, too, another important phase 
 of the Romantic Movement, the interest in external nature. 
 Here, the austere mechanism of " Otranto " becomes even more 
 effective through the addition of descriptions of the wild and the 
 melancholy aspects of nature carefully worked into harmony 
 with the general theme. The selections exhibit these particular 
 characteristics. 
 
 "The Man of Feeling" by Henry Mackenzie (1771), said to 
 be the most sentimental of all English novels, marks the ex- 
 treme of the novel of feeling. It reflects, moreover, the various 
 humanitarian interests and the revolutionary ideals of the 
 period. The selections here illustrate the formlessness, the char- 
 acteristic philosophy, and the sentimentality of this exaggerated 
 example of the decadent novel. 
 
 "The History of Sandford and Merton" by Thomas Day 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 (1783-89) is ostentatiously a novel with a purpose. The book 
 represents still another phase of the Romantic Movement : 
 the humanitarian interest, given special impetus by Rousseau 
 and manifested in new ideas concerning the education of chil- 
 dren, and in sympathy toward the lower classes, the lower ani- 
 mals, and inanimate nature — a tendency often weakening into 
 sentimentalism. "Sandford and Merton," following loosely 
 the dictates of "Emile," attempts to show the superiority of the 
 natural method of education over that pursued in the artificial 
 society of the time. In this respect the book forms a good com- 
 panion piece to "Nature and Art." The excerpts deal with 
 incidents showing in an extreme way the results of these oppo- 
 site methods upon the respective heroes of the book, Harry Sand- 
 ford and Tommy Merton, and include a little tale offered to these 
 young gentlemen for their moral delectation. 
 
 "Nature and Art" by Mrs. Elizabeth Inchbald (1796), Hke 
 "Sandford and Merton," is a novel of purpose representing the 
 educational aspect of the era of feeling. The two may well be 
 compared as to situation, character, and purpose. Both attempt 
 to expose the insincerity and greed of the artificial society of the 
 day as contrasted with the virtues of the natura man, in this 
 case a child unspoiled by conventional training. 
 
 "Caleb Wilhams" by Wilham Godwin (1794) illustrates the 
 political theories current in England during the period of the 
 French Revolution. The feehng which in these other novels of 
 purpose expressed itself in an interest in humanitarian move- 
 ments and in naturalness and sincerity in education, here mani- 
 fests itself in an attack on the various forms of injustice to which 
 society is prone, including the injustice of man to man. It is 
 particularly the latter point that is illustrated in these selections. 
 
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 I. GENERAL REFERENCE WORKS 
 
 British Museum Catalogue of Printed Books. London, 1882-1889; supplement, 
 
 1900-1905. 
 Cambridge History of English Literature, edited by A. W. Ward and A. R. Waller, 
 
 1907-1914 (unfinished) ; see especially Vols. Ill, VII, IX, X, XI. 
 Dictionary of National Biography, edited by L. Stephen and S. Lee. London, 
 
 1885-1900; supplement, 1901 ; second supplement, 1912. 
 Traill, H. D. Social England. New edition. London and New York, 1901-1904. 
 
 II. THE NOVEL, GENERAL 
 
 Besant, Sir Walter. The Art of Fiction. A lecture. New edition. London 
 and Boston, 1884. 
 
 BouRGET, Paul. " Reflexions sur I'art du roman," in fitudes et portraits. Paris, 
 1889. 
 
 Brunetiere, Ferdinand. Le roman naturaliste. Paris, 1896. 
 
 Cross, W. L. The Development of the English Novel. New York, 1906. (Bib- 
 liography.) 
 
 Dawson ^W. T. M akers of English Fiction. Chicago, 1905. 
 
 DuNLOP, J. C. A History of Prose Fiction, revised by H. Wilson. London, 1906. 
 (Bibliography.) 
 
 James, Henry. Essay in rejoinder on " The Art of Fiction," in Partial Portraits. 
 London and New York, 1S88. 
 Notes on Novelists with Some Other Notes. New York, 1914. 
 
 Jusserand, J. J. The English Novel in the Time of Shakespeare, translated by 
 Elizabeth Lee. London, 1890. 
 
 Lanier, Sidney. The English Novel. Jvevised edition. New York, 1897. 
 
 Masson, David. British Novehsts andjhsirijtyles. Revised edition. Boston, 1859. 
 
 Matthews, Brander. Aspects of Fiction. New York, 1896. 
 The Historical Novel and Other Essays. New York, 1901. 
 
 Morgan, Charlotte E. The Rise of the Novel of Manners : a Study of Eng- 
 lish Prose Fiction between 1600 and 1740, in Columbia University Studies 
 in English. Columbia University Press, New York, 1911. (Bibliography.) 
 
 Perry, Bliss. A Study of Prose Fiction. New York, 1903. (Bibliography.) 
 
 Raleigh, Walter. The English Novel. London, 1903. 
 
 Saintsbury, George. The English Novel, in Channels of English Literature. 
 New York, 191 3. 
 
 XV 
 
xvi SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
 SiMONDS, W. E. An Introduction to the Study of English Fiction. Boston, 1894. 
 Stevenson, R. L. " A Gossip on Romance," and " A Humble Remonstrance," 
 
 in Memories and Portraits. 
 Stoddard, F. H. The Evolution of the English Novel. London, 1900. 
 TucKERMAN, Bayard. History of English Prose Fiction. New York, 1882. 
 Winchester, C. T. Some Principles of Literary Criticism. London and New 
 
 York, 1899. 
 Zola, Smile. Le roman experimental. Paris, 1902; English translation by Belle 
 
 M. Sherman, Cassell Pub. Co., New York, 1894. 
 
 III. ROMANCE, GREEK 
 
 Smith, Rev. Rowland, translator. The Greek Romances of Heliodorus, Longus, 
 
 and Achilles Tatius, translated from the Greek with notes. Bohn's Library. 
 
 London, 1901. 
 Warren, F. M. A History of the Novel previous to the Seventeenth Century. 
 
 New York, 1895. 
 Wolff, S. L. The Greek Romances in Elizabethan Prose Fiction, in Studies in 
 
 Comparative Literature. Columbia University Press, New York, 1912. 
 
 IV. ROMANCE, ARTHURIAN 
 
 Ashton, John. Romances of Chivalry. London and New York, 1886. 
 
 Catalogue of Romances in the Department of Manuscripts in the British Museum, 
 by H. L. D. Ward, assistant in the Department of Manuscripts. London, 
 Vol. I, 1883; Vol. II, 1S93; Vol. Ill, by J. A. Herbert, assistant in the De- 
 partment of Manuscripts, 1910. 
 
 Early English Text Society Publications. London, 1864 — . 
 
 Ellis, George. Specimens of Early English Metrical Romances, London, 1805; 
 revised by J. O. Halliwell, Bohn's Library, 1848. 
 
 Geoffrey of Monmouth, Historia regum Britanniae, edited by San Marte 
 (A. Schulz), Halle, 1854; translated by J. A. Giles, in Six Old English 
 Chronicles, Bohn's Library, 1896. 
 
 Mabinogion, best translation (French), by J. Loth, in Cours de la litterature 
 celtique, Paris, 1889; English translation by Lady Charlotte Guest, London, 
 
 1877- 
 Sir Thomas Malory. Le Morte Darthur, edited by H. O. Sommer. The original 
 
 edition of William Caxton now reprinted and edited with an introduction and 
 
 glossary. London, 1889-1891. 
 Marie de France. Lais, herausgeben von K. Warnke. Second edition. Halle, 
 
 1900. 
 Guingamor ; Lanval ; Tyolet ; Le Bisclaveret. Rendered into English Prose 
 
 from the French of Marie de France and others, by Jessie L. Weston. 
 
 Second impression [London], 1910. 
 Marie de France. Seven of her Lays done into English by Edith Rickerti 
 
 London, 1901. 
 
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY xvii 
 
 RiTSON, Joseph, editor. Ancient English Metrical Romances, London, 1802 ; 
 
 revised by E. Goldsmid, Edinburgh, 1884. 
 For discussion of the origins of Arthurian romance see the following : 
 
 Fletcher, R. H. Arthurian Material in the Chronicles, in Harvard Studies 
 
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 V. ELIZABETHAN FICTION 
 
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 Brunhuber, K. Sir Philip Sidney's "Arcadia " und ihre Nachlaufer. Nurnberg, 
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 Greg, W. W. Pastoral Poetry and Pastoral Drama. London, 1905. 
 
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xviii SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY 
 
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 VIL THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, 1700-1740 
 
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 VIII. THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, 1740-1800 
 
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SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY xix 
 
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 1804. 
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 The Gothic Novel 
 
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 The Novel of Manners 
 
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 Seeley, L. B. Fanny Burney and her Friends. London, 1895. 
 
 The Novel of Purpose and Sentiment 
 
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 iSgq. 
 
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY xxi 
 
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 IX. AUTHORS' PREFACES, DEDICATIONS, AND POSTSCRIPTS 
 
 Le Morte Darthur (by Malory). Caxton's Preface. 
 
 The Arcadia (by Sidney). Dedication to the Countess of Pembroke. 
 
 Clarissa Harlowe (by Richardson). Preface and Postscript. 
 
 Joseph Andrews (by Fielding). Preface. 
 
 The Castle of Otranto (by Walpole). Preface. 
 
 The Old EngHsh Baron (by Clara Reeve). Preface.^ 
 
 Sandford and Merton (by Day). Preface. 
 
 Caleb Williams (by Godwin). Preface. 
 
 On the Origins and Progress of Novel-Writing (by Laetitia Barbauld). In The 
 British Novelists ; with an Essay and Prefaces, Biographical and Critical, by 
 Mrs. Barbauld, Vol. I, pp. 1-59. A new edition. London, 1820. 
 
 1 The Cassell edition, usually cited, does not contain the preface ; it may be found in the 
 edition (now out of print) published by Nimmo and Bain, London, 1883, and in earlier editions. 
 
LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 BOOK I. CHAPTER IV 
 
 Of the Death of King Uther Pendragon 
 
 Then within two years King Uther fell sick of a great malady. 
 And in the meanwhile his enemies usurped upon him, and did 
 a great battle upon his men, and slew many of his people. Sir, 
 said Merlin, ye may not lie so as ye do, for ye must to the field 
 though ye ride on an horse-htter : for ye shall never have the 
 better of your enemies but if your person be there, and then shall 
 ye have the victory. So it was done as Merlin had devised, and 
 they carried the king forth in an horse-Htter with a great host 
 towards his enemies. And at St. Albans there met with the 
 king a great host of the North. And that day Sir Ulfius and 
 Sir Brastias did great deeds of arms, and King Uther's men over- 
 came the Northern battle and slew many people, and put the 
 remnant to flight. And then the king returned unto London, 
 and made great joy of his victory. And then he fell passing sore 
 sick, so that three days and three nights he was speechless : 
 wherefore all the barons made great sorrow, and asked Merhn 
 what counsel were best. There is none other remedy, said Mer- 
 lin, but God will have his will. But look ye, all barons, be before 
 King Uther to-morn, and God and I shall make him to speak. 
 So on the morn all the barons with Merlin came before the king ; 
 then Merlin said aloud unto King Uther, Sir, shall your son 
 Arthur be king after your days, of this realm with all the appur- 
 tenance ? Then Uther Pendragon turned him, and said in hear- 
 ing of them all, I give him God's blessing and mine, and bid him 
 pray for my soul, and righteously and worshipfully that he claim 
 
2 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 the crown upon forfeiture of my blessing; and therewith he 
 yielded up the ghost, and then was he interred as longed to a 
 king. Wherefore the queen, fair Igraine, made great sorrow, 
 and all the barons. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 How Arthur was chosen King, and of Wonders and Marvels 
 OF A Sword taken out of a Stone by the Said Arthur 
 
 Then stood the realm in great jeopardy long while, for every 
 lord that was mighty of men made him strong, and many weened 
 to have been king. Then Merlin went to the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury, and counselled him for to send for all the lorSs of 
 the realm, and all the gentlemen of arms, that they should to 
 London come by Christmas, upon pain of cursing ; and for this 
 cause, that Jesus, that was born on that night, that he would of 
 his great mercy show some miracle, as he was come to be king of 
 mankind, for to show some miracle who should be rightways 
 king of this realm. So the Archbishop, by the advice of Merlin, 
 sent for all the lords and gentlemen of arms that they should 
 come by Christmas even unto London. And many of them made 
 them clean of their life, that their prayer might be the more 
 acceptable unto God. So in the greatest church of London, 
 whether it were Paul's or not the French book maketh no men- 
 tion, all the estates were long or day in the church for to pray. 
 And when matins and the first mass was done, there was seen 
 in the churchyard, against the high altar, a great stone four 
 square, like unto a marble stone, and in midst thereof was like 
 an anvil of steel a foot on high, and therein stuck a fair sword 
 naked by the point, and letters there were written in gold about 
 the sword that said thus : — Whoso pulleth out this sword of 
 this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all England. Then 
 the people marvelled, and told it to the Archbishop. I command, 
 said the Archbishop, that ye keep you within your church, 
 and pray unto God still ; that no man touch the sword till the 
 high mass be all done. So when all masses were done all the 
 lords went to behold the stone and the sword. And when they 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 3 
 
 saw the scripture, some assayed ; such as would have been king. 
 But none might stir the sword nor move it. He is not here, said 
 the Archbishop, that shall achieve the sword, but doubt not God 
 will make him known. But this is my counsel, said the Arch- 
 bishop, that we let purvey ten knights, men of good fame, and 
 they to keep this sword. So it was ordained, and then there was 
 made a cry, that every man should essay that would, for to win 
 the sword. And upon New Year's Day the barons let make a 
 jousts and a tournament, that all knights that would joust or 
 tourney there might play, and all this was ordained for to keep 
 the lords and the commons together, for the Archbishop trusted 
 that God would make him known that should win the sword. 
 So upon New Year's Day, when the service was done, the barons 
 rode unto the field, some to joust and some to tourney, and so it 
 happened that Sir Ector, that had great liveHhood about London, 
 rode unto the jousts, and with him rode Sir Kay his son, and young 
 Arthur ^ that was his nourished brother ; and Sir Kay was made 
 knight at All Hallowmass afore. So as they rode to the jousts- 
 ward. Sir Kay had lost his sword, for he had left it at his father's 
 lodging, and so he prayed young Arthur for to ride for his sword. 
 I will well, said Arthur, and rode fast after the sword, and when 
 he came home, the lady and all were out to see the jousting. 
 Then was Arthur wroth, and said to himself, I will ride to the 
 churchyard, and take the sword with me that sticketh in the 
 stone, for my brother Sir Kay shall not be without a sword this 
 day. So when he came to the churchyard. Sir Arthur aHt and 
 tied his horse to the stile, and so he went to the tent, and found 
 no knights there, for they were at jousting ; and so he handled 
 the sword by the handles, and lightly and fiercely pulled it out of 
 the stone, and took his horse and rode his way until he came to 
 his brother Sir Kay, and dehvered him the sword. And as soon 
 as Sir Kay saw the sword, he wist well it was the sword of the 
 stone, and so he rode to his father Sir Ector, and said : Sir, lo 
 here is the sword of the stone, wherefore I must be king of this 
 land. When Sir Ector beheld the sword, he returned again 
 and came to the church, and there they alit all three, and went 
 
 ^ Arthur, after his birth, was taken by Merlin to Sir Ector to be reared as the 
 knight's foster son. 
 
4 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 into the church. And anon he made Sir Kay to swear upon a 
 book how he came to that sword. Sir, said Sir Kay, by my 
 brother Arthur, for he brought it to me. How gat ye this sword ? 
 said Sir Ector to Arthur. Sir, I will tell you. When I came 
 home for my brother's sword, I found nobody at home to deliver 
 me his sword, and so I thought my brother Sir Kay should not 
 be swordless, and so I came hither eagerly and pulled it out of 
 the stone without any pain. Found ye any knights about this 
 sword ? said Sir Ector. Nay, said Arthur. Now, said Sir Ector 
 to Arthur, I understand ye must be king of this land. Where- 
 fore I, said Arthur, and for what cause? Sir, said Ector, for 
 God will have it so, for there should never man have drawn out 
 this sword, but he that shall be rightways king of this land. Now 
 let me see whether ye can put the sword there as it was, and pull 
 it out again. That is no mastery, said Arthur, and so he put it 
 in the stone, therewithal Sir Ector essayed to pull out the sword 
 and failed. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 How King Arthur pulled out the Sword Divers Times 
 
 Now assay, said Sir Ector unto Sir Kay. And anon he pulled 
 at the sword with all his might, but it would not be. Now shall 
 ye essay, said Sir Ector to Arthur. I will well, said Arthur, and 
 pulled it out easily. And therewithal Sir Ector knelt down to 
 the earth, and Sir Kay. Alas, said Arthur, my own dear father 
 and brother, why kneel ye to me ? Nay, nay, my lord Arthur, 
 it is not so, I was never your father nor of your blood, but I wot 
 well ye are of an higher blood than I weened ye were. And then 
 Sir Ector told him all, how he was bitaken him for to nourish 
 him, and by whose commandment, and by Merlin's dehverance. 
 Then Arthur made great doole when he understood that Sir 
 Ector was not his father. Sir, said Ector unto Arthur, will 
 ye be my good and gracious lord when ye are king ? Else were 
 I to blame, said Arthur, for ye are the man in the world that I 
 am most beholden to, and my good lady and mother your wife, 
 that as well as her own hath fostered me and kept. And if ever 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 5 
 
 it be God's will that I be king as ye say, ye shall desire of me what 
 I may do, and I shall not fail you, God forbid I should fail you. 
 Sir, said Sir Ector, I will ask no more of you, but that ye will 
 make my son, your foster brother, Sir Kay, seneschal of all your 
 lands. That shall be done, said Arthur, and more, by the faith 
 of my body, that never man shall have that office but he, while 
 he and I Hve. Therewithal they went unto the Archbishop, 
 and told him how the sword was achieved, and by whom ; and 
 on Twelfth-day all the barons came thither, and to essay to take 
 the sword, who that would essay. But there afore them all 
 there might none take it out but Arthur ; wherefore there were 
 many lords wroth, and said it was great shame unto them all, 
 and the realm, to be over-governed with a boy of no high blood 
 born, and so they fell out at that time that it was put off till 
 Candlemas, and then all the barons should meet there again ; but 
 always the ten knights were ordained to watch the sword day 
 and night, and so they set a pavilion over the stone and the sword, 
 and five always watched. So at Candlemas many more great 
 lords came thither for to have won the sword, but there might 
 none prevail. And right as Arthur did at Christmas, he did at 
 Candlemas, and pulled out the sword easily, whereof the barons 
 were sore agrieved and put it off in delay till the high feast of 
 Easter. And as Arthur sped before, so did he at Easter, yet 
 there were some of the great lords had indignation that Arthur 
 should be king, and put it off in a delay till the feast of Pentecost. 
 Then the Archbishop of Canterbury by Merlyn's providence let 
 purvey then of the best knights that they might get, and such 
 knights as Uther Pendragon loved best and most trusted in his 
 days. And such knights were put about Arthur as Sir Baudwin 
 of Britain, Sir Kay, Sir Ulfius, Sir Brastias. All these with 
 many other, were always about Arthur, day and night, till the 
 feast of Pentecost. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 How King Arthur was crowned, and how he made Officers 
 
 And at the feast of Pentecost all manner of men essayed to 
 pull at the sword that would essay, but none might prevail but 
 
6 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 Arthur, and pulled it out afore all the lords and commons that 
 were there, wherefore all the commons cried at once. We will 
 have Arthur unto our king, we will put him no more in delay, 
 for we all see that it is God's will that he shall be our king, and 
 who that holdeth against it, we will slay him. And therewith 
 they all kneeled at once, both rich and poor, and cried Arthur 
 mercy because they had delayed him so long, and Arthur forgave 
 them, and took the sword between both his hands, and offered 
 it upon the altar where the Archbishop was, and so was he made 
 knight of the best man that was there. And so anon was the 
 coronation made. And there was he sworn unto his lords 
 and the commons for to be a true king, to stand with true jus- 
 tice from thenceforth the days of this life. Also then he made 
 all lords that held of the crown to come in, and to do service as 
 they ought to do. And many complaints were made unto Sir 
 Arthur of great wrongs that were done since the death of King 
 Uther, of many lands that were bereaved lords, knights, ladies, 
 and gentlemen. Wherefore King Arthur made the lands to be 
 given again unto them that owned them. When this was done, 
 that the king had stabHshed all the countries about London, 
 then he let make Sir Kay seneschal of England ; and Sir Baudwin 
 of Britain was made constable ; and Sir Ulfius was made chamber- 
 lain ; and Sir Brastias was made warden to wait upon the north 
 from Trent forwards, for it was that time the most part the 
 king's enemies. But within few years after, Arthur won all the 
 north, Scotland, and all that were under their obeissance. Also 
 Wales, a part of it held against Arthur, but he overcame them 
 all, as he did the remnant, through the noble prowess of himself 
 and his knights of the Round Table. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 How Arthur by the Mean of Merlin gat Excalibur his Sword 
 OF THE Lady of the Lake 
 
 Right so the king and he^ departed, and went unto an hermit 
 that was a good man and a great leech. So the hermit searched 
 
 1 Merlin. 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 7 
 
 all his wounds and gave him good salves ; so the king was there 
 three days, and then were his wounds well amended that he 
 might ride and go, and so departed. And as they rode, Arthur 
 said, I have no sword. ^ No force, said Merlin, hereby is a sword 
 that shall be yours, an I may. So they rode till they came to a 
 lake, the which was a fair water and broad, and in the midst of 
 the lake Arthur was ware of an arm clothed in white samite, that 
 held a fair sword in that hand. Lo ! said Merlin, yonder is that 
 sword that I spake of. With that they saw a damosel going 
 upon the lake. What damosel is that? said Arthur. That is 
 the Lady of the Lake, said MerHn ; and within that lake is a 
 rock, and therein is as fair a place as any on earth, and richly 
 beseen ; and this damosel will come to you anon, and then speak 
 ye fair to her that she will give you that sword. Anon withal 
 came the damosel unto Arthur, and saluted him, and he her 
 again. Damosel, said Arthur, what sword is that, that yonder the 
 arm holdeth above the water ? I would it were mine, for I have 
 no sword. Sir Arthur, king, said the damosel, that sword is 
 mine, and if ye will give me a gift when I ask it you, ye shall 
 have it. By my faith, said Arthur, I will give you what gift 
 ye will ask. Well ! said the damosel, go ye into yonder barge, 
 and row yourself to the sword, and take it and the scabbard with 
 you, and I will ask my gift when I see my time. So Sir Arthur 
 and MerHn alit and tied their horses to two trees, and so they 
 went into the ship, and when they came to the sword that the 
 hand held, Sir Arthur took it up by the handles, and took it with 
 him, and the arm and the hand went under the water. And so 
 they came unto the land and rode forth. 
 
 BOOK III. CHAPTER I 
 
 How King Arthur took a Wife, and wedded Guenever, 
 Daughter to Leodegrance, King of the Land of Cameliard, 
 
 WITH WHOM he had THE ROUND TaBLE 
 
 In the beginning of Arthur, after he was chosen king by ad- 
 venture and by grace,; for the most part of the barons knew not 
 
 ^ Arthur had broken his sword in an encounter with King Pellinore. 
 
8 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 that he was Uther Pendragon's son, but as Merlin made it openly 
 known. But yet many kings and lords held great war against 
 him for that cause, but well Arthur overcame them all, for the 
 most part the days of his life he was ruled much by the counsel 
 of MerUn. So it fell on a time King Arthur said unto Merlin, 
 My barons will let me have no rest, but needs I must take a wife, 
 and I will none take but by thy counsel and by thine advice. It 
 is well done, said Merhn, that ye take a wife, for a man of your 
 bounty and noblesse should not be without a wife. Now is 
 there any that ye love more than another? Yea, said King 
 Arthur, I love Guenever the king's daughter, Leodegrance of the 
 land of Cameliard, the which holdeth in his house the Table 
 Round that ye told he had of my father Uther. And this damo- 
 sel is the most valiant and fairest lady that I know living, or 
 yet that ever I could find. Sir, said Merlin, as of her beauty and 
 fairness she is one of the fairest on live, but, an ye loved her 
 not so well as ye do, I should find you a damosel of beauty and 
 of goodness that should like you and please you, an your heart 
 were not set ; but there as a man's heart is set, he will be loth to 
 return. That is truth, said King Arthur. But Merlin warned 
 the king covertly that Guenever was not wholesome for him to 
 take to wife, for he warned him that Launcelot should love her, 
 and she him again ; and so he turned his tale to the adventures 
 of Sangreal. Then Merhn desired of the king for to have men 
 with him that should enquire of Guenever, and so the king 
 granted him, and Merlin went forth unto King Leodegrance of 
 Cameliard, and told him of the desire of the king that he would 
 have unto his wife Guenever his daughter. That is to me, said 
 King Leodegrance, the best tidings that ever I heard, that so 
 worthy a king of prowess and noblesse will wed my daughter. 
 And as for my lands, I will give him, wist I it might please him, 
 but he hath lands enow, him needeth none, but I shall send him 
 a gift shall please him much more, for I shall give him the Table 
 Round, the which Uther Pendragon gave me, and when it is 
 full complete, there is an hundred knights and fifty. And as 
 for an hundred good knights I have myself, but I fawte fifty, for 
 so many have been slain in my days. And so Leodegrance de- 
 livered his daughter Guenever unto Merlin, and the Table Round 
 
LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 9 
 
 with the hundred knights, and so they rode freshly, with great 
 royalty, what by water and what by land, till that they came 
 nigh unto London. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 How THE Knights of the Round Table were ordained and 
 THEIR Sieges blessed by the Bishop of Canterbury 
 
 When King Arthur heard of the coming of Guenever and the 
 I hundred knights with the Table Round, then King Arthur 
 made great joy for her coming, and that rich present, and said 
 openly. This fair lady is passing welcome unto me, for I have 
 loved her long, and therefore there is nothing so lief to me. And 
 these knights with the Round Tableplease me more than right 
 j great riches. And in all haste the king let ordain for the mar- 
 . riage and the coronation in the most honourable wise that could 
 'be devised. Now, Merhn, said King Arthur, go thou and espy 
 I me in all this land fifty knights which be of most prowess and 
 (Worship. Within short time Merhn had found such knights 
 'that should fulfil twenty and eight knights, but no more he could 
 (find. Then the Bishop of Canterbury was fetched, and he 
 blessed the sieges with great royalty and devotion, and there 
 set the eight and twenty knights in their sieges. And when 
 jthis was done Merhn said. Fair sirs, you must all arise and 
 jcome to King Arthur for to do him homage ; he will have the 
 'better will to maintain you. And so they arose and did their 
 ihomage, and when they were gone Merhn found in every sieges 
 [letters of gold that told the knights' names that had sitten 
 therein. But two sieges were void. And so anon came young 
 IGawaine and asked the king a gift. Ask, said the king, and I 
 j shall grant it you. Sir, I ask that ye will make me knight that 
 I same day ye shall wed fair Guenever. I will do it with a good 
 iwill, said King Arthur, and do unto you all the worship that I 
 may, for I must by reason ye are my nephew, my sister's son. 
 
lo SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 BOOK XIII. CHAPTER VII 
 
 How * * * All the Knights were replenished with the 
 Holy Sangreal, and how they avowed the Enquest of 
 
 the Same 
 
 * * * 1 j^^^ ^j^gjj i-jjg y j^g ^j^fj^ g^ii estates went home unto Came- 
 lot, and so went to even song to the great minster, and so after 
 upon that to supper, and every knight sat in his own place as they 
 were toforehand. Then anon they heard cracking and crying 
 of thunder, that them thought the place should all to drive. 
 In the midst of this blast entered a sunbeam more clearer by 
 seven times than ever they saw day, and all they were aUghted 
 of the grace of the Holy Ghost. Then began every knight to 
 behold other, and either saw other, by their seeming, fairer than 
 ever they saw afore. Not for then there was no knight might 
 speak one word a great while, and so they looked every man on 
 other as they had been dumb. Then there entered into the hall 
 the Holy Greal covered with white samite, but there was none 
 might see it, nor who bare it. And there was all the hall fulfilled 
 with good odours, and every knight had such meats and drinks 
 as he best loved in this world. And when the Holy Greal had 
 been borne through the hall, then the Holy Vessel departed sud- 
 denly, that they wist not where it became : then had they all 
 breath to speak. And then the king yielded thankings to God, 
 of His good grace that he had sent them. Certes, said the king, 
 we ought to thank our Lord Jesu greatly for that he hath 
 shewed us this day, at the reverence of this high feast of Pente- 
 cost. Now, said Sir Gawaine, we have been served this day of 
 what meats and drinks we thought on ; but one thing beguiled 
 us, we might not see the holy Grail, it was so preciously covered. 
 
 ' Omissions are indicated by asterisks only where the continuity of the narrative seems 
 to require it. Where the story runs smootUy in spite of an omission, the break is not 
 generally indicated. It seemed best to follow this practice because omissions in some of the 
 selections, especially those from the" Arcadia" and "Clarissa" are very numerous, consisting 
 often in the cutting out of only a word or phrase. It was felt, therefore, that the use of the 
 asterisk in sometimes as many as five or six places in one page would prove unnecessarily 
 disconcerting to the student. Since the chapter headings have in all cases where they 
 appear in the full text, been retained, and since reliable editions have been listed in the 
 bibliography, the student, if he so desires, can without much trouble ascertain for himself 
 what portions of the texts have been omitted. 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR ii 
 
 Wherefore I will make here avow, that to-morn, without longer 
 abiding, I shall labour in the quest of the Sangreal, that I shall 
 hold me out a twelvemonth and a day, or more if need be, and 
 never shall I return again unto the court till I have seen it more 
 openly than it hath been seen here ; and if I may not speed I 
 shall return again as he that may not be against the will of our 
 Lord Jesu Christ. When they of the Table Round heard Sir 
 Gawaine say so, they arose up the most part and made such avows 
 as Sir Gawaine had made. Anon as King Arthur heard this he 
 was greatly displeased, for he wist well they might not again 
 say their avows. Alas, said King Arthur unto Sir Gawaine, ye 
 have nigh slain me with the avow and promise that ye have 
 made ; for through you ye have bereft me the fairest fellowship 
 and the truest of knighthood that ever were seen together in 
 any realm of the world ; for when they depart from hence I am 
 sure they all shall never meet more 'in this world, for they shall 
 die many in the quest. And so it forthinketh me a Httle, for I 
 have loved them as well as my Hfe, wherefore it shall grieve me 
 right sore, the departition of this fellowship: for I have had an 
 old custom to have them in my fellowship. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 How Great Sorrow was made of the King and the Queen and 
 
 Ladies for the Departing of the Knights, and how 
 
 THEY Departed 
 
 And therewith the tears filled in his eyes. And then he said : 
 Gawaine, Gawaine, ye have set me in great sorrow, for I have 
 great doubt that my true fellowship shall never meet here more 
 again. Ah, said Sir Launcelot, comfort yourself ; for it shall be 
 unto us a great honour and much more than if we died in any 
 other places, for of death we be siccar. Ah, Launcelot, said the 
 king, the great love that I have had unto you all the days of my 
 Hfe maketh me to say such doleful words ; for never Christian 
 king had never so many worthy men at his table as I have had 
 this day at the Round Table, and that is my great sorrow. When 
 
12 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 the queen, ladies, and gentlewomen, wist these tidings, they 
 had such sorrow and heaviness that there might no tongue tell 
 it, for those knights had held them in honour and charity. 
 But among all other Queen Guenever made great sorrow. I 
 marvel, said she, my lord would suffer them to depart from him. 
 Thus was all the court troubled for the love of the departition 
 of those knights. And many of those ladies that loved knights 
 would have gone with their lovers ; and so had they done, had 
 not an old knight come among them in religious clothing ; and 
 then he spake all on high and said : Fair lords, which have sworn 
 in the quest of the Sangreal, thus sendeth you Nacien, the hermit, 
 word, that none in this quest lead lady nor gentlewoman with 
 him, for it is not to do in so high a service as they labour in ; 
 for I warn you plain, he that is not clean of his sins he shall not 
 see the mysteries of our Lord Jesu Christ. And for this cause 
 they left these ladies and gentlewomen. After this the queen 
 came unto Galahad and asked him of whence he was, and of 
 what country. He told her of whence he was. And son unto 
 Launcelot, she said he was. As to that, he said neither yea or 
 nay. So God me help, said the queen, of your father ye need 
 not to shame you, for he is the goodliest knight, and of the best 
 men of the world come, and of the strain, of all parties, of kings. 
 Wherefore ye ought of right to be, of your deeds, a passing good 
 man ; and certainly, she said, ye resemble him much. Then Sir 
 Galahad was a Uttle ashamed and said : Madam, sith ye know 
 in certain, wherefore do ye ask it me ? for he that is my father 
 shall be known openly and all betimes. And then they went 
 to rest them. And in the honour of the highness of Galahad he 
 was led into King Arthur's chamber, and there rested in his own 
 bed. And as soon as it was day the king arose, for he had no 
 rest of all that night for sorrow. Then he went unto Gawaine 
 and to Sir Launcelot that were arisen for to hear mass. And then 
 the king again said : Ah, Gawaine, Gawaine, ye have betrayed 
 me ; for never shall my court be amended by you, but ye will 
 never be sorry for me as I am for you. And therewith the tears 
 began to run down by his visage. And therewith the king said : 
 Ah, knight Sir Launcelot, I require thee thou counsel me, for 
 I would that this quest were undone an it might be. Sir, said 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 13 
 
 Sir Launcelot, ye saw yesterday so many worthy knights that 
 then were sworn that they may not leave it in no manner of 
 wise. That wot I well, said the king, but it shall so heavy me 
 at their departing that I wot well there shall no manner of joy 
 remedy me. And then the king and the queen went unto the 
 minster. So anon Launcelot and Gawaine commanded their 
 men to bring their arms. And when they all were armed save 
 their shields and their helms, then they came to their fellowship, 
 which were all ready in the same wise, for to go to the minster 
 to hear ^heir service. Then after the service was done the king 
 would wit how many had undertaken the quest of the Holy Grail ; 
 and to account them he prayed them all. Then found they 
 by tale an hundred and fifty, and all were knights of the Round 
 Table. And then they put on their helms and departed, and 
 recommended them all wholly unto, the queen ; and there was 
 weeping and great sorrow. Then the queen departed into her 
 chamber so that no man should apperceive her great sorrows. 
 When Sir Launcelot missed the queen he went into her chamber, 
 and when she saw him she cried aloud : O Sir Launcelot, ye have 
 betrayed me and put me to death, for to leave thus my lord. 
 Ah, madam, said Sir Launcelot, I pray you be not displeased, 
 for I shall come as soon as I may with my worship. Alas, said 
 she, that ever I saw you ; but he that suffered death upon the 
 cross for all mankind be to you good conduct and safety, and all 
 the whole fellowship. Right so departed Sir Launcelot, and 
 found his fellowship that abode his coming. And so they 
 mounted upon their horses and rode through the streets of Game- 
 lot; and there was weeping of the rich and poor, and the king 
 turned away and might not speak for weeping. So within a 
 while they came to a city, and a castle that hight Vagon. There 
 they entered into the castle, and the lord of that castle was an 
 old man that hight Vagon, and he was a good man of his living, 
 and set open the gates, and made them all the good cheer that 
 he might. And so on the morrow they were all accorded that 
 they should depart every each from other; and then they 
 departed on the morrow with weeping and mourning cheer, and 
 every knight took the way that him best liked. 
 
14 
 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 BOOK XVII. CHAPTER XIII 
 
 How Sir Launcelot entered into the Ship where Sir Perciv ale's 
 Sister lay dead, and how he met with Sir Galahad, 
 
 his Son 
 
 Now saith the history, that when Launcelot was come to the 
 water of Mortoise, as it is rehearsed before, he was in great 
 peril, and so he laid him down and slept, and took the adven- 
 ture that God would send him. So when he was asleep there 
 came a vision unto him and said : Launcelot, arise up and take 
 thine armour, and enter into the first ship that thou shalt find. 
 And when he heard these words he start up and saw great clere- 
 ness about him. And then he lift up his hand and blessed him, 
 and so took his arms and made him ready ; and so by adventure 
 he came by a strand, and found a ship the which was without sail 
 or oar. And as soon as he was within the ship there he felt the 
 most sweetness that ever he felt, and he was fulfilled with all 
 thing that he thought on or desired. Then he said : Fair sweet 
 Father, Jesu Christ, I wot not in what joy I am, for this joy 
 passeth all earthly joys that ever I was in. And so in this joy 
 he laid him down to the ship's board, and slept till day. And 
 when he awoke he found there a fair bed, and therein lying a 
 gentlewoman dead, the which was Sir Percivale's sister. And 
 as Launcelot devised her, he espied in her right hand a writ, 
 the which he read, the which told him all the adventures that 
 ye have heard tofore, and of what Hneage she was come. So 
 with this gentlewoman Sir Launcelot was a month and more. 
 If ye would ask how he lived, He that fed the people of Israel with 
 manna in the desert, so was he fed ; for every day when he had 
 said his prayers he was sustained with the grace of the Holy 
 Ghost. So on a night he went to play him by the water side, 
 for he was somewhat weary of the ship. And then he listened 
 and heard an horse come, and one riding upon him. And when 
 he came nigh he seemed a knight. And so he let him pass, and 
 went thereas the ship was ; and there he alit, and took the saddle 
 and the bridle and put the horse from him, and went into the 
 ship. And then Launcelot dressed unto him, and said : Ye be 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 15 
 
 welcome. And he answered and saluted him again, and asked 
 him : What is your name ? for much my heart giveth unto you. 
 Truly, said he, my name is Launcelot du Lake. Sir, said he, 
 then be ye welcome, for ye were the beginning of me in this 
 world. Ah, said he, are ye Galahad ? Yea, forsooth, said he ; 
 and so he kneeled down and asked him his blessing, and after 
 took off his helm and kissed him. And there was great joy be- 
 tween them, for there is no tongue can tell the joy that they made 
 either of other, and many a friendly word spoken between, as 
 kin would, the which is no need here to be rehearsed. And there 
 every each told other of their adventures and marvels that were 
 befallen to them in many journeys sith that they departed from 
 the court. Anon, as Galahad saw the gentlewoman dead in the 
 bed, he knew her well enough, and told great worship of her, 
 that she was the best maid living, and it was great pity of her 
 death. But when Launcelot heard how the marvellous sword 
 was gotten, and who made it, and all the marvels rehearsed 
 afore, then he prayed Galahad, his son, that he would show him 
 the sword, and so he did ; and anon he kissed the pommel, and 
 the hilt, and the scabbard. Truly, said Launcelot, never erst 
 knew I of so high adventures done, and so marvellous and 
 strange. So dwelt Launcelot and Galahad within that ship 
 half a year, and served God daily and nightly with all their 
 power ; and often they arrived in isles far from folk, where there 
 repaired none but wild beasts, and there they found many strange 
 adventures and perillous, which they brought to an end ; but 
 for those adventures were with wild beasts, and not in the quest 
 of the Sangreal, therefore the tale maketh here no mention 
 thereof, for it would be too long to tell of all those adventures 
 that befell them. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 How A Knight brought unto Sir Galahad a Horse, and bad 
 
 HIM COME FROM HIS FATHER, SiR LaUNCELOT 
 
 So after, on a Monday, it befell that they arrived in the edge 
 of a forest tofore a cross ; and then saw they a knight armed all 
 
1 6 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 in white, and was richly horsed, and led in his right hand a 
 white horse ; and so he came to the ship, and saluted the two 
 knights on the High Lord's behalf, and said : Galahad, sir, ye 
 have been long enough with your father, come out of the ship, 
 and start upon this horse, and go where the adventures shall 
 lead thee in the quest of the Sangreal. Then he went to his 
 father and kissed him sweetly, and said : Fair sweet father, I 
 wot not when I shall see you more till I see the body of Jesu 
 Christ. I pray you, said Launcelot, pray ye to the High Father 
 that He hold me in His service. And so he took his horse, and 
 there they heard a voice that said : Think for to do well, for the 
 one shall never see the other before the dreadful day of doom. 
 Now, son Galahad, said Launcelot, syne we shall depart, and 
 never see other, I pray to the High Father to conserve me and 
 you both. Sir, said Galahad, no prayer availeth so much as 
 yours. And therewith Galahad entered into the forest. And 
 the wind arose, and drove Launcelot more than a month through- 
 out the sea, where he slept but little, but prayed to God that he 
 might see some tidings of the Sangreal. So it befell on a night, 
 at midnight, he arrived afore a castle, on the back side, which 
 was rich and fair, and there was a postern opened toward the sea, 
 and was open without any keeping, save two hons kept the 
 entry ; and the moon shone clear. Anon Sir Launcelot heard 
 a voice that said : Launcelot, go out of this ship and enter into 
 the castle, where thou shalt see a great part of thy desire. Then 
 he ran to his arms, and so armed him, and so went to the gate and 
 saw the lions. Then set he hand to his sword and drew it. 
 Then there came a dwarf suddenly, and smote him on the arm 
 so sore that the sword fell out of his hand. Then heard he a 
 voice say : O man of evil faith and poor beUef , wherefore trowest 
 thou more on thy harness than in thy Maker, for He might more 
 avail thee than thine armour, in whose service that thou art 
 set. Then said Launcelot : Fair Father Jesu Christ, I thank thee 
 of Thy great mercy that Thou reprovest me of my misdeed ; 
 now see I well that ye hold me for your servant. Then took he 
 again his sword and put it up in his sheath, and made a cross in 
 his forehead, and came to the lions, and they made semblant 
 to do him harm. Notwithstanding he passed by them without 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 17 
 
 hurt, and entered into the castle to the chief fortress, and there 
 were they all at rest. Then Launcelot entered in so armed, for 
 he found no gate nor door but it was open. And at the last he 
 found a chamber whereof the door was shut, and he set his hand 
 thereto to have opened it, but he might not. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 How Sir Launcelot was afore the Door of the Chamber wherein 
 THE Holy Sangreal Was 
 
 Then he enforced him mickle to undo the door. Then he 
 listened and heard a voice which sang so sweetly that it seemed 
 none earthly thing ; and him thought the voice said : Joy and 
 honour be to the Father of Heaven. Then Launcelot kneeled 
 down tofore the chamber,'for well wist he that there was the San- 
 greal within that chamber. Then said he : Fair sweet Father, 
 Jesu Christ, if ever I did thing that pleased Thee, Lord for Thy 
 pity never have me not in despite for my sins done aforetime, 
 and that Thou show me something of that I seek. And with 
 that he saw the chamber door open, and there came out a great 
 clereness, that the house was as bright as all the torches of the 
 world had been there. So came he to the chamber door, and 
 would have entered. And anon a voice said to him, Flee, Laun- 
 celot, and enter not, for thou oughtest not to do it ; and if thou 
 enter thou shalt forethink it. Then he withdrew him aback right 
 heavy. Then looked he up in the middes of the chamber, and 
 saw a table of silver, and the holy vessel, covered with red 
 samite, and many angels about it, whereof one held a candle of 
 wax burning, and the other held a cross, and the ornaments of 
 an altar. And before the holy vessel he saw a good man clothed 
 as a priest. And it seemed that he was at the sacring of the 
 mass. And it seemed to Launcelot that above the priest's hands 
 were three men, whereof the two put the youngest by likeness 
 between the priest's hands ; and so he lift it up right high, and 
 it seemed to show so to the people. And then Launcelot mar- 
 velled not a Httle, for him thought the priest was so greatly 
 charged of the figure that him seemed that he should fall to the 
 
i8 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 earth. And when he saw none about him that would help him, 
 then came he to the door a great pace, and said : Fair Father 
 Jesu Christ, ne take it for no sin though I help the good man 
 which hath great need of help. Right so entered he into the 
 chamber, and came toward the table of silver ; and when he came 
 nigh he felt a breath, that him thought it was intermeddled 
 with fire, which smote him so sore in the visage that him thought 
 it brent his visage ; and therewith he fell to the earth, and had 
 no power to arise, as he that was so araged, that had lost the 
 power of his body, and his hearing, and his seeing. Then felt 
 he many hands about him, which took him up and bare him 
 out of the chamber door, without any amending of his swoon, 
 and left him there, seeming dead to all people. So upon the 
 morrow when it was fair day they within were arisen, and 
 found Launcelot lying afore the chamber door. All they mar- 
 velled how that he came in, and so they looked upon him, and 
 felt his pulse to wit whether there were any Hfe in him ; and so 
 they found life in him, but he might not stand nor stir no member 
 that he had. And so they took him by every part of the body, 
 and bare him into a chamber, and laid him in a rich bed, far 
 from all folk ; and so he lay four days. Then the one said he 
 was on live, and the other said. Nay. In the name of God, 
 said an old man, for I do you verily to wit he is not dead, but he 
 is so full of life as the mightiest of you all ; and therefore I coun- 
 sel you that he be well kept till God send him hfe again, 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 How Sir Launcelot had lain Four and Twenty Days and as 
 Many Nights as a Dead Man, and Other Divers Matters 
 
 In such manner they kept Launcelot four and twenty days 
 and all so many nights, that ever he lay still as a dead man ; 
 and at the twenty-fifth day befell him after midday that he 
 opened his eyes. And when he saw folk he made great sorrow, 
 and said : Why have ye awaked me, for I was more at ease than 
 I am now. O Jesu Christ, who might be so blessed that might 
 see openly thy great marvels of secretness there where no sinner 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 19 
 
 may be ! What have ye seen ? said they about him. I have 
 seen, said he, so great marvels that no tongue may tell, and more 
 than any heart can think, and had not my son been here afore 
 me I had seen much more. Then they told him how he had lain 
 there four and twenty days and nights. Then him thought it 
 was punishment for the four and twenty years that he had been 
 a sinner, wherefore Our Lord put him in penance four and 
 twenty days and nights. Then looked Sir Launcelot afore him, 
 and saw the hair which he had borne nigh a year, for that he 
 forethought him right much that he had broken his promise 
 unto the hermit, which he had avowed to do. Then they asked 
 how it stood with him. Forsooth, said he, I am whole of body, 
 thanked be Our Lord ; therefore, sirs, for God's love tell me 
 where I am. Then said they all that he was in the castle of 
 Carbonek. Therewith came a gentlewoman and brought him 
 a shirt of small linen cloth, but he changed not there, but took 
 the hair to him again. Sir, said they, the quest of the Sangreal 
 is achieved now right in you, that never shall ye see of the San- 
 greal no more than ye have seen. Now I thank God, said Laun- 
 celot, of His great mercy of that I have seen, for it sufficeth me ; 
 for as I suppose no man in this world hath lived better than I 
 have done to achieve that I have done. And therewith he took 
 the hair and clothed him in it, and above that he put a linen 
 shirt, and after a robe of scarlet, fresh and new. And when he 
 was so arrayed they marvelled all, for they knew him that he 
 was Launcelot, the good knight. And then they said all : O 
 my lord Sir Launcelot, be that ye ? And he said : Truly I am 
 he. Then came word to King Pelles that the knight that had 
 lain so long dead was Sir Launcelot. Then was the king right 
 glad, and went to see him. And when Launcelot saw him come 
 he dressed him against him, and there made the king great joy 
 of him. And there the king told him tidings that his fair 
 daughter was dead. Then Launcelot was right heavy of it, and 
 said : Sir, me forthinketh the death of your daughter, for she 
 was a full fair lady, fresh and young. And well I wot she bare 
 the best knight that is now on the earth, or that ever was sith 
 God was born. So the king held him there four days, and on 
 the morrow he took his leave at King Pelles and at all the fel- 
 
20 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 lowship, and thanked them of their great labour. Right so as 
 they sat at their dinner in the chief hall, then was it so that the 
 Sangreal had fulfilled the table with all manner of meats that 
 any heart might think. So as they sat they saw all the doors 
 and the windows of the place were shut without man's hand, 
 whereof they were all abashed, and none wist what to do. And 
 then it happened suddenly that a knight came to the chief door 
 and knocked, and cried : Undo the door. But they would not. 
 And ever he cried : Undo ; but they would not. And at last it 
 annoyed him so much that the king himself arose and came to 
 a window where the knight called. Then he said : Sir knight, 
 ye shall not enter at this time while the Sangreal is here, and 
 therefore go into another ; for certes ye be none of the knights 
 of the quest, but one of them which hath served the fiend, and 
 hast left the service of Our Lord: and he was passing wroth at 
 the king's words. Sir knight, said the king, sith ye would so 
 fain enter, say me of what country ye be. Sir, said he, I am of 
 the realm of Logris, and my name is Ector de Maris, and brother 
 unto my lord, Sir Launcelot. In the name of God, said the king, 
 me forthinketh of what I have said, for your brother is here 
 within. And when Ector de Maris understood that his brother 
 was there, for he was the man in the world that he most dread 
 and loved, and then he said : Ah God, now doubleth my sorrow 
 and shame. Full truly said the good man of the hill unto Ga- 
 waine and to me of our dreams. Then went he out of the court 
 as fast as his horse irdght, and so throughout the castle. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 How Sir Launcelot returned towards Logris, and of Other 
 Adventures which he saw in the Way 
 
 Then King Pelles came to Sir Launcelot and told him tidings 
 of his brother, whereof he was sorry, that he wist not what to 
 do. So Sir Launcelot departed, and took his arms, and said he 
 would go see the realm of Logris, which I have not seen these 
 twelve months. And therewith he commended the king to 
 God, and so rode through many realms. And at the last he came 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 2i 
 
 to a white abbey, and there they made him that night great 
 cheer ; and on the morn he rose and heard mass. And afore an 
 altar he found a rich tomb, the which was newly made ; and then 
 he took heed, and saw the sides written with gold which said : 
 Here lieth King Bagdemagus of Gore, which King Arthur's 
 nephew slew ; and named him. Sir Gawaine. Then was he not 
 a Httle sorry, for Launcelot loved him much more than any 
 other, and had it been any other than Gawaine he should not 
 have escaped from death to Hfe ; and said to himself : Ah Lord 
 God, this is a great hurt unto King Arthur's court, the loss of 
 such a man. And then he departed and came to the abbey 
 where Galahad did the adventure of the tombs, and won the 
 white shield with the red cross ; and there had he great cheer 
 all that night. And on the morn he turned unto Camelot, where 
 he found King Arthur and the queen. But many of the knights 
 of the Round Table were slain and destroyed, more than half. 
 And so three were come home again, that were Sir Gawaine, Sir 
 Ector, and Sir Lionel, and many other that need not to be 
 rehearsed. Then all the court was passing glad of Sir Launce- 
 lot, and the king asked him many tidings of his son Galahad. 
 And there Launcelot told the king of his adventures that had 
 befallen him syne he departed. And also he told him of the 
 adventures of Galahad, Percivale, and Bors, which that he knew 
 by the letter of the dead damosel, and as Galahad had told him. 
 Now God would, said the king, that they were all three here. 
 That shall never be, said Launcelot, for two of them shall ye 
 never see, but one of them shall come again. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 How Sir Percivale and Sir Bors met with Sir Galahad, and 
 
 HOW THEY CAME TO THE CaSTLE OF CaRBONEK, 
 
 AND Other Matters 
 
 * * * So on a day it befell that they ^ came out of a great 
 forest, and there they met at traverse with Sir Bors, the which 
 rode alone. It is none need to tell if they were glad ; and them 
 
 1 Galahad and Percivale. 
 
22 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 he saluted, and they yielded him honour and good adventure, and 
 every each told other. Then said Bors : It is more than a year 
 and an half that I ne lay ten times where men dwelled, but in 
 wild forests and in mountains, but God was ever my comfort. 
 Then rode they a great while till that they came to the castle of 
 Carbonek. And when they were entered within the castle King 
 Pelles knew them ; then there was great joy, for they wist well 
 by their coming that they had fulfilled the quest of the Sangreal. 
 Then Eliazar, King Pelles' son, brought tofore them the broken 
 sword wherewith Joseph was stricken through the thigh. Then 
 Bors set his hand thereto, if that he might have soldered it again ; 
 but it would not be. Then he took it to Percivale, but he had 
 no more power thereto than he. Now have ye it again, said 
 Percivale to Galahad, for an it be ever achieved by any bodily 
 man ye must do it. And then he took the pieces and set them 
 together, and they seemed that they had never been broken, 
 and as well as it had been first forged. And when they within 
 espied that the adventure of the sword was achieved, then they 
 gave the sword to Bors, for it might not be better set ; for he 
 was a good knight and a worthy man. And a little afore even 
 the sword arose great and marvellous, and was full of great heat 
 that many men fell for dread. And anon alit a voice among 
 them, and said : They that ought not to sit at the table of Jesu 
 Christ arise, for now shall very knights be fed. So they went 
 thence, all save King Pelles and Eliazar, his son, the which 
 were holy men, and a maid which was his niece ; and so these 
 three fellows and they three were there, no more. Anon they 
 saw knights all armed come in at the hall door, and did off their 
 helms and their arms, and said unto Galahad : Sir, we have hied 
 right much for to be with you at this table where the holy meat 
 shall be departed. Then said he : Ye be welcome, but of whence 
 be ye ? So three of them said they were of Gaul, and other three 
 said they were of Ireland, and the other three said they were of 
 Denmark. So as they sat thus there came out a bed of tree, of 
 a chamber, the which four gentlewomen brought ; and in the bed 
 lay a good man sick, and a crown of gold upon his head ; and 
 there in the middes of the place they set him down, and went 
 again their way. Then he lift up his head, and said : Galahad, 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 23 
 
 Knight, ye be welcome, for much have I desired your coming, 
 for in such anguish I have been long. But now I trust to God 
 the term is come that my pain shall be allayed, that I shall 
 pass out of this world so as it was promised me long ago. 
 Therewith a voice said : There be two among you that be not in 
 the quest of the Sangreal, and therefore depart ye. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 How Galahad and his Fellows were fed of the Holy San- 
 greal, AND how our Lord appeared to them, 
 AND Other Things 
 
 Then King Pelles and his son departed. And therewithal 
 beseemed them that there came a. man, and four angels from 
 heaven, clothed in hkeness of a bishop, and had a cross in his 
 hand ; and these four angels bare him in a chair, and set him 
 down before the table of silver whereupon the Sangreal was ; 
 and it seemed that he had in middes of his forehead letters the 
 which said : See ye here Joseph, the first bishop of Christendom, 
 the same which Our Lord succoured in the city of Sarras in the 
 spiritual place. Then the knights marvelled, for that bishop was 
 dead more than three hundred year tofore. O knights, said he, 
 marvel not, for I was sometime an earthly man. With that 
 they heard the chamber door open, and there they saw angels ; 
 and two bare candles of wax, and the third a towel, and the 
 fourth a spear which bled marvellously, that three drops fell 
 within a box which he held with his other hand. And they set 
 the candles upon the table, and the third the towel upon the 
 vessel, and the fourth the holy spear even upright upon the 
 vessel. And then the bishop made semblant as though he 
 would have gone to the sacring of the mass. And then he took 
 an ubblye which was made in Hkeness of bread. And at the 
 Ufting up there came a figure in likeness of a child, and the vis- 
 age was as red and as bright as any fire, and smote himself into 
 the bread, so that they all saw it that the bread was formed of 
 a fleshly man ; and then he put it into the holy vessel again, 
 and then he did that longed to a priest to do to a mass. And 
 
24 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 then he went to Galahad and kissed him, and bad him go and 
 kiss his fellows : and so he did anon. Now, said he, servants of 
 Jesu Christ, ye shall be fed afore this table with sweetmeats 
 that never knights tasted. And when he had said, he vanished 
 away. And they set them at the table in great dread, and made 
 their prayers. Then looked they and saw a man come out of 
 the holy vessel, that had all the signs of the passion of Jesu 
 Christ, bleeding all openly, and said : My knights, and my 
 servants, and my true children, which be come out of deadly 
 life into spiritual life, I will now no longer hide me from you, 
 but ye shall see now a part of my secrets and of my hidden 
 things : now hold and receive the high meat which ye have so 
 much desired. Then took he himself the holy vessel and came 
 to Galahad ; and he kneeled down, and there he received his 
 Saviour, and after him so received all his fellows ; and they 
 thought it so sweet that it was marvellous to tell. Then said 
 he to Galahad : Son, wotest thou what I hold betwixt my hands ? 
 Nay, said he, but if ye will tell me. This is, said he, the holy 
 dish wherein I ate the lamb on Sher-Thursday. And now hast 
 thou seen that thou most desired to see, but yet hast thou not 
 seen it so openly as thou shalt see it in the city of Sarras in the 
 spiritual place. Therefore thou must go hence and bear with 
 thee this holy vessel ; for this night it shall depart from the realm 
 of Logris, that it shall never be seen more here. And wotest 
 thou wherefore ? For he is not served nor worshipped to his 
 right by them of this land, for they be turned to evil living ; 
 therefore I shall disherit them of |:he honour which I have done 
 them. And therefore go ye three to-morrow unto the sea, where 
 ye shall find your ship ready, and with you take the sword with 
 the strange girdles, and no more with you but Sir Percivale and 
 Sir Bors. Also I will that ye take with you of the blood of this 
 spear for to anoint the maimed king, both his legs and all his 
 body, and he shall have his health. Sir, said Galahad, why shall 
 not these other fellows go with us ? For this cause : for right as I 
 departed my apostles one here and another there, so I will that 
 ye depart ; and two of you shall die in my service, but one of 
 you shall come again and tell tidings. Then gave he them his 
 blessing and vanished away. 
 
LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 25 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 How Galahad anointed with the Blood of the Spear the 
 Maimed King, and Other Adventures 
 
 And Galahad went anon to the spear which lay upon the table, 
 and touched the blood with his fingers, and came after to the 
 maimed king and anointed his legs. And therewith he clothed 
 him anon, and start upon his feet out of his bed as an whole man, 
 and thanked Our Lord that He had healed him. And that was 
 not to the world ward, for anon he yielded him to a place of reli- 
 gion of white monks, and was a full holy man. That same 
 night about midnight came a voice among them which said : 
 My sons and not my chief sons, my friends and not my warriors, 
 go ye hence where ye hope best to do and as I bad you. Ah, 
 thanked be Thou, Lord, that Thou wilt vouchsafe to call us, 
 Thy sinners. Now may we well prove that we have not lost 
 our pains. And anon in all haste they took their harness and 
 departed. But the three knights of Gaul, one of them hight 
 Claudine, King Claudas' son, and the other two were great gen- 
 tlemen. Then prayed Galahad to every each of them, that if 
 they come to King Arthur's court that they should salute my 
 lord. Sir Launcelot, my father, and of them of the Round Table ; 
 and prayed them if that they came on that part that they should 
 not forget it. Right so departed Galahad, Percivale and Bors 
 with him ; and so they rode three days, and then they came to 
 a rivage, and found the ship whereof the tale speaketh of tofore. 
 And when they came to the board they found in the middes the 
 table of silver which they had left with the maimed king, and the 
 Sangreal which was covered with red samite. Then were they 
 glad to have such things in their fellowship ; and so they entered 
 and made great reverence thereto ; and Galahad fell in his 
 prayer long time to Our Lord, that at what time he asked, 
 that he should pass out of this world. So much he prayed 
 till a voice said to him : Galahad, thou shalt have thy request ; 
 and when thou askest the death of thy body thou shalt have it, 
 and then shalt thou find the life of the soul. Percivale heard 
 this, and prayed him, of fellowship that was between them, to 
 
26 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 tell him wherefore he asked such things. That shall I tell you, 
 said Galahad ; the other day when we saw a part of the adven- 
 tures of the Sangreal I was in such a joy of heart, that I trow 
 never man was that was earthly. And therefore I wot well, 
 when my body is dead my soul shall be in great joy to see the 
 blessed Trinity every day, and the Majesty of Our Lord, Jesu 
 Christ. So long were they in the ship that they said to Gala- 
 had : Sir, in this bed ought ye to lie, for so saith the scripture. 
 And so he laid him down and slept a great while ; and when he 
 awaked he looked afore him and saw the city of Sarras. And 
 as they would have landed they saw the ship wherein Percivale 
 had put his sister in. Truly, said Percivale, in the name of 
 God, well hath my sister holden us covenant. Then took they 
 out of the ship the table of silver, and he took it to Percivale 
 and to Bors, to go tofore, and Galahad came behind. And right 
 so they went to the city, and at the gate of the city they saw an 
 old man crooked. Then Galahad called him and bad him help 
 to bear this heavy thing. Truly, said the old man, it is ten year 
 ago that I might not go but with crutches. Care thou not, said 
 Galahad, and arise up and shew thy good will. And so he 
 essayed, and found himself as whole as ever he was. Then ran 
 he to the table, and took one part against Galahad. And anon 
 arose there great noise in the city, that a cripple was made whole 
 by knights marvellous that entered into the city. Then anon 
 after, the three knights went to the water, and brought up into 
 the palace Percivale's sister, and buried her as richly as a king's 
 daughter ought to be. And when the king of the city, which was 
 cleped Estorause, saw the fellowship, he asked them of whence 
 they were, and what thing it was that they had brought upon 
 the table of silver. And they told him the truth of the Sangreal, 
 and the power which that God had set there. Then the king 
 was a tyrant, and was come of the line of paynims, and took 
 them and put them in prison in a deep hole. 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 27 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 How THEY WERE FED WITH THE SaNGREAL WHILE THEY WERE IN 
 
 Prison, and how Galahad was made King 
 
 But as soon as they were there Our Lord sent them the San- 
 greal, through whose grace they were alway fulfilled while that 
 they were in prison. So at the year's end it befel that this King 
 Estorause lay sick, and felt that he should die. Then he sent 
 for the three knights, and they came afore him ; and he cried 
 them mercy of that he had done to them, and they forgave it 
 him goodly ; and he died anon. When the king was dead all 
 the city was dismayed, and wist not who might be their king. 
 Right so as they were in counsel there came a voice among them, 
 and bad them choose the youngest knight of them three to be 
 their king : For he shall well maintain you and all yours. So 
 they made Galahad king by all the assent of the holy city, and 
 else they would have slain him. And when he was come to be- 
 hold the land, he let make above the table of silver a chest of 
 gold and of precious stones, that hylled the holy vessel. And 
 every day early the three fellows would come afore it, and make 
 their prayers. Now at the year's end, and the self day after 
 Galahad had borne the crown of gold, he arose up early and his 
 fellows, and came to the palace, and saw tofore them the holy 
 vessel, and a man kneeling on his knees in likeness of a bishop, 
 that had about him a great fellowship of angels as it had been 
 Jesu Christ himself ; and then he arose and began a mass of Our 
 Lady. And when he came to the sacrament of the mass, and 
 had done, anon he called Galahad, and said to him : Come forth 
 the servant of Jesu Christ, and thou shalt see that thou hast 
 much desired to see. And then he began to tremble right hard 
 when the deadly flesh began to behold the spiritual things. 
 Then he held up his hands toward heaven and said : Lord, I 
 thank thee, for now I see that that hath been my desire many 
 a day. Now, blessed Lord, would I not longer live, if it might 
 please thee. Lord. And therewith the good man took Our 
 Lord's body betwixt his hands, and proffered it to Galahad, 
 and he received it right gladly and meekly. Now wotest thou 
 
28 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 what I am ? said the good man. Nay, said Galahad. I am 
 Joseph of Aramathie, the which Our Lord hath sent here to 
 thee to bear thee fellowship ; and wotest thou wherefore that 
 he hath sent me more than any other ? For thou hast resem- 
 bled me in two things ; in that thou hast seen the marvels of the 
 Sangreal, in that thou hast been a clene maiden, as I have been 
 and am. And when he had said these words Galahad went to 
 Percivale and kissed him, and commended him to God ; and so 
 he went to Sir Bors and kissed him, and commended him to God, 
 and said : Fair lord, salute me to my lord. Sir Launcelot, my 
 father, and as soon as ye see him, bid him remember of this 
 unstable world. And therewith he kneeled down tofore the 
 table and made his prayers, and then suddenly his soul departed 
 to Jesu Christ, and a great multitude of angels bare his soul up 
 to heaven, that the two fellows might well behold it. Also the 
 two fellows saw come from heaven an hand, but they saw not 
 the body. And then it came right to the Vessel, and took it and 
 the spear, and so bare it up to heaven. Sithen was there never 
 man so hardy to say that he had seen the Sangreal. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Of the Sorrow that Percivale and Bors made when Galahad 
 
 WAS Dead: and of Percivale how he died, 
 
 AND Other Matters 
 
 When Percivale and Bors saw Galahad dead they made as 
 much sorrow as ever did two men. And if they had not been 
 good men they might lightly have fallen in despair. And the 
 people of the country and of the city were right heavy. And 
 then he was buried ; and as soon as he was buried Sir Percivale 
 yielded him to an hermitage out of the city, and took a rehgious 
 clothing. And Bors was alway with him, but never changed he 
 his secular clothing, for that he purposed him to go again into 
 the realm of Logris. Thus a year and two months Hved Sir 
 Percivale in the hermitage a full holy Hfe, and then passed out 
 of this world ; and Bors let bury him by his sister and by Galahad 
 in the spiritualities. When Bors saw that he was in so far 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 
 
 29 
 
 countries as in the parts of Babylon he departed from Sarras, 
 and armed him and came to the sea, and entered into a ship ; 
 and so it befell him in good adventure he came into the realm 
 of Logris ; and he rode so fast till he came to Camelot where 
 the king was. And then was there great joy made of him in 
 the court, for they weened all he had been dead, forasmuch as 
 he had been so long out of the country. And when they had 
 eaten, the king made great clerks to come afore him, that they 
 should chronicle of the high adventures of the good knights. 
 When Bors had told him of the adventures of the Sangreal, 
 such as had befallen him and his three fellows, that was Launce- 
 lot, Percivale, Galahad, and himself, there Launcelot told the 
 adventures of the Sangreal that he had seen. All this was made 
 in great books, and put up in almeryes at Salisbury. And anon 
 Sir Bors said to Sir Launcelot : Galahad, your own son, saluted 
 you by me, and after you King Arthur and all the Court, and 
 so did Sir Percivale, for I buried them with mine own hands in 
 the city of Sarras. Also, Sir Launcelot, Galahad prayed you to 
 remember of this unsyker world as ye behight him when ye were 
 together more than half a year. This is true, said Launcelot ; 
 now I trust to God his prayer shall avail me. Then Launcelot 
 took Sir Bors in his arms, and said : Gentle cousin, ye are right 
 welcome to me, and all that ever I may do for you and for yours 
 ye shall find my poor body ready at all times, while the spirit 
 is in it, and that I promise you faithfully, and never to fail. 
 And wit ye well, gentle cousin, Sir Bors, that ye and I will never 
 depart in sunder whilst our lives may last. Sir, said he, I will 
 as ye will. 
 
 Thus endeth the story of the Sangreal, that was briefly drawn out of French 
 into English, the which is a story chronicled for one of the truest and the holiest 
 that is in this world, the which is the xvii. book. 
 
 And here followeth the eighteenth book. 
 
30 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 BOOK XVIII. CHAPTER DC 
 How Sir Launcelot rode to Astolat, and received a Sleeve 
 
 TO WEAR upon HIS HeLM AT THE REQUEST OF A MaID 
 
 Upon the morn early Sir Launcelot heard mass and brake his 
 fast, and so took his leave of the queen and departed. And then 
 he rode so much until he came to Astolat, that is Gilford ;. and 
 there it happed him in the eventide he came to an old baron's 
 place that hight Sir Bernard of Astolat. And as Sir Launcelot 
 entered into his lodging, King Arthur espied him as he did walk 
 in a garden beside the castle, how he took his lodging, and knew 
 him full well. It is well, said King Arthur unto the knights that 
 were with him in that garden beside the castle, I have now 
 espied one knight that will play his play at the jousts to the 
 which we be gone toward ; I undertake he will do marvels. 
 Who is that, we pray you tell us ? said many knights that were 
 there at that time. Ye shall not wit for me, said the king, as 
 at this time. And so the king smiled, and went to his lodging. 
 So when Sir Launcelot was in his lodging, and unarmed him in 
 his chamber, the old baron and hermit came to him making his 
 reverence, and welcomed him in the best manner ; but the old 
 knight knew not Sir Launcelot. Fair sir, said Sir Launcelot to 
 his host, I would pray you to lend me a shield that were not 
 openly known, for mine is well known. Sir, said his host, ye 
 shall have your desire, for meseemeth ye be one of the likehest 
 knights of the world, and therefore I shall shew you friendship. 
 Sir, wit you well I have two sons that were but late made knights, 
 and the eldest hight Sir Tirre, and he was hurt that same day he 
 was made knight, that he may not ride, and his shield ye shall 
 have; for that is not known I dare say but here, and in no 
 place else. And my youngest son hight Lavaine, and if it 
 please you, he shall ride with you unto that jousts ; and he is of 
 his age strong and wight, for much my heart giveth unto you 
 that ye should be a noble knight, therefore I pray you, tell me 
 your name, said Sir Bernard. As for that, said Sir Launcelot, 
 ye must hold me excused as at this time, and if God give me grace 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 31 
 
 to speed well at the jousts I shall come again and tell you. But 
 I pray you, said Sir Launcelot, in any wise let me have your son, 
 Sir Lavaine, with me, and that I may have his brother's shield. 
 All this shall be done, said Sir Bernard. This old baron had a 
 daughter that was called that time the fair maiden of Astolat. 
 And ever she beheld Sir Launcelot wonderfully ; and as the 
 book saith, she cast such a love unto Sir Launcelot that she could 
 never withdraw her love, wherefore she died, and her name was 
 Elaine le Blank. So thus as she came to and fro she was so hot 
 in her love that she besought Sir Launcelot to wear upon him at 
 the jousts a token of hers. Fair damosel, said Sir Launcelot, 
 an if I grant you that, ye may say I do more for your love than 
 ever I did for lady or damosel. Then he remembered him he 
 would go to the jousts disguised. And by cause he had never 
 fore that time borne no manner of token of no damosel, then he 
 bethought him that he would bear one of her, that none of his 
 blood thereby might know him, and then he said : Fair maiden, 
 I will grant you to wear a token of yours upon mine helmet, 
 and therefore what it is, shew it me. Sir, she said, it is a red 
 sleeve of mine of scarlet, well embroidered with great pearls : 
 and so she brought it him. So Sir Launcelot received it, and said : 
 Never did I erst so much for no damosel. And then Sir Laun- 
 celot betook the fair maiden his shield in keeping, and prayed 
 her to keep that until that he came again ; and so that night he 
 had merry rest and great cheer, for ever the damosel Elaine was 
 about Sir Launcelot all the while she might be suffered. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 How THE Tourney began at Winchester, and what Knights 
 
 WERE AT THE JOUSTS ; AND OtHER ThINGS 
 
 So upon a day, on the morn, King Arthur and all his knights 
 departed, for their king had tarried three days to abide his noble 
 knights. And so when the king was ridden, Sir Launcelot and 
 Sir Lavaine made them ready to ride, and either of them had 
 white shields, and the red sleeve Sir Launcelot let carry with 
 him. And so they took their leave at Sir Bernard, the old baron, 
 
32 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 and at his daughter, the fair maiden of Astolat. And then 
 they rode so long till that they came to Camelot, that time called 
 Winchester ; and there was great press of kings, dukes, earls, 
 and barons, and many noble knights. But there Sir Launcelot 
 was lodged privily by the means of Sir Lavaine with a rich bur- 
 gess, that no man in the town was ware what they were. And 
 so they reposed them there till our Lady Day, Assumption, as 
 the great feast should be. So then trumpets blew unto the field, 
 and King Arthur was set on high upon a scaffold to behold who 
 did best. But as the French book saith, the king would not 
 suffer Sir Gawaine to go from him, for never had Sir Gawaine 
 the better an Sir Launcelot were in the field ; and many times was 
 Sir Gawaine rebuked when. Launcelot came into any jousts dis- 
 guised. Then some of the kings, as King Anguish of Ireland and 
 the King of Scots, were that time turned upon the side of King 
 Arthur. And then on the other party was the King of North- 
 galis, and the King with the Hundred Knights, and the King of 
 Northumberland, and Sir Galahad, the haut prince. But these 
 three kings and this duke were passing weak to hold against 
 King Arthur's party, for with him were the noblest knights of 
 the world. So then they withdrew them either party from 
 other, and every man made him ready in his best manner to do 
 what he might. Then Sir Launcelot made him ready, and put 
 the red sleeve upon his head, and fastened it fast; and so Sir 
 Launcelot and Sir Lavaine departed out of Winchester privily, 
 and rode until a little leaved wood behind the party that held 
 against King Arthur's party, and there they held them still till 
 the parties smote together. And then came in the King of 
 Scots and the King of Ireland on Arthur's party, and against 
 them came the King of Northumberland, and the King with the 
 Hundred Knights smote down the King of Northumberland, 
 and the King with the Hundred Knights smote down King 
 Anguish of Ireland. Then Sir Palomides that was on Arthur's 
 party encountered with Sir Galahad, and either of them smote 
 down other, and either party halp their lords on horseback 
 again. So there began a strong assail upon both parties. 
 And then came in Sir Brandiles, Sir Sagramore le Desirous, Sir 
 Dodinas le Savage, Sir Kay le Seneschal, Sir Griflet le Fise de 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 33 
 
 Dieu, Sir Mordred, Sir Meliot de Logris, Sir Ozanna le Cure 
 Hardy, Sir Safere, Sir Epinogris, Sir Galleron of Galway. All 
 these fifteen knights were knights of the Table Round. So 
 these with more other came in together, and beat on back the 
 King of Northumberland and the King of Northgahs. When 
 Sir Launcelot saw this, as he hoved in a little leaved wood, then 
 he said unto Sir Lavaine : See yonder is a company of good 
 knights, and they hold them together as boars that were chased 
 with dogs. That is truth, said Sir Lavaine. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 How Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine entered in the Field 
 
 AGAINST them OF KiNG ArTHUR's CoURT, AND HOW 
 
 Launcelot was Hurt 
 
 Now, said Sir Launcelot, an ye will help me a Httle, ye shall 
 see yonder fellowship that chaseth now these men in our side, 
 that they shall go as fast backward as they went forward. Sir, 
 spare not, said Sir Lavaine, for I shall do what I may. Then Sir 
 Launcelot and Sir Lavaine came in at the thickest of the press, 
 and there Sir Launcelot smote down Sir Brandiles, Sir Sagramore, 
 Sir Dodinas, Sir Kay, Sir Griflet, and all this he did with one 
 spear ; and Sir Lavaine smote down Sir Lucan le Butler and Sir 
 Bedevere. And then Sir Launcelot gat another spear, and there 
 he smote down Sir Agravaine, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Mordred, and 
 Sir Meliot de Logris ; and Sir Lavaine smote Ozanna le Cure 
 Hardy. And then Sir Launcelot drew his sword, and there he 
 smote on the right hand and on the left hand, and by great 
 force he unhorsed Sir Safere, Sir Epinogris, and Sir Galleron ; 
 and then the knights of the Table Round withdrew them back, 
 after they had gotten their horses as well as they might. O 
 mercy Jesu, said Sir Gawaine, what knight is yonder that doth 
 so marvellous deeds of arms in that field ? I wot well what he 
 is, said King Arthur, but as at this time I will not name him. 
 Sir, said Sir Gawaine, I would say it were Sir Launcelot by his 
 riding and his buffets that I see him deal, but ever meseemeth 
 it should not be he for that he beareth the red sleeve upon his 
 
34 
 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 head, for I wist him never bear token at no jousts of lady nor 
 gentlewoman. Let him be, said King Arthur, he will be better 
 known and do more or ever he depart. Then the party that was 
 against King Arthur were well comforted, and then they held 
 them together that beforehand were sore rebuked. Then Sir 
 Bors, Sir Ector de Maris, and Sir Lionel called unto them the 
 knights of their blood, as Sir Blamore de Ganis, Sir Bleoberis, 
 Sir Aliduke, Sir Galihud, Sir Galihodin, Sir Bellangere le Beuse. 
 So these nine knights of Sir Launcelot's kin thrust in mightily, 
 for they were all noble knights ; and they, of great hate and de- 
 spite that they had unto him, thought to rebuke that noble knight 
 Sir Launcelot, and Sir Lavaine, for they knew them not; and 
 so they came hurHng together, and smote down many knights of 
 NorthgaHs and of Northumberland. And when Sir Launcelot 
 saw them fare so, he gat a spear in his hand ; and there encoun- 
 tered with him all at once Sir Bors, Sir Ector, and Sir Lionel, 
 and all they three smote him at once with their spears. And 
 with force of themself they smote Sir Launcelot's horse to the 
 earth ; and by misfortune Sir Bors smote Sir Launcelot through 
 the shield into the side, and the spear brake, and the head left 
 still in his side. When Sir Lavaine saw his master He on the 
 ground, he ran to the King of Scots and smote him to the earth ; 
 and by great force he took his horse, and brought him to Sir 
 Launcelot, and maugre of them all he made him to mount upon 
 that horse. And then Launcelot gat a spear in his hand, and 
 there he smote Sir Bors, horse and man, to the earth. In the 
 same wise he served Sir Ector and Sir Lionel ; and Sir Lavaine 
 smote down Sir Blamore de Ganis. And then Sir Launcelot 
 drew his sword, for he felt himself so sore and hurt that he weened 
 there to have had his death. And then he smote Sir Bleoberis 
 such a buffet on the helm that he fell down to the earth in a 
 swoon. And in the same wise he served Sir Aliduke and Sir 
 Galihud. And Sir Lavaine smote down Sir Bellangere, that was 
 the son of Alisander le OrpheHn. And by this was Sir Bors 
 horsed, and then he came with Sir Ector and Sir Lionel, and all 
 they three smote with swords upon Sir Launcelot's helmet. 
 And when he felt their buffets and his wound, the which was so 
 grievous, then he thought to do what he might while he might 
 
LE MORTE D'ARTHUR 35 
 
 endure. And then he gave Sir Bors such a buffet that he made 
 him bow his head passing low ; and therewithal he raced off his 
 helm, and might have slain him ; and so pulled him down, and 
 in the same wise he served Sir Ector and Sir Lionel. For as the 
 book saith he might have slain them, but when he saw their 
 visages his heart might not serve him thereto, but left them there. 
 And then afterward he hurled into the thickest press of them all, 
 and did there the marvelloust deeds of arms that ever man saw 
 or heard speak of, and ever Sir Lavaine, the good knight, with 
 him. And there Sir Launcelot with his sword smote down and 
 pulled down, as the French book maketh mention, more than 
 thirty knights, and the most part were of the Table Round ; 
 and Sir Lavaine did full well that day, for he smote down ten 
 knights of the Table Round. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 How Sir Launcelot and Sir Lavaine departed out of the 
 Field, and in what Jeopardy Launcelot Was 
 
 Mercy Jesu, said Sir Gawaine to Arthur, I marvel what 
 knight that he is with the red sleeve. Sir, said King Arthur, he 
 will be known or he depart. And then the king blew unto lodg- 
 ing, and the prize was given by heralds unto the knight with the 
 white shield that bare the red sleeve. Then came the King with 
 the Hundred Knights, the King of Northgahs, and the King of 
 Northumberland, and Sir Galahad, the haut prince, and said unto 
 Sir Launcelot : Fair knight, God thee bless, for much have ye" 
 done this day for us, therefore we pray you that ye will come with 
 us that ye may receive the honour and the prize as ye have wor- 
 shipfully deserved it. My fair lords, said Sir Launcelot, wit 
 you well if I have deserved thanks I have sore bought it, and 
 that me repenteth, for I am like never to escape with my life ; 
 therefore, fair lords, I pray you that ye will suffer me to depart 
 where me Hketh, for I am sore hurt. I take none force of none 
 honour, for I had lever to repose me than to be lord of all the 
 world. And therewithal he groaned piteously, and rode a great 
 wallop away ward from them until he came under a wood's side. 
 
36 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 And when he saw that he was from the field nigh a mile, that he 
 was sure he might not be seen, then he said with an high voice : 
 
 gentle knight, Sir Lavaine, help me that this truncheon were 
 out of my side, for it sticketh so sore that it nigh slayeth me. O 
 mine own lord, said Sir Lavaine, I would fain do that might 
 please you, but I dread me sore an I pull out the truncheon that 
 ye shall be in peril of death. I charge you, said Sir Launcelot, as 
 ye love me, draw it out. And therewithal he descended from his 
 horse, and right so did Sir Lavaine ; and forthwithal Sir Lavaine 
 drew the truncheon out of his side, and he gave a great shriek 
 and a marvellous grisely groan, and the blood brast out nigh 
 a pint at once, that at the last he sank down upon his buttocks, 
 and so swooned pale and deadly. Alas, said Sir Lavaine, what 
 shall I do ? And then he turned Sir Launcelot into the wind, 
 but so he lay there nigh half an hour as he had been dead. And 
 so at the last Sir Launcelot cast up his eyes, and said : Lavaine, 
 help me that I were on my horse, for here is fast by within this 
 two mile a gentle hermit that sometime was a full noble knight 
 and a great lord of possessions. And for great goodness he hath 
 taken him to wilful poverty, and forsaken many lands, and his 
 name is Sir Baudwin of Brittany, and he is a full noble surgeon 
 and a good leech. Now let see, help me up that I were there, for 
 ever my heart giveth me that I shall never die of my cousin- 
 germain's hands. And then with great pain Sir Lavaine halp 
 him upon his horse. And then they rode a great wallop together, 
 and ever Sir Launcelot bled that it ran down to the earth ; and 
 so by fortune they came to that hermitage the which was under 
 a wood, and a great cliff on the other side, and a fair water run- 
 ning under it. And then Sir Lavaine beat on the gate with the 
 butt of his spear, and cried fast : Let in for Jesu's sake. And 
 there came a fair child to them, and asked them what they would. 
 Fair son, said Sir Lavaine, go and pray thy lord, the hermit, for 
 God's sake to let in here a knight that is full sore wounded ; and 
 this day tell thy lord I saw him do more deeds of arms than ever 
 
 1 heard say that any man did. So the child went in hghtly, and 
 then he brought the hermit, the which was a passing good man. 
 When Sir Lavaine saw him he prayed him for God's sake of suc- 
 cour. What knight is he ? said the hermit. Is he of the house 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 37 
 
 of King Arthur, or not ? I wot not, said Sir Lavaine, what is he, 
 nor what is his name, but well I wot I saw him do marvellously 
 this day as of deeds of arms. On whose party was he ? said the 
 hermit. Sir, said Sir Lavaine, he was this day against King 
 Arthur, and there he won the prize of all the knights of the 
 Round Table. I have seen the day, said the hermit, I would have 
 loved him the worse by cause he was against my lord, King Ar- 
 thur, for sometime I was one of the fellowship of the Round 
 Table, but I thank God now I am otherwise disposed. But where 
 is he ? let me see him. Then Sir Lavaine brought the hermit to 
 him. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 How Launcelot was brought to an Hermit to be healed of his 
 Wound, and or Other Matters 
 
 And when the hermit beheld him, as he sat leaning upon his 
 saddle bow ever bleeding piteously, and ever the knight hermit 
 thought that he should know him, but he could not bring him to 
 knowledge by cause he was so pale for bleeding. What knight 
 are ye, said the hermit, and where were ye born ? My fair lord, 
 said Sir Launcelot, I am a stranger and a knight adventurous, 
 that laboureth throughout many realms for to win worship. 
 Then the hermit advised him better, and saw by a wound on his 
 cheek that he was Sir Launcelot. Alas, said the hermit, mine 
 own lord why layne you your name from me ? Forsooth I ought 
 to know you of right, for ye are the most noblest knight of the 
 world, for well I know you for Sir Launcelot. Sir, said he, sith 
 ye know me help me an ye may, for God's sake, for I would be 
 out of this pain at once, either to death or to Hfe. Have ye no 
 doubt, said the hermit, ye shall live and fare right well. And so 
 the hermit called to him two of his servants, and so he and his 
 servants bare him into the hermitage, and lightly unarmed him, 
 and laid him in his bed. And then anon the hermit staunched 
 his blood, and made him to drink good wine, so that Sir Launcelot 
 was well refreshed and knew himself ; for in these days it was not 
 the guise of hermits as is nowadays, for there were none hermits 
 in those days but that they had been men of worship and of 
 
38 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 prowess ; and those hermits held great household, and refreshed 
 people that were in distress. Now turn we unto King Arthur, 
 and leave we Sir Launcelot in the hermitage. So when the kings 
 were come together on both parties, and the great feast should be 
 holden, King Arthur asked the King of NorthgaUs and their 
 fellowship, where was that knight that bare the red sleeve : Bring 
 him afore me that he may have his laud, and honour, and the 
 prize, as it is right. Then spake Sir Galahad, the haut prince, 
 and the King with the Hundred Knights : We suppose that 
 knight is mischieved, and that he is never like to see you nor none 
 of us all, and that is the greatest pity that ever we wist of any 
 knight. Alas, said Arthur, how may this be, is he so hurt ? 
 What is his name ? said King Arthur. Truly, said they all, we 
 know not his name, nor from whence he came, nor whither he 
 would. Alas, said the king, this be to me the worst tidings that 
 came to me this seven year, for I would not for all the lands I 
 welde to know and wit it were so that that noble knight were 
 slain. Know ye him ? said they all. As for that, said Arthur, 
 whether I know him or know him not, ye shall not know for me 
 what man he is, but Almighty Jesu send me good tidings of him. 
 And so said they all. By my head, said Sir Gawaine, if it so be 
 that the good knight be so sore hurt, it is great damage and pity 
 to all this land, for he is one of the noblest knights that ever I 
 saw in a field handle a spear or a sword ; and if he may be found 
 I shall find him, for I am sure he nys not far from this town. 
 Bear you well, said King Arthur, an ye may find him, unless that 
 he be in such a plight that he may not welde himself. Jesu de- 
 fend, said Sir Gawaine, but wit I shall what he is, an I may find 
 him. Right so Sir Gawaine took a squire with him upon hack- 
 neys, and rode all about Camelot within six or seven mile, but so 
 he came again and could hear no word of him. Then within 
 two days King Arthur and all the fellowship returned unto 
 London again. And so as they rode by the way it happed Sir 
 Gawaine at Astolat to lodge with Sir Bernard thereas was Sir 
 Launcelot lodged. And so as Sir Gawaine was in his chamber to 
 repose him Sir Bernard, the old baron, came unto him, and his 
 daughter Elaine, to cheer him and to ask him what tidings, and 
 who did best at that tournament of Winchester. So God me help, 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 39 
 
 said Sir Gawaine, there were two knights that bare two white 
 shields, but the one of them bare a red sleeve upon his head, and 
 certainly he was one of the best knights that ever I saw joust in 
 field. For I dare say, said Sir Gawaine, that one knight with the 
 red sleeve smote down forty knights of the Table Round, and his 
 fellow did right well and worshipfully. Now blessed be God, 
 said the fair maiden of Astolat, that that knight sped so well, 
 for he is the man in the world that I first loved, and truly he shall 
 be last that ever I shall love. Now, fair maid, said Sir Gawaine, 
 is that good knight your love ? Certainly sir, said she, wit ye 
 well he is my love. Then know ye his name ? said Sir Gawaine. 
 Nay truly, said the damosel, I know not his name nor from 
 whence he cometh, but to say that I love him, I promise you and 
 God that I love him. How had ye knowledge of him first? 
 said Sir Gawaine. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 How Sir Gawaine was lodged with the Lord of Astolat, and 
 
 THERE HAD KNOWLEDGE THAT IT WAS SiR LaUNCELOT 
 THAT BARE THE ReD SlEEVE 
 
 Then she told him as ye have heard tofore, and how her father 
 betook him her brother to do him service, and how her father 
 lent him her brother's, Sir Tirre's, shield : And here with me he 
 left his own shield. For what cause did he so ? said Sir Gawaine. 
 For this cause, said the damosel, for his shield was too well 
 known among many noble knights. Ah fair damosel, said Sir 
 Gawaine, please it you let me have a sight of that shield. Sir, 
 said she, it is in my chamber, covered with a case, and if ye will 
 come with me ye shall see it. Not so, said Sir Bernard till his 
 daughter, let send for it. So when the shield was come. Sir 
 Gawaine took off the case, and when he beheld that shield he 
 knew anon that it was Sir Lau'ncelot's shield, and his own arms. 
 Ah Jesu mercy, said Sir Gawaine, now is my heart more heavier 
 than ever it was tofore. Why ? said Elaine. For I have great 
 cause, said Sir Gawaine. Is that knight that oweth this shield 
 your love ? Yea truly, said she, my love he is, God would I were 
 
40 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 his love. So God me speed, said Sir Gawaine, fair damosel ye 
 have right, for an he be your love ye love the most honourable 
 knight of the world, and the man of most worship. So me 
 thought ever, said the damosel, for never or that time, for no 
 knight that ever I saw, loved I never none erst. God grant, said 
 Sir Gawaine, that either of you may rejoice other, but that is in 
 a great adventure. But truly, said Sir Gawaine unto the dam- 
 osel, ye may say he have a fair grace, for why I have known that 
 noble knight this four and twenty year, and never or that day, 
 I nor none other knight, I dare make good, saw nor heard say 
 that ever he bare token or sign of no lady, gentlewoman, ne 
 maiden, at no jousts nor tournament. And therefore, fair maiden, 
 said Sir Gawaine, ye are much beholden to him to give him 
 thanks. But I dread me, said Sir Gawaine, that ye shall never 
 see him in this world, and that is great pity that ever was of 
 earthly knight. Alas, said she, how may this be, is he slain ? I 
 say not so, said Sir Gawaine, but wit ye well he is grievously 
 wounded, by all manner of signs, and by men's sight more like- 
 lier to be dead than to be on live ; and wit ye well he is the noble 
 knight, Sir Launcelot, for by this shield I know him. Alas, said 
 the fair maiden of Astolat, how may this be, and what was his 
 hurt ? Truly, said Sir Gawaine, the man in the world that loved 
 him best hurt him so ; and I dare say, said Sir Gawaine, an that 
 knight that hurt him knew the very certainty that he had hurt 
 Sir Launcelot, it would be the most sorrow that ever came to his 
 heart. Now fair father, said then Elaine, I require you give me 
 leave to ride and to seek him, or else I wot well I shall go out of 
 my mind, for I shall never stint till that I find him and my 
 brother. Sir Lavaine. Do as it liketh you, said her father, for 
 me sore repenteth of the hurt of that noble knight. Right so 
 they made her ready, and before Sir Gawaine, making great dole. 
 Then on the morn Sir Gawaine came to King Arthur, and told 
 him how he had found Sir Launcelot's shield in the keeping of 
 the fair maiden of Astolat. All. that knew I aforehand, said 
 King Arthur, and that caused me I would not suffer you to have 
 ado at the great jousts, for I espied, said King Arthur, when he 
 came in till his lodging full late in the evening in Astolat. But 
 marvel have I, said Arthur, that ever he would bear any sign 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 41 
 
 of any damosel, for or now I never heard say nor knew that ever 
 he bare any token of none earthly woman. By my head, said 
 Sir Gawaine, the fair maiden of Astolat loveth him marvellously 
 well ; what it meaneth I cannot say, and she is ridden after to 
 seek him. So the king and all came to London, and there Sir 
 Gawaine openly disclosed to all the Court that it was Sir Launce- 
 lot that jousted best. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Of the Sorrow that Sir Bors had for the Hurt of Launcelot ; 
 
 AND OF THE AnGER THAT THE QUEEN HAD BECAUSE 
 
 Launcelot bare the Sleeve 
 
 And when Sir Bors heard that, wit ye well he was an heavy 
 
 man, and so were all his kinsmen. But when Queen Guenever 
 
 I wist that Sir Launcelot bare the red sleeve of the fair maiden of 
 
 ! Astolat she was nigh out of her mind for wrath. And then she 
 
 sent for Sir Bors de Ganis in all the haste that might be. So 
 
 jwhen Sir Bors was come tofore the queen, then she said: Ah 
 
 I Sir Bors, have ye heard say how falsely Sir Launcelot hath be- 
 
 ' trayed me ? Alas madam, said Sir Bors, I am afeared he hath 
 
 .betrayed himself and us all. No force, said the queen, though 
 
 he be destroyed, for he is a false traitor knight. Madam, said 
 
 j Sir Bors, I pray you say ye not so, for wit you well I may not hear 
 
 jSuch language of him. Why Sir Bors, said she, should I not call 
 
 I him traitor when he bare the red sleeve upon his head at Win- 
 j Chester, at the great jousts ? Madam, said Sir Bors, that sleeve 
 i bearing repenteth me sore, but I dare say he did it to none evil 
 
 intent, but for this cause he bare the red sleeve that none of 
 
 jhis blood should know him. For or then we nor none of us all 
 
 never knew that ever he bare token or sign of maid, lady, ne 
 
 gentlewoman. Fie on him, said the queen, yet for all his pride 
 
 and bobaunce there ye proved yourself his better. Nay madam, 
 
 i say ye never more so, for he beat me and my fellows, and might 
 
 j have slain us an he had would. Fie on him, said the queen, for 
 
 I I heard Sir Gawaine say before my lord Arthur that it were marvel 
 i to tell the great love that is between the fair maiden of Astolat 
 
42 
 
 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 and him. Madam, said Sir Bors, I may not warn Sir Gawaine 
 to say what it pleased him ; but I dare say, as for my lord. Sir 
 Launcelot, that he loveth no lady, gentlewoman, nor maid, but 
 all he loveth in like much. And therefore madam, said Sir Bors, 
 ye may say what ye will, but wit ye well I will haste me to seek 
 him, and find him wheresomever he be, and God send me good 
 tidings of him. And so leave we them there, and speak we of 
 Sir Launcelot that lay in great peril. So as fair Elaine came to 
 Winchester she sought there all about, and by fortune Sir La- 
 vaine was ridden to play him, to enchafe his horse. And anon as 
 Elaine saw him she knew him, and then she cried on loud until 
 him. And when he heard her anon he came to her, and then she 
 asked her brother how did my lord. Sir Launcelot. Who told 
 you, sister, that my lord's name was Sir Launcelot ? Then she 
 told him how Sir Gawaine by his shield knew him. So they rode 
 together till that they came to the hermitage, and anon she alit. 
 So Sir Lavaine brought her in to Sir Launcelot ; and when she 
 saw him lie so sick and pale in his bed she might not speak, but 
 suddenly she fell to the earth down suddenly in a swoon, and 
 there she lay a great while. And when she was relieved, she 
 shrieked and said : My lord. Sir Launcelot, alas why be ye in 
 this plight ? and then she swooned again. And then Sir Launce- 
 lot prayed Sir Lavaine to tak^ her up : And bring her to me. 
 And when she came to herself Sir Launcelot kissed her, and said : 
 Fair maiden, why fare ye thus ? ye put me to pain ; wherefore 
 make ye no more such cheer, for an ye be come to comfort me ye 
 be right welcome ; and of this little hurt that I have I shall be 
 right hastily whole by the grace of God. But I marvel, said Sir 
 Launcelot, who told you my name ? Then the fair maiden told 
 him all how Sir Gawaine was lodged with her father : And there 
 by your shield he discovered your name. Alas, said Sir Launce- 
 lot, that me repenteth that my name is known, for I am sure it 
 will turn unto anger. And then Sir Launcelot compassed in his 
 mind that Sir Gawaine would tell Queen Guenever how he bare 
 the red sleeve, and for whom ; that he wist well would turn into 
 great anger. So this maiden Elaine never went from Sir Launce- 
 lot, but watched him day and night, and did such attendance to 
 him, that the French book saith there was never woman did more 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 43 
 
 kindlier for man than she. Then Sir Launcelot prayed Sir 
 Lavaine to make aspies in Winchester for Sir Bors if he came 
 there, and told him by what tokens he should know him, by a 
 wound in his forehead. For well I am sure, said Sir Launcelot, 
 that Sir Bors will seek me, for he is the same good knight that 
 hurt me. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 How Sir Bors sought Launcelot and found him in the Her- 
 mitage, AND of the Lamentations between Them 
 
 Now turn we unto Sir Bors de Ganis that came unto Winches- 
 ter to seek after his cousin Sir Launcelot. And so when he came 
 to Winchester, anon there were men that Sir Lavaine had made 
 to lie in a watch for such a man, and anon Sir Lavaine had warn- 
 ing ; and then Sir Lavaine came to Winchester and found Sir 
 Bors, and there he told him what he was, and with whom he was, 
 and what was his name. Now fair knight, said Sir Bors, I re- 
 quire you that ye will bring me to my lord. Sir Launcelot. Sir, 
 said Sir Lavaine, take your horse, and within this hour ye shall 
 see him. And so they departed, and came to the hermitage. 
 And when Sir Bors saw Sir Launcelot lie in his bed pale and dis- 
 coloured, anon Sir Bors lost his countenance, and for kindness 
 and pity he might not speak, but wept tenderly a great while. 
 And then when he might speak he said thus : O my lord. Sir 
 Launcelot, God you bless, and send you hasty recover ; and full 
 heavy am I of my misfortune and of mine unhappiness, for now 
 I may call myself unhappy. And I dread me that God is greatly 
 displeased with me, that he would suffer me to have such a shame 
 for to hurt you that are all our leader, and all our worship ; and 
 therefore I call myself unhappy. Alas that ever such a caitiff 
 knight as I am should have power by unhappiness to hurt the 
 most noblest knight of the world. Where I so shamefully set 
 upon you and overcharged you, and where ye might have slain 
 me, ye saved me ; and so did not I, for I and your blood did to 
 you our utterance. I marvel, said Sir Bors, that my heart or 
 my blood would serve me, wherefore my lord, Sir Launcelot, I 
 
44 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 ask your mercy. Fair cousin, said Sir Launcelot, ye be right 
 welcome ; and wit ye well, overmuch ye say for to please me the 
 which pleaseth me not, for why I have the same I sought ; for 
 I would with pride have overcome you all, and there in my pride 
 I was near slain, and that was in mine own default, for I might 
 have given you warning of my being there. And then had I had 
 no hurt, for it is an old said saw, there is hard battle there as kin 
 and friends do battle either against other, there may be no mercy 
 but mortal war. Therefore, fair cousin, said Sir Launcelot, let 
 this speech overpass, and all shall be welcome that God sendeth ; 
 and let us leave off this matter and let us speak of some rejoicing, 
 for this that is done may not be undone; and let us find a 
 remedy how soon that I may be whole. Then Sir Bors leaned 
 upon his bedside, and told Sir Launcelot how the queen was 
 passing wroth with him, by cause he wore the red sleeve at the 
 great jousts ; and there Sir Bors told him all how Sir Gawaine 
 discovered it : By your shield that ye left with the fair maiden of 
 Astolat. Then is the queen wroth, said Sir Launcelot, and there- 
 fore am I right heavy, for I deserved no wrath, for all that I did 
 was by cause I would not be known. Right so excused I you, 
 said Sir Bors, but all was in vain, for she said more largeher to me 
 than I to you now. But is this she, said Sir Bors, that is so busy 
 about you, that men call the fair maiden of Astolat ? She it is, 
 said Sir Launcelot, that by no means I cannot put her from me. 
 Why should ye put her from you ? said Sir Bors, she is a passing 
 fair damosel, and a well bisene, and well taught ; and God would, 
 fair cousin, said Sir Bors, that ye could love her, but as to that 
 I may not, nor I dare not, counsel you. But I see well, said Sir 
 Bors, by her diligence about you that she loveth you entirely. 
 That me repenteth, said Sir Launcelot. Sir, said Sir Bors, she is 
 not the first that hath lost her pain upon you, and that is the 
 more pity : and so they talked of many more things. And so 
 within three days or four Sir Launcelot was big and strong again. 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 45 
 
 How Sir Launcelot armed him to assay if he might bear Arms, 
 AND HOW HIS Wound burst out Again 
 
 Then Sir Bors told Sir Launcelot how there was sworn a great 
 tournament and jousts betwixt King Arthur and the King of 
 Northgalis, that should be upon All Hallowmass Day, beside 
 Winchester. Is that truth ? said Sir Launcelot ; then shall ye 
 abide with me still a little while until that I be whole, for I feel 
 myself right big and strong. Blessed be God, said Sir Bors. 
 Then were they there nigh a month together, and ever this 
 maiden Elaine did ever her dihgent labour night and day unto 
 Sir Launcelot, that there was never child nor wife more meeker 
 to her father and husband than was that fair maiden of Astolat ; 
 wherefore Sir Bors was greatly pleased with her. So upon a day, 
 by the assent of Sir Launcelot, Sir Bors, and Sir Lavaine, they 
 made the hermit to seek in woods for divers herbs, and so Sir 
 Launcelot made fair Elaine to gather herbs for him to make him a 
 bain. In the meanwhile Sir Launcelot made him th arm him at ajl 
 pieces ; and there he thought to essay his armour and his spear, 
 for his hurt or not. And so when he was upon his horse he stirred 
 him fiercely, and the horse was passing lusty and fresh by cause 
 he was not laboured a month afore. And then Sir Launcelot 
 couched that spear in the rest. That courser leapt mightily 
 when he felt the spurs ; and he that was upon him the which was 
 the noblest horse of the world, strained him mightily and stably 
 and kept still the spear in the rest ; and therewith Sir Launcelot 
 strained himself so straightly, with so great force, to get the 
 horse forward, that the bottom of his wound brast both within 
 and without ; and therwithal the blood came out so fiercely that 
 he felt himself so feeble that he might not sit upon his horse. 
 And then Sir Launcelot cried unto Sir Bors : Ah, Sir Bors and 
 Sir Lavaine, help, for I am come to mine end. And therewith 
 he fell down on the one side to the earth like a dead corpse. And 
 then Sir Bors and Sir Lavaine came to him with sorrow making 
 out of measure. And so by fortune the maiden Elaine heard 
 their mourning, and then she came thither ; and when she found 
 
46 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 Sir Launcelot there armed in that place she cried and wept as 
 she had been wood ; and then she kissed him, and did what she 
 might to awake him. And then she rebuked her brother and 
 Sir Bors, and called them false traitors, why they would take 
 him out of his bed ; there she cried, and said she would appel them 
 of his death. With this came the holy hermit. Sir Baudwin of 
 Brittany, and when he found Sir Launcelot in that phght he said 
 but Httle, but wit ye well he was wroth ; and then he bad them : 
 Let us have him in. And so they all bare him unto the hermitage, 
 and unarmed him, and laid him in his bed ; and evermore his 
 wound bled piteously, but he stirred no limb of him. Then the 
 knight hermit put a thing in his nose and a little dele of water 
 in his mouth. And then Sir Launcelot waked of his swoon, and 
 then the hermit staunched his bleeding. And when he might 
 speak he asked Sir Launcelot why he put his life in jeopardy. 
 Sir, said Sir Launcelot, by cause I weened I had been strong, 
 and also Sir Bors told me that there should be at All Hallowmass 
 a great jousts betwixt King Arthur and the King of Northgalis, 
 and therefore I thought to essay it myself, whether I might be 
 there or not. Ah, Sir Launcelot, said the hermit, your heart 
 and your courage will never be done until your last day, but ye 
 shall do now by my counsel. Let Sir Bors depart from you, and 
 let him do at that tournament what he may : And by the grace 
 of God, said the knight hermit, by that the tournament be done 
 and ye come thither again. Sir Launcelot shall be as whole as ye, 
 so that he will be governed by me. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 How Sir Bors returned and told Tidings of Sir Launcelot; 
 AND or THE Tourney, and to whom the Prize was Given 
 
 Then Sir Bors made him ready to depart from Sir Launcelot ; 
 and then Sir Launcelot said : Fair Cousin, Sir Bors, recommend 
 me unto all them unto whom me ought to recommend me unto. 
 And I pray you, enforce yourself at that jousts that ye may be 
 best, for my love ; and here shall I abide you at the mercy of God 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 47 
 
 till ye come again. And so Sir Bors departed and came to the 
 court of King Arthur, and told them in what place he had left 
 Sir Launcelot. That me repenteth, said the king, but syne he 
 shall have his life we all may thank God. And there Sir Bors 
 told the queen in what jeopardy Sir Launcelot was when he would 
 essay his horse. And all that he did, madam, was for the love 
 of you, by cause he would have been at this tournament. Fie 
 on him, recreant knight, said the queen, for wit ye well I am right 
 sorry an he shall have his hfe. His life shall he have, said Sir 
 Bors, and who that would otherwise except you, madam, we that 
 be of his blood should help to short their lives. But madam, 
 said Sir Bors, ye have been ofttimes displeased with my lord, 
 Sir Launcelot, but at all times at the end ye find him a true 
 knight : and so he departed. And then every knight of the 
 Round Table that were there at that time present made them 
 ready to be at that jousts at All Hallowmass, and thither drew 
 many knights of divers countries. And as All Hollowmass drew 
 near, thither came the King of Northgalis, and the King with 
 the Hundred Knights, and Sir Galahad, the haut prince, of Sur- 
 luse, and thither came King Anguish of Ireland, and the King of 
 Scots. So these three kings came on King Arthur's party. And 
 so that day Sir Gawaine did great deeds of arms, and began first. 
 And the heralds numbered that Sir Gawaine smote down twenty 
 knights. Then Sir Bors de Ganis came in the same time, and he 
 was numbered that he smote down twenty knights ; and there- 
 fore the prize was given betwixt them both, for they began first 
 and longest endured. Also Sir Gareth, as the book saith, did 
 that day great deeds of arms, for he smote down and pulled down 
 thirty knights. But when he had done these deeds he tarried 
 not but so departed, and therefore he lost his prize. And Sir 
 Palomides did great deeds of arms that day, for he smote down 
 twenty knights, but he departed suddenly, and men deemed Sir 
 Gareth and he rode together to some manner adventures. So 
 when this tournament was done Sir Bors departed, and rode till 
 he came to Sir Launcelot, his cousin ; and then he found him 
 walking on his feet, and there either made great joy of other ; 
 and so Sir Bors told Sir Launcelot of all the jousts Hke as ye have 
 heard. I marvel, said Sir Launcelot, that Sir Gareth, when he 
 
48 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 had done such deeds of arms, that he would not tarry. Thereof 
 we marvelled all, said Sir Bors, for but if it were you, or Sir Tris- 
 tram, or Sir Lamorak de Galis, I saw never knight bear down so 
 many in so little a while as did Sir Gareth : and anon as he was 
 gone we wist not where. By my head, said Sir Launcelot, he is 
 a noble knight, and a mighty man and well breathed ; and if he 
 were well essayed, said Sir Launcelot, I would deem he were good 
 enough for any knight that beareth the life ; and he is a gentle 
 knight, courteous, true, and bounteous, meek, and mild, and in 
 him is no manner of mal engyn, but plain, faithful, and true. 
 So then they made them ready to depart from the hermit. And 
 so upon a morn they took their horses and Elaine le Blank with 
 them ; and when they came to Astolat there were they well 
 lodged, and had great cheer of Sir Bernard, the old baron, and of 
 Sir Tirre, his son. And so upon the morn when Sir Launcelot 
 should depart, fair Elaine brought her father with her, and Sir 
 Lavaine, and Sir Tirre, and thus she said : 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Of the Great Lamentation of the Fair Maid of Astolat when 
 Launcelot should depart, and how she died for his Love 
 
 My lord, Sir Launcelot, now I see ye will depart ; now fair 
 knight and courteous knight, have mercy upon me, and suffer me 
 not to die for thy love. What would ye that I did ? said Sir 
 Launcelot. I would have you to my husband, said Elaine. Fair 
 damosel, I thank you, said Sir Launcelot, but truly, said he, I 
 cast me never to be wedded man. Then, fair knight, said she, 
 will ye be my paramour ? Jesu defend me, said Sir Launcelot, 
 for then I rewarded your father and your brother full evil for 
 their great goodness. Alas, said she, then must I die for your 
 love. Ye shall not so, said Sir Launcelot, for wit ye well, fair 
 maiden, I might have been married an I had would, but I never 
 apphed me to be married yet ; but by cause, fair damosel, that 
 ye love me as ye say ye do, I will for your good will and kindness 
 show you some goodness, and that is this, that wheresomever ye 
 will beset your heart upon some good knight that will wed you, 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 49 
 
 I shall give you together a thousand pound yearly to you and to 
 your heirs ; thus much will I give you, fair madam, for your 
 kindness, and always while I live to be your own knight. Of all 
 this, said the maiden, I will none, for but if ye will wed me, or 
 else be my paramour at the least, wit you well. Sir Launcelot, 
 my good days are done. Fair damosel, said Sir Launcelot, of 
 these two things ye must pardon me. Then she shrieked shrilly, 
 and fell down in a swoon ; and then women bare her into her 
 chamber, and there she made over much sorrow ; and then Sir 
 Launcelot would depart, and there he asked Sir Lavaine what he 
 would do. What should I do, said Sir Lavaine, but follow you, 
 but if ye drive me from you, or command me to go from you. 
 Then came Sir Bernard to Sir Launcelot and said to him : I 
 cannot see but that my daughter Elaine will die for your sake. 
 I may not do withal, said Sir Launcelot, for that me sore repenteth, 
 for I report me to yourself, that my proffer is fair ; and me re- 
 penteth, said Sir Launcelot, that she loveth me as she doth ; I 
 was never the causer of it, for I report me to your son I early ne 
 late proffered her bounte nor fair behests ; and as for me, said Sir 
 Launcelot, I dare do all that a knight should do that she is a 
 clene maiden for me, both for deed and for will. And I am right 
 heavy of her distress, for she is a full fair maiden, good and gentle, 
 and well taught. Father, said Sir Lavaine, I dare make good she 
 is a clene maiden as for my lord Sir Launcelot ; but she doth as 
 I do, for sithen I first saw my lord Sir Launcelot, I could never 
 depart from him, nor nought I will an I may follow him. Then 
 Sir Launcelot took his leave, and so they departed, and came unto 
 Winchester. And when Arthur wist that Sir Launcelot was come 
 whole and sound the king made great joy of him, and so did Sir 
 Gawaine and all the knights of the Round Table except Sir 
 Agravaine and Sir Mordred. Also Queen Guenever was wood 
 wroth with Sir Launcelot, and would by no means speak with 
 him, but estranged herself from him ; and Sir Launcelot made 
 all the means that he might for to speak with the queen, but it 
 would not be. Now speak we of the fair maiden of Astolat that 
 made such sorrow day and night that she never slept, ate, nor 
 drank, and ever she made her complaint unto Sir Launcelot. 
 So when she had thus endured a ten days, that she feebled so 
 
50 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 that she must needs pass out of this world, then she shrived her 
 clene, and received her Creator. And ever she complained still 
 upon Sir Launcelot. Then her ghostly father bad her leave 
 such thoughts. Then she said, why should I leave such 
 thoughts ? Am I not an earthly woman ? And all the while the 
 breath is in my body I may complain me, for my beHef is I do 
 none offence though I love an earthly man ; and I take God to 
 my record I loved never none but Sir Launcelot du Lake, nor 
 never shall, and a clene maiden I am for him and for all other ; 
 and sithen it is the sufferance of God that I shall die for the love 
 of so noble a knight, I beseech the High Father of Heaven to 
 have mercy upon my soul, and upon mine innumerable pains that 
 I suffered may be allegiance of part of my sins. For sweet Lord 
 Jesu, said the fair maiden, I take Thee to record, on Thee I was 
 never great offencer against thy laws ; but that I loved this 
 noble knight, Sir Launcelot, out of measure, and of myself, good 
 Lord, I might not withstand the fervent love wherefore I have 
 my death. And then she called her father, Sir Bernard, and her 
 brother. Sir Tirre, and heartily she prayed her father that her 
 brother might write a letter hke as she did indite it : and so her 
 father granted her. And when the letter was written word by 
 word like as she devised then she prayed her father that she might 
 be watched until she were dead. And while my body is hot let 
 this letter be put in my right hand, and my hand bound fast with 
 the letter until that I be cold ; and let me be put in a fair bed 
 with all the richest clothes that I have about me, and so let my 
 bed and all my richest clothes be laid with me in a chariot unto 
 the next place where Thames is ; and there let me be put within 
 a barget, and but one man with me, such as ye trust to steer me 
 thither, and that my barget be covered with black samite over 
 and over : thus father I beseech you let it be done. So her 
 father granted it her faithfully, all things should be done like as 
 she had devised. Then her father and her brother made great 
 dole, for when this was done anon she died. And so when she 
 was dead the corpse and the bed all was led the next way unto 
 Thames, and there a man, and the corpse, and all, were put into 
 Thames ; and so the man steered the barget unto Westminster, 
 and there he rowed a great while to and fro or any espied it. 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 51 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 How THE Corpse or the Maid of Astolat arrived tofore King 
 
 Arthur, and of the Burying, and how Sir 
 
 Launcelot offered the Mass-penny 
 
 So by fortune King Arthur and the Queen Guenever were 
 speaking together at a window, and so as they looked into Thames 
 they espied this black barget, and had marvel what it meant. 
 Then the king called Sir Kay, and showed it him. Sir, said Sir 
 Kay, wit you well there is some new tidings. Go thither, said 
 the king to Sir Kay, and take with you Sir Brandiles and Agra- 
 vaine, and bring me ready word what is there. Then these four 
 knights departed and came to the barget and went in ; and there 
 they found the fairest corpse lying in a rich bed, and a poor man 
 sitting in the barget's end, and no word would he speak. So 
 these four knights returned unto the king again, and told him 
 what they found. That fair corpse will I see, said the king. 
 And so then the king took the queen by the hand, and went 
 thither. Then the king made the barget to be holden fast, and 
 then the king and the queen entered with certain knights with 
 them ; and there he saw the fairest woman he in a rich bed, 
 covered unto her middle with many rich clothes, and all was of 
 cloth of gold, and she lay as though she had smiled. Then the 
 queen espied a letter in her right hand, and told it to the king. 
 Then the king took it and said : Now am I sure this letter will 
 tell what she was, and why she is come hither. So then the king 
 and the queen went out of the barget, and so commanded a 
 certain man to wait upon the barget. And so when the king was 
 come within his chamber, he called many knights about him, and 
 said that he would wit openly what was written within that 
 letter. Then the king brake it, and made a clerk to read it, 
 and this was the intent of the letter. Most noble knight, Sir 
 Launcelot, now hath death made us two at debate for your love, 
 I was your lover, that men called the fair maiden of Astolat; 
 therefore unto all ladies I make my moan, yet pray for my soul 
 and bury me at least, and offer ye my mass-penny : this is my 
 last request. And a clene maiden I died, I take God to witness : 
 
52 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 pray for my soul, Sir Launcelot, as thou art peerless. This was 
 all the substance in the letter. And when it was read, the king, 
 the queen, and all the knights wept for pity of the doleful com- 
 plaints. Then was Sir Launcelot sent for ; and when he was 
 come King Arthur made the letter to be read to him. And when 
 Sir Launcelot heard it word by word, he said : My lord Arthur, 
 wit ye well I am right heavy of the death of this fair damosel : 
 God knoweth I was never causer of her death by my wilKng, and 
 that will I report me to her own brother : here he is. Sir Lavaine. 
 I will not say nay, said Sir Launcelot, but that she was both fair 
 and good, and much I was beholden unto her, but she loved me 
 out of measure. Ye might have shewed her, said the queen, 
 some bounty and gentleness that might have preserved her life. 
 Madam, said Sir Launcelot, she would none other ways be an- 
 swered but that she would be my wife, outher else my paramour ; 
 and of these two I would not grant her, but I proffered her, for 
 her good love that she showed me, a thousand pound yearly to 
 her, and to her heirs, and to wed any manner knight that she 
 could find best to love in her heart. For madam, said Sir Laun- 
 celot, I love not to be constrained to love ; for love must arise 
 of the heart, and not by no constraint. That is truth, said the 
 king, and many knight's love is free in himself, and never will be 
 bounden, for where he is bounden he looseth himself. Then said 
 the king unto Sir Launcelot : It will be your worship, that ye 
 oversee that she be interred worshipfully. Sir, said Sir Launce- 
 lot, that shall be done as I can best devise. And so many knights 
 yede thither to behold that fair maiden. And so upon the morn 
 she was interred richly, and Sir Launcelot offered her mass-penny ; 
 and all the knights of the Table Round that were there at that 
 time offered with Sir Launcelot. And then the poor man went 
 again with the barget. 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 53 
 
 BOOK XXI. CHAPTER IV 
 How BY Misadventure of an Adder the Battle began, where 
 
 MORDRED WAS SLAIN, AND ARTHUR HURT TO THE DeATH 
 
 Then were they condescended that King Arthur and Sir 
 Mordred should meet betwixt both their hosts, and every each 
 of them should bring fourteen persons ; and they came with this 
 word unto Arthur. Then said he : I am glad that this is done : 
 and so he went into the field. And when Arthur should depart, 
 he warned all his host that an they see any sword drawn : Look ye 
 come on fiercely, and slay that traitor, Sir Mordred, for I in no 
 wise trust him. In Hkewise Sir Mordred warned his host that : 
 An ye see any sword drawn, look that ye come on fiercely, and 
 so slay all that ever before you standeth ; for in no wise I will 
 not trust for this treaty, for I know well my father will be avenged 
 on me. And so they met as their appointment was, and so they 
 were agreed and accorded thoroughly ; and wine was fetched, 
 and they drank. Right soon came an adder out of a httle heath 
 bush, and it stung a knight on the foot. And when the knight 
 felt him stung, he looked down and saw the adder, and then he 
 drew his sword to slay the adder, and thought of none other 
 harm. And when the host on both parties saw that sword drawn, 
 then they blew beamous, trumpets, and horns, and shouted 
 grimly. And so both hosts dressed them together. And King 
 Arthur took his horse, and said : Alas this unhappy day ! and 
 so rode to his party. And Sir Mordred in likewise. And never 
 was there seen a more dolefuller battle in no Christian land ; for 
 there was but rushing and riding, foining and striking, and many 
 a grim word was there spoken either to other, and many a deadly 
 stroke. But ever King Arthur rode throughout the battle of 
 Sir Mordred many times, and did full nobly as a noble king 
 should, and at all times he fainted never ; and Sir Mordred that 
 day put him in devoir, and in great peril. And thus they fought 
 all the long day, and never stinted till the noble knights were 
 laid to the cold earth ; and ever they fought still till it was near 
 night, and by that time was there an hundred thousand laid dead 
 upon the down. Then was Arthur wood wroth out of measure. 
 
54 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 when he saw his people so slain from him. Then the king looked 
 about him, and then was he ware, of all his host and of all his 
 good knights, were left no more on live but two knights ; that one 
 was Sir Lucan the Butler, and his brother Sir Bedivere, and they 
 were full sore wounded. Jesu mercy, said the king, where are 
 all my noble knights become ? Alas that ever I should see this 
 doleful day, for now, said Arthur, I am come to mine end. But 
 would to God that I wist where were that traitor Sir Mordred, 
 that hath caused all this mischief. Then was King Arthur ware 
 where Sir Mordred leaned upon his sword among a great heap of 
 dead men. Now give me my spear, said Arthur unto Sir Lucan, 
 for yonder I have espied the traitor that all this woe hath wrought. 
 Sir, let him be, said Sir Lucan, for he is unhappy ; and if ye pass 
 this unhappy day ye shall be right well revenged upon him. 
 Good lord, remember ye of your night's dream, and what the 
 spirit of Sir Gawaine told you this night, yet God of his great 
 goodness hath preserved you hitherto. Therefore, for God's 
 sake, my lord, leave off by this, for blessed be God ye have won 
 the field, for here we be three on Hve, and with Sir Mordred is 
 none on live ; and if ye leave off now this wicked day of destiny 
 is past. Tide me death, betide me life, saith the king, now I see 
 him yonder alone he shall never escape mine hands, for at a better 
 avail shall I never have him. God speed you well, said Sir 
 Bedivere. Then the king gat his spear in both his hands, and 
 ran toward Sir Mordred, crying : Traitor, now is thy death day 
 come. And when Sir Mordred heard Sir Arthur, he ran until 
 him with his sword drawn in his hand. And there King Arthur 
 smote Sir Mordred under the shield, with a foin of his spear, 
 throughout the body, more than a fathom. And when Sir 
 Mordred felt that he had his death wound he thrust himself 
 with the might that he had up to the bur of King Arthur's spear. 
 And right so he smote his father Arthur, with his sword holden 
 in both his hands, on the side of the head, that the sword pierced 
 the helmet and the brain pan, and therewithal Sir Mordred fell 
 stark dead to the earth ; and the noble Arthur fell in a swoon to 
 the earth, and there he swooned ofttimes. And Sir Lucan the 
 Butler and Sir Bedivere ofttimes heave him up. And so weakly 
 they led him betwixt them both, to a little chapel not far from the 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 55 
 
 seaside. And when the king was there he thought him well 
 eased. Then heard they people cry in the field. Now go thou, 
 Sir Lucan, said the king, and do me to wit what betokens that 
 noise in the field. So Sir Lucan departed, for he was grievously 
 wounded in many places. And so as he yede, he saw and heark- 
 ened by the moonlight, how that pillers and robbers were come 
 into the field, to pill and to rob many a full noble knight of 
 brooches, and beads, of many a good ring, and of many a rich 
 jewel ; and who that were not dead all out, there they slew them 
 for their harness and their riches. When Sir Lucan understood 
 this work, he came to the king as soon as he might, and told him 
 all what he had heard and seen. Therefore by my rede, said Sir 
 Lucan, it is best that we bring you to some town. I would it 
 were so, said the king. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 How King Arthur commanded to cast his Sword Excalibur 
 
 INTO THE Water, and how he was delivered to 
 
 Ladies in a Barge 
 
 But I may not stand, mine head works so. Ah Sir Launcelot, 
 said King Arthur, this day have I sore missed thee : alas, that 
 ever I was against thee, for now have I my death, whereof Sir 
 Gawaine me warned in my dream. Then Sir Lucan took up 
 the king the one part, and Sir Bedivere the other part, and in the 
 Hf ting the king swooned ; and Sir Lucan fell in a swoon with the 
 lift, that the part of his guts fell out of his body, and therewith 
 the noble knight's heart brast. And when the king awoke, he 
 beheld Sir Lucan, how he lay foaming at the mouth, and part of 
 his guts lay at his feet. Alas, said the king, this is to me a full 
 heavy sight, to see this noble duke so die for my sake, for he would 
 have holpen me, that had more need of help than I. Alas, he 
 would not complain him, his heart was so set to help me : now V 
 Jesu have mercy upon his soul ! Then Sir Bedivere wept for 
 the death of his brother. Leave this mourning and weeping, 
 said the king, for all this will not avail me, for wit thou well an 
 I might live myself, the death of Sir Lucan would grieve me ever- 
 
56 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 more ; but my time hieth fast, said the king. Therefore, said 
 Arthur unto Sir Bedivere, take thou ExcaHbur, my good sword, 
 and go with it to yonder water side, and when thou comest there 
 I charge thee throw my sword in that water, and come again and 
 tell me what thou there seest. My lord, said Bedivere, your 
 commandment shall be done, and lightly bring you word again. 
 So Sir Bedivere departed, and by the way he beheld that noble 
 sword, that the pommel and the haft was all of precious stones ; 
 and then he said to himself : If I throw this rich sword in the 
 water, thereof shall never come good, but harm and loss. And 
 then Sir Bedivere hid ExcaUbur under a tree. And so, as soon 
 as he might, he came again unto the king, and said he had been 
 at the water, and had thrown the sword in the water. What 
 saw thou there ? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing but 
 waves and winds. That is untruly said of thee, said the king, 
 therefore go thou lightly again, and do my commandment ; 
 as thou art to me lief and dear, spare not, but throw it in. Then 
 Sir Bedivere returned again, and took the sword in his hand ; and 
 then him thought sin and shame to throw away that noble sword, 
 and so efte he hid the sword, and returned again, and told to the 
 king that he had been at the water, and done his commandment. 
 What saw thou there ? said the king. Sir, he said, I saw nothing 
 but the waters wappe and waves wanne. Ah, traitor untrue, 
 said King Arthur, now hast thou betrayed me twice. Who 
 would have weened that, thou that hast been to me so lief and 
 dear ? and thou art named a noble knight, and would betray me 
 for the richness of the sword. But now go again lightly, for thy 
 long tarrying putteth me in great jeopardy of my hfe, for I have 
 taken cold. And but if thou do now as I bid thee, if ever I may 
 see thee, I shall slay thee with mine own hands ; for thou wouldst 
 for my rich sword see me dead. Then Sir Bedivere departed, 
 and went to the sword, and lightly took it up, and went to the 
 water side ; and there he bound the girdle about the hilts, and 
 then he threw the sword as far into the water, as he might ; and 
 there came an arm and an hand above the water and met it, and 
 caught it, and so shook it thrice and brandished, and then van- 
 ished away the hand with the sword in the water. So Sir Bedi- 
 vere came again to the king, and told him what he saw. Alas, 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 57 
 
 said the king, help me hence, for I dread me I have tarried over 
 long. Then Sir Bedivere took the king upon his back, and so 
 went with him to that water side. And when they were at the 
 water side, even fast by the bank hoved a httle barge with many 
 fair ladies in it, and among them all was a queen, and all they had 
 black hoods, and all they wept and shrieked when they saw King 
 Arthur. Now put me into the barge, said the king. And so he 
 did softly ; and there received him three queens with great 
 mourning ; and so they set them down, and in one of their laps 
 King Arthur laid his head. And then that queen said : Ah, 
 dear brother, why have ye tarried so long from me ? alas, this 
 wound on your head hath caught over-much cold. And so then 
 they rowed from the land, and Sir Bedivere beheld all those ladies 
 go from him. Then Sir Bedivere cried : Ah my lord Arthur, 
 what shall become of me, now ye go from me and leave me here 
 alone among mine enemies? Comfort thyself, said the king, 
 and do as well as thou mayest, for in me is no trust for to trust 
 in ; for I will into the vale of Avilion to heal me of my grievous 
 wound : and if thou hear never more of me, pray for my soul. 
 But ever the queens and ladies wept and shrieked, that it was 
 pity to hear. And as soon as Sir Bedivere had lost the sight of 
 the barge, he wept and wailed, and so took the forest ; and so he 
 went all that night, and in the morning he was ware betwixt 
 two holts hoar, of a chapel and an hermitage. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 How Sir Bedivere found him on the Morrow Dead in an Her- 
 mitage, AND how he abode THERE WITH THE HeRMIT 
 
 Then was Sir Bedivere glad, and thither he went ; and when he 
 came into the chapel, he saw where lay an hermit grovelUng on 
 ! all four, there fast by a tomb was new graven. When the hermit 
 'saw Sir Bedivere he knew him well, for he was but little tofore 
 I Bishop of Canterbury, that Sir Mordred flemed. Sir, said Bedi- 
 jVere, what man is there interred that ye pray so fast for ? Fair 
 ■ son, said the hermit, I wot not verily, but by deeming. But this 
 
58 SIR THOMAS MALORY 
 
 night, at midnight, here came a number of ladies, and brought 
 hither a dead corpse, and prayed me to bury him ; and here they 
 offered an hundred tapers, and they gave me an hundred besants. 
 Alas, said Sir Bedivere, that was my lord King Arthur, that here 
 Keth buried in this chapel. Then Sir Bedivere swooned ; and 
 when he awoke he prayed the hermit he might abide with him 
 still there, to live with fasting and prayers. For from hence will 
 I never go, said Sir Bedivere, by my will, but all the days of my 
 life here to pray for my lord Arthur. Ye are welcome to me, said 
 the hermit, for I know ye better than ye ween that I do. Ye 
 are the bold Bedivere, and the full noble duke. Sir Lucan the 
 Butler, was your brother. Then Sir Bedivere told the hermit 
 all as ye have heard tofore. So there bode Sir Bedivere with the 
 hermit that was tofore Bishop of Canterbury, and there Sir Bedi- 
 vere put upon him poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly 
 in fasting and in prayers. Thus of Arthur I find never more 
 written in books that be authorised, nor more of the very cer- 
 tainty of his death heard I never read, but thus was he led away 
 in a ship wherein were three queens ; that one was King Arthur's 
 sister, Queen Morgan le Fay ; the other was the Queen of North- 
 galis ; the third was the Queen of the Waste Lands. Also there 
 was Nimue, the chief lady of the lake, that had wedded Pelleas 
 the good knight ; and this lady had done much for King Arthur, 
 for she would never suffer Sir Pelleas to be in no place where he 
 should be in danger of his life ; and so he lived to the uttermost 
 of his days with her in great rest. More of the death of King 
 Arthur could I never find, but that ladies brought him to his 
 burials; and such one was buried there, that the hermit bare 
 witness that sometime was Bishop of Canterbury, but yet the 
 hermit knew not in certain that he was verily the body of King 
 Arthur : for this tale Sir Bedivere, knight of the Table Round, 
 made it to be written. 
 
LE MORTE D 'ARTHUR 59 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Or THE Opinion of some Men of the Death of King Arthur; 
 AND how Queen Guenever made her a Nun in Almesbury 
 
 Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur 
 is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another 
 place ; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win 
 the holy cross. I will not say it shall be so, but rather I will say, 
 here in this world he changed his life. But many men say that 
 there is written upon his tomb this verse : I^IC jUCtt 0rtl)UtU0 
 Ker, quonDam Hep que futumsf. Thus leave I here Sir Bedivere 
 with the hermit, that dwelled that time in a chapel beside Glas- 
 tonbury, and there was his hermitage. And so they lived in 
 their prayers, and fastings, and great abstinence. And when 
 Queen Guenever understood that King Arthur was slain, and all 
 the noble knights, Sir Mordred and all the remnant, then the 
 queen stole away, and five ladies with her, and so she went to 
 Almesbury ; and there she let make herself a nun, and ware white 
 clothes and black, and great penance she took, as ever did sinful 
 lady in this land, and never creature could make her merry ; but 
 lived in fasting, prayers, and alms-deeds, that all manner of 
 people marvelled how virtuously she was changed. Now leave 
 we Queen Guenever in Almesbury, a nun in white clothes and 
 black, and there she was abbess and ruler as reason would. 
 
EVPHVES 
 
 The Anatomy of Wit 
 
 JOHN LYLY 
 
 There dwelt in Athens a young gentleman of great patrimony, 
 and of fo comelye a perfonage, that it was doubted whether he 
 were more bound to Nature for the liniaments of his perfon, or to 
 Fortune for the increafe of his poffeffions. But Nature impa- 
 tient of comparifons, and as it were difdaining a companion or 
 copartner in hir working, added to this comelyneffe of his bodye 
 fuch a fharpe capacity of minde, that not onely fhe proued For- 
 tune counterfaite, but was halfe of that opinion that fhe hir felfe 
 was onely currant. This young gallaunt of more witte then 
 wealth, and yet of more wealth then wifedome, feeing himfelfe 
 inferiour to none in pleafant conceits, though himfelfe fuperiour 
 to all his [in] honeft conditions, infomuch that he thought him- 
 felfe fo apt to all thinges that he gaue himfelfe almof t to nothing 
 but practifing of thofe thinges commonly which are indicent 
 [incident] to thefe fharpe wittes, fine phrafes, fmooth quippes, 
 merry tauntes, [vfing] ief tinge without meane, and abufing mirth 
 without meafure. As therefore the fweeteft Rofe hath his 
 prickell, the fineft veluet his bracke, the faireft flower his branne, 
 fo the fharpeft wit hath his wanton will, and the hoHeft head his 
 wicked way. And true it is that fome men write and mof t men 
 beleeue, that in al perfect fhapes, a blemmifh bringeth rather a 
 lyking euery way to the eyes, then a loathing any way to the 
 minde. Venus had hir Mole in hir cheeke which made hir more 
 amiable : Helen hir Scarre in hir chinne, which Paris called Cos 
 Amoris, the whetftone of loue, Arijtippus his Wart, Lycurgus his 
 Wen : So likewife in the difpofition of the minde, either vertue 
 
 60 
 
EVPHVES 6i 
 
 is ouerfhadowed with fome vice, or vice ouercaft with fome 
 vertue. Alexander valyant in warre, yet giuen to wine. Tullie 
 eloquent in his glofes, yet vaineglorious. Salomon wife, yet to[o] 
 too wanton. Dauid holy, but yet an homicide. None more 
 wittie then Euphues, yet at the firft none more wicked. The 
 frefheft colours fooneft fade, the teeneft Rafor fooneft tourneth 
 his edge, the fineft cloth is fooneft eaten with [the] Moathes^ 
 and the Cambricke fooner f tayned then the courfe Canuas : 
 which appeared well in this Euphues, whofe wit beeing like waxe, 
 apt to receiue any impreffion, and bearing the head in his owne 
 hande, either to vfe the rayne or the fpurre, difdayning counfaile,, 
 leauing his country, loathinge his olde acquaintance, thought 
 either by wit to obteyne fome conqueft, or by fhame to abyde 
 fome conflict, who preferring fancy before friends, and [t]his 
 prefent humor, before honour to come, laid reafon in water being 
 to[o] fait for his taft, and followed vnbrideled affection, moft 
 pleafant for his tooth. . . . It happened this young Impe to ariue 
 at Naples (a place of more pleafure then profit, and yet of more 
 profit then pietie), the very walls and windowes whereoff, f hewed 
 it rather to be the Tabernacle of Venus, then the Temple of 
 Vefta. Ther was all things neceffary and in redynes, that might 
 either allure the mind to luft or entice ye heart to folly : a court 
 more meete for an Atheyft, then for one of Athens: for Ouid, then. 
 for Ariftotle: for a graceleffe louer, then for a godly liuer : more 
 fitter for Paris then Hector, and meeter for Flora then Diana. 
 Heere my youth (whether for wearineffe he could not, or for 
 wantonnes would not go any farther) determined to make his 
 abode, whereby it is euidently f eene that the fieetef t fifh fwalloweth 
 the delicateft bait : that the highef t foaring Hauke traineth to 
 ye lure : and that ye wittieft braine, is inuegled with the fodeine 
 view of alluring vanities. Heere he wanted no companyons, 
 which courted him continually with fundrye kindes of deuifes, 
 whereby they might either f oake his purffe to reape commoditie, 
 or footh his perfon, to winne credite: for he had gueftes and 
 companions of all forts. 
 
 Ther frequented to his lodging, as well the Spider to fucke 
 poyfon of his fine wit, as the Bee to gather Hunny : as well the 
 Drone as the Doue : the Foxe as the Lambe : as wel Damocles 
 
62 JOHN LYLY 
 
 to betray him, as Damon to be true to him. Yet he behaued 
 himfelfe lo warily, that hee fingled his game wifelye. 
 
 Euphues having loiourned by the Ipace of two monethes in 
 Naples, whether he were moued by the courtefie of a young 
 gentleman named Phila[u]tus, or inforced by deftany : whether 
 his pregna[n]t wit, or his pleafant conceits wrought the greater 
 lyking in [of] the minde of Euphues, I know not for certeintie : 
 But Euphues fhewed fuch entyre loue towards him, that he 
 feemed to make fmall accompt of any others, determining to 
 enter into fuch an inuiolable league of friendfhip with him, as 
 neither time by peecemeale fhould impaire, neither fancie vtterly 
 defolue, nor any fufpition infringe. 
 
 Euphues had continual acceffe to the place of Philautus, and 
 no little famiharitie with him, and finding him at conuenient 
 leafure, in thefe fhort termes vnfolded his minde vnto [to] him. 
 
 Gentleman and friend, the try all I haue had of thy manners 
 cutteth off diuers termes, which to an other I wold haue vfed in 
 the lyke matter. And fithens a long discourfe argueth folly, 
 and delicate words incurre the fufpition of flattery, I am deter- 
 mined to vfe neither of them, knowing either of them to breede 
 offence. Wayinge with my felfe the force of friend fhippe by the 
 effects, I ftudyed euer fince my firft comming to Naples to enter 
 league with fuch a one as might direct my f teps being a f tranger, 
 and refemble my manners being a fcholler, the which two quali- 
 ties as I find in you able to fatiffie my defire, fo I hope I fhall 
 finde a heart in you willinge to accomplifh my requeft. Which 
 if I may obteine, affure your felfe, that Damon to his Pythias, 
 Pilades to his Oreftes, Tytus to his Gyjippus, Thejius to his 
 Pirothus, Scipio to his LceUus, was neuer founde more faithfull, 
 then Euphues will bee to Philautus. 
 
 Philautus by how much the leffe he looked for this difcourfe, 
 by fo much the more he lyked it, for he fawe all qualities both of 
 body and minde, in Euphues, vnto whom he replyed as followeth. 
 
 Friend Euphues (for fo your talke warranteth me to term you) 
 
EVPHVES 63 
 
 I dare neither vfe a long proceffe, neither a louing fpeach, leaft 
 vnwittingly I Ihold caufe you to conuince me of thofe things 
 which you haue already condemned. And verily I am bold to 
 prefume vpon your curtefie, fince you your felf haue vied fo little 
 curiofitie : perfwading my felfe that my fhort anfwere will 
 worke as great an effect in you, as your few words did in me. 
 And feeing we refemble (as you fay) each other in quahties, 
 it cannot be yat the one should differ from the other in curtefie, 
 feeing the fincere affection of the minde cannot be expreffed 
 by the mouth, and that no art can vnfold the entire loue of 
 ye heart, I am earneftly to befeech you not to meafure the 
 firmeneffe of my faith, by ye fewnes of my wordes, but 
 rather thinke that the ouerflowing wanes of good wil, leaue no 
 paffage for many words. 
 
 But after many embracings and proteftations one to an other, 
 they walked to dinner, wher they wanted neither meat, neither 
 Muficke, neither any other paftime : and hauing banqueted, to 
 digeft their fweete confections, they daunced all that after 
 noone, they vfed not onely one boorde but one bed, one booke (if 
 fo be it they thought not one too many). Their friendfhip 
 augmented euery day, infomuch that the one could not refraine 
 the company of the other one minute, all things went in common 
 betweene them, which all men accompted commendable. 
 
 Phila[u]tus being a towne borne childe, both for his owne 
 countenaunce, and the great countenaunce which his father had 
 while he lined, crept into credit with Don Ferardo one of the 
 chiefe gouernours of the citie, who although he had a courtly 
 crew of gentlewomen foiourning in his pallaice, yet his daughter, 
 heire to his whole reuenewes ftayned ye beau tie of them al, whofe 
 modeft bafhfulnes caufed the other to looke wanne for enuie, 
 whofe Lilly cheekes dyed with a Vermilion red, made the reft 
 to blufh for fhame. For as the fineft Ruby ftaineth ye coulour 
 of the reft that be in place, or as the Sunne dimmeth the Moone, 
 that fhe cannot be difcerned, fo this gallant girle more faire then 
 fortunate, and yet more fortunate then faithful, eclipfed the 
 beautie of them all, and chaunged their colours. Vnto hir had 
 
64 JOHN LYLY 
 
 Philautus acceffe, who wan hir by right of loue, and fhould haue 
 worne hir by right of law, had not Euphues by ftraunge deftenie 
 broken the bondes of mariage, and forbidden the banes of 
 Matrimony. 
 
 It happened that Don Ferardo had occafion to goe to Venice 
 about certeine [of] his owne affaires, leauing his daughter the 
 onely fteward of his houfehold, who fpared not to feaf t Philautus 
 hir friend, with al kinds of deHghts and delycates, referuing only 
 hir honeftie as the chiefe ftay of hir honour. Hir father being 
 gone fhe lent for hir friend to fupper, who came not as hee was 
 accuftomed folitarilye alone, but accompanyed with his friend 
 Euphues. The Gentlewoman whether it were for niceneffe, or 
 for nigardneffe of courtefie, gaue him fuch a colde welcome, that 
 he repented that he was come. 
 
 Euphues though he knewe himfelfe worthy euerye way to haue 
 a good countenaunce, yet coulde he not perceiue hir willing any 
 way to lende him a friendly looke. Yet leaft he fhould feeme to 
 want geftures, or to be dafhed out of conceipt with hir coy 
 countenaunce, he addreffed him to a Gentlewoman called Liuia, 
 vnto whome he vttered this fpeach. Faire Ladye, if it be the 
 guif e of Italy to welcome f traungers with f trangnes, I muf t needes 
 fay the cuftome is ftrange and the countrey barbarous, if the 
 manner of Ladies to falute Gentlemen with coyneffe, then I am 
 enforced to think the women without [voyde of] courtefie to vfe 
 fuch welcome, and the men paft fhame that will come. But 
 heereafter I will either bring a ftoole on mine arme for an vn- 
 bidden gueft, or a vifard on my face, for a fhameleffe goffippe. 
 Liuia replyed. 
 
 Sir, our country is ciuile, and our gentlewomen are curteous, 
 but in Naples it is compted a left, at euery word to fay, In faith 
 you are welcome. As fhe was yet talking, fupper was fet on 
 the bord, then Philautus fpake thus vnto Lucilla. Yet Gentle- 
 woman, I was the bolder to bring my fhadow with me, (meaning 
 Euphues) knowing that he should be the better welcome for my 
 fake : vnto whom the Gentlewoman replyed. Sir, as I neuer 
 when I faw you, thought that you came without your fhadow, 
 fo now I cannot lyttle meruaile to fee you fo ouerfhot in bringing 
 a hew fhadow with you. Euphues, though he perceiued hir coy 
 
EVPHVES 65 
 
 nippe, feemed not to care for it, but taking hir by the hand 
 faid. 
 
 Faire Lady, feeing the fhade doth [fo] often fhield your beautie 
 from the parching Sunne, I hope you will the better efteeme of 
 the fhadow, and by fo much the leffe it ought to be offenfiue, 
 by how much the leffe it is able to offende you, and by fo much the 
 more you ought to lyke it, by how much the more you vfe to lye 
 in it. 
 
 Well Gentleman, aunfwered Lucilla, in arguing of the fhadow, 
 we forgoe the fubf taunce : pleaf eth it you therefore to fit downe 
 to fupper. And fo they all fate downe, but Euphues fed of one 
 difh, which [was] euer stoode before him, the beautie of Lucilla. 
 
 Supper beeing ended, the order was in Naples, that the Gentle- 
 women would defire to heare fome difcourse, either concerning 
 loue, or learning : And although Philautus was requefted, yet he 
 pof ted it ouer to Euphues, whome he knewe moft fit for that pur- 
 pofe : Euphues beeing thus tyed to the f take by their importu- 
 nate intreatie, began as followeth. 
 
 He that worft may is alway enforced to holde the candell, the 
 weakeft muft ftill to the wall, where none will, the Diuell him- 
 felfe muft beare the croffe. But were it not Gentlewomen, that 
 your luft ftandes for law, I would borrow fo much leaue as to 
 refigne mine office to one of you, whofe experience in loue hath 
 made you learned, and whofe learninge hath made you fo louely : 
 for me to intreat of the one being a nouife, or to difcourfe of the 
 other being a trewant, I may well make you weary, but neuer 
 the wifer, and giue you occafion rather to laugh at my rafhneffe, 
 then to lyke my reafons : Yet I care the leffe to excufe my bold- 
 neffe to you, who were the caufe of my bhndneffe. And fince I 
 am at mine owne choyce, either to talke of loue or of learning, I 
 had rather for this time bee deemed an vnthrift in reiecting 
 profite, then a Stoicke in renouncing pleafure. 
 
 It hath bene a queftion often difputed, but neuer determined, 
 whether the quaUties of the minde, or the compofition of the 
 man, caufe women moft to lyke, or whether beautie or wit moue 
 men moft to loue. Certes by how much the more the minde is to 
 be preferred before the body, by fo much the more the graces of 
 the one are to be preferred before ye gifts of the other, which if 
 
66 JOHN LYLY 
 
 it be fo, that the contemplation of the inward qualitie ought to 
 bee refpected, more then the view of the outward beautie, then 
 doubtleffe women either do or fhould loue thofe beft whofe ver- 
 tue is beft, not meafuring the deformed man, with the reformed 
 minde. 
 
 The foule Toade hath a faire ftone in his head, the fine golde 
 is found in the filthy earth : the fweet kernell lyeth in the hard 
 fhell : vertue is harboured in the heart of him that moft men 
 efteeme mifhapen. Contrariwife, if we refpect more the out- 
 ward fhape, then the inward habit, good God, into how many 
 mifchiefs do wee fall ? into what blindneffe are we ledde ? Doe 
 we not commonly fee that in painted pottes is hidden the deadlyeft 
 poyfon ? that in the greenef t graffe is ye greateft Serpent ? in the 
 cleeref t water the vglyeft Toade ? Doth not experience teach 
 vs, that in the moft curious Sepulcher are enclofed rotten bones ? 
 That the Cypreffe tree beareth a faire leafe, but no f ruite ? That 
 the Eftridge carieth faire feathers, but ranke flefh ? How fran- 
 tick are thofe louers which are caried away with the gaye glifter- 
 ing of the fine face ? The beautie whereoff is parched with the 
 fummers blaze, and chipped with the winters blaft : which is of 
 fo fhort continuance, that it f adeth before one perceiue it fiourif h : 
 of fo fmal profit, that it poyfoneth thofe that poffeffe it : of fo 
 litle value with the wife, that they accompt it a delicate baite 
 with a deadly hooke : a fweet Panther with a deuouring paunch, 
 a fower poyfon in a filuer potte. Heere I could enter into dif- 
 courfe of fuch fine dames as being in loue with their owne lookes, 
 make fuch courfe accompt of their paffionate louers : for com- 
 monly if they be adorned with beautie, they be ftraight laced, 
 and made fo high in the infteppe, that they difdaine them moft 
 that moft defire them. It is a worlde to fee the doating of their 
 louers, and their dealing with them, the reueUng of whofe fubtil 
 traines would caufe me to fhed teares, and you Gentlewomen 
 to fhut your modeft eares. Pardon me Gentlewomen if I 
 vnfolde euery wile and fhew euery wrinkle of womens difpofi- 
 tion. Two things do they caufe their feruants to vow vnto 
 them, fecrecie, and fouereintie : the one to conceale their en- 
 tifing fleights, by the other to affure themfelues of their only 
 feruice. Againe, but hoe there : if I fhoulde haue waded anye 
 
EVPHVES 67 
 
 further, and fownded the depth of their deceipt, I fhould either 
 haue procured your difpleafure, or incurred the fufpicion of fraud : 
 either armed you to practife the hke fubtiltie, or accufed my 
 felfe of periury. But I meane not to offend your chaft mindes, 
 with the rehearfal of their vnchaft manners : whofe eares I 
 perceiue to glow, and hearts to be grieued at that which I haue 
 alredy vttered : not that amongf t you there be any fuch, but 
 that in your fexe ther fhould be any fuch. Let not Gentlewomen 
 therefore make to[o] much of their painted fheath, let them not 
 be fo curious in their owne conceit, or fo currifh to their loyal 
 louers. When the black Crowes foote fhall appeare in their 
 eye, or the blacke Oxe treade on their foote, when their beautie 
 fhall be lyke the blafted Rofe, their wealth wafted, their bodies 
 worne, their faces wrinkled, their fingers crooked, who wil hke 
 of them in their age, who loued none in their youth ? If you will 
 be cherifhed when you be olde, be courteous while you be young : 
 if you looke for comfort in your hoarie haires, be not coye when 
 you haue your golden lockes : if you would be imbraced in ye 
 wayning of your brauerie, be not fqueymifh in the waxing of your 
 beautie : if you defire to be kept lyke the Rofes when they haue 
 loft their coulour, fmel fweete as the Rofe doth in the budde : 
 if you woulde bee tafted for olde Wine, bee in the mouth a pleaf- 
 aunt Grape : fo fhall you be cherifhed for your courtefie, com- 
 forted for your honeftie, embraced for your amitie, fo fhall you 
 [ye] be preferued with the fweete Rofe, and dronke with the 
 pleafant wine. Thus farre I am bolde gentlewomen, to counfel 
 those that be coy, that they weaue not the web of their owne woe, 
 nor spinne the threede of their own thraldome, by their own 
 ouerthwartnes. And feeing we are euen in the bowells of loue, 
 it fhal not be amiffe, to examine whether man or woman be foon- 
 eft allured, whether be moft conftant the male or the female. 
 And in this poynte I meane not to be mine owne earner, leaft I 
 fhould feeme either to picke a thanke with men, or a quarel with 
 women. If therefore it might ftand with your pleafure (Miftres 
 Lucilla) to giue your cenfure, I would take the contrarie : for 
 fure I am though your iudgement be found, yet affection will 
 fhadow it. 
 
 Lucilla feeing his pretence, thought to take aduauntage of his 
 
68 JOHN LYLY 
 
 large profer, vnto whom fhe faide. Gentleman in my opinion, 
 women are to be wonne with euery wind, in whofe fexe ther is 
 neither force to withftand the affaults of loue, neither conftancy 
 to remaine faithfull. And bicaufe your difcourfe hath hetherto 
 bred delight, I am loth to hinder you in the fequele of your 
 deuifes. Euphues, perceiuing himfelfe to be taken napping, 
 aunfwered as followeth. 
 
 Mif tres Lucilla, if you fpeake as you thinke, thef e gentlewomen 
 prefent haue little caufe to thanke you, if you cause me to com- 
 mend women, my tale will be accompted a meere trifle, and your 
 wordes the plaine truth : Yet knowing promife to be debt, I will 
 paye it with performance. And I woulde the Gentlemen heere 
 prefent were as ready to credit my proofe, as the gentlewomen 
 are wilUng to heare their own prayfes, or I as able to ouercome, 
 as Miftres Lucilla would be content to be ouerthrowne, howe fo 
 euer the matter fhall fall out, I am of the furer fide : for if my 
 reafons be weake, then is our fexe ftrong : if forcible, then [is] 
 your iudgement feeble : if I finde truth on my fide, I hope I 
 fhall for my wages win the good will of women : if I want proofe, 
 then gentlewomen of neceffitie you muft yeeld to men. But 
 to the matter. 
 
 Touching the yeelding to loue, albeit their heartes feeme 
 tender, yet they harden them lyke the f tone of Sicilia, the which 
 the more it is beaten the harder it is : for being framed as it were 
 of the perfection of men, they be free from all fuch cogitations 
 as may any way prouoke them to vncleaneneffe, infomuch as 
 they abhorre the light loue of youth, which is grounded vppon 
 luft, and diffolued, vpon euery Hght occafion. When they fee 
 the folly of men turne to fury, their delyght to doting, their 
 affection to f rencie, when they fee them as it were pine in plea- 
 fure, and to wax pale through their own peeuifhnes, their futes, 
 their feruice, their letters, their labours, their loues, their hues, 
 feeme to them fo odyous, that they harden their hearts againft 
 fuch concupyfence, to the ende they might conuert them from 
 rafhneffe to reafon : from fuch lewde difpofition, to honeft 
 difcretion. Heereoff it commeth that men accufe woemen of 
 cruelty, bicause they themfelues want ciuility : they accompt 
 them full of wyles, in not yeelding to their wickednes : faithleffe 
 
EVPHVES 69 
 
 for refifting their filthynes. But I had almoft forgot my felfe, 
 you fhal pardon me Miftres Lucilla for this time, if this [thus] 
 abruptlye, I finifh my difcourfe : it is neither for want of good 
 wil, or lack of proofe, but yat I feele in my felf fuch alteration, 
 yat I can scarcely vtter one worde. Ah Euphues, Euphues. 
 The gentlewomen were ftrooke into fuch a quandary with this 
 fodeine chaunge, that they all chaunged coulour. But Euphues 
 taking Philautus by the hande, and giuing the gentlewomen 
 thankes for their patience and his repaft, bad them al farewell, 
 and went immediately to his chamber. But Lucilla who nowe 
 began to frye in the flames of loue, all the companye being 
 departed to their lodgings, entered into thefe termes and con- 
 trarieties. 
 
 Ah wretched wench Lucilla, how art thou perplexed ? what a 
 doubtful! fight doft thou feele betwixt [betweene] faith and fancy ? 
 hope and feare ? confcience and concupifcence ? O my Euphues, 
 lyttle doft thou knowe the fodeyn forrowe that I fufteine for 
 thy fweete fake: Whofe wyt hath bewitched me, whofe rare 
 qualyties haue depryued me of myne olde qualytie, mof t curteous 
 behauiour without curiofitie, whofe comely feature, wythout 
 fault, whofe filed fpeach without fraud, hath wrapped me in this 
 miffortune. And canft thou Lucilla be fo light of loue in for- 
 f aking Philautus to flye to Euphues ? canft thou prefer a f traunger 
 before thy countryman ? a ftarter before thy companion ? Why, 
 Euphues doth perhappes [perhappes doeth] defire my loue, but 
 Philautus hath deferued it. Why, Euphues feature is worthy 
 as good as I, but Philautus his faith is worthy a better. I, but 
 the latter loue is moft feruent, I, but ye firft ought to be moft 
 faythfuU. I, but Euphues hath greater perfection, I, but 
 Philautus hath deeper aft'ection. 
 
 She hauing thus difcourfed with hir felfe, hir owne miferies, 
 caft hir felfe on the bedde and there lette hir lye, and retourne we 
 to Euphues, who was fo caught in thje ginne of folly, that he 
 neither could comfort himfelfe, nor durft afke counfaile of his 
 friend, fufpecting that which in deede was true, that Philautus 
 was corriual with him and cooke-mate with Lucilla. Amiddeft 
 
70 JOHN LYLY 
 
 therefore thefe his extremities, betweene hope and feare, he 
 vttered thefe or the lyke fpeaches. 
 
 What is he Euphues, that knowing thy witte, and feeing thy 
 folly, but will rather punifh thy leaudneffe, then pittie thy 
 heauineffe ? Was ther euer any fo fickle fo foone to be allured ? 
 any euer [euer anie] fo faithleffe to deceiue his friend ? euer any 
 fo foolifh to bathe himfelfe in his owne mif fortune ? Too true 
 it is, that as the fea Crab fwimmeth alwayes againf t the ftreame, 
 fo wit alwayes ftriueth againft wifedome : And as the Bee is 
 oftentimes hurt with hir owne Honny, fo is witte not feldome 
 plagued with his owne conceipt. 
 
 ******* 
 
 Shall I not then hazarde my life to obteine my loue ? and de- 
 ceiue Philautus to receiue Lucilla? Yes Euphues, where loue 
 beareth fway, f riendf hip can haue no fhewe : As Philautus brought 
 me for his fhadowe the laft fupper, fo will I vfe him for my 
 fhadow till I haue gained his Saint. And canft thou wretch be 
 f alf e to him that is faithful to thee ? Shall his curtefie bee cauf e of 
 thy crueltie ? Wilt thou violate the league of fayth, to enherite 
 the lande of folly ? Shall affection be of more force then friend- 
 fhip, loue then lawe, luft then loyaltie ? Knowef t thou not 
 that he that lofeth his honeftie, hath nothing els to loofe. 
 ******* 
 
 Euphues hauing thus talked with himfelfe, Philautus entered 
 the chamber, and finding him fo worne and wafted with con- 
 tinuall mourning, neither ioying in hys meate, nor reioycing in 
 his friend, with watry eyes vttered this f peach. 
 
 Friend and fellow, as I am not ignoraunt of thy prefent weake- 
 nes, fo I am not priuie of the caufe : and although I fufpect 
 many things, yet can I affure my felf of no one thing. Therfore 
 my good Euphues, for thefe doubts and dumpes of mine, either 
 remoue the caufe, or reueale it. Thou haft hetherto founde me 
 a cheerefull companion in thy myrth, and nowe fhalt thou finde 
 me as carefuU with thee in thy moane. If altogether thou 
 maift not be cured, yet maift thou bee comforted. If ther be 
 any thing yat either by my friends may be procured, or by my 
 
EVPHVES 71 
 
 life attained, that may either heale thee in part, or helpe thee in 
 all, I proteft to thee by the name of a friend, that it fhall rather 
 be gotten with the lof fe of my body, then loft by getting a king- 
 dome. Euphues hearing this comfort and friendly counfaile, 
 diffembled his forrowing heart with a fmiling face, aunfwering 
 him forthwith as followeth. 
 
 So it is Philautus (for why fhould I conceale it from thee, of 
 whome I am to take counfayle) that fince my laft and firft being 
 with thee at the houfe of Ferardo, I haue felt fuch a furious batt- 
 ayle in mine owne body, as if it be not fpeedely repreffed by 
 polhcie, it wil cary my minde (the graund captaine in this fight) 
 into endleffe captiuitie. Ah Liuia, Liuia, thy courtly grace 
 with out coyneffe, thy blazing beautie without blemifh, thy 
 curteous demeanor without curiofitie, thy fweet fpeech fauoured 
 with witte, thy comely mirth tempered with modeftie ? thy 
 chaft lookes, yet louely : thy fharp taunts, yet pleafaunt : haue 
 giuen me fuch a checke, that fure I am at the next viewe of thy 
 vertues, I fhall take thee mate. If therefore Philautus, thou 
 canft fet but this fether to mine arrow, thou fhalt fee me fhoote 
 fo neere, that thou wilt accompt me for a cunning Archer. And 
 verily if I had not loued thee well, I would haue fwallowed mine 
 own forrow in filence, knowing yat in loue nothing is fo daunger- 
 ous as to perticipate the meanes thereoff to an other, and that 
 two may keepe counfaile if one be away, I am therefore enforced 
 perforce, to challenge that curtefie at thy hands, which earft 
 thou didftpromifewith thy heart, the performaunce whereoff fhall 
 binde me to Philautus, and prooue thee faithfull to Euphues. 
 
 Philautus thinking al to be gold that gUftered, and all to be 
 Gofpell that Euphues vttered, anfwered his forged gloafe with 
 this friendly cloafe. 
 
 In that thou haft made me priuie to thy purpofe, I will not 
 conceale my practife : in yat thou craueft my aide, affure thy 
 felfe I will be the finger next thy thombe : infomuch as thou 
 fhalt neuer repent thee of ye one or the other, for perfwade thy 
 felfe that thou fhalt finde Philautus during Hfe ready to comfort 
 thee in thy miffortunes, and fuccour thee in thy neceffitie. 
 Concerning Liuia, though fhe be faire, yet is fhe not fo amiable 
 as my Lucilla, whofe feruaunt I haue bene the terme of three 
 
72 JOHN LYLY 
 
 yeres : but leaf t comparifons fhould feeme odious, chiefely 
 where both the parties be without comparifon, I will omitte that, 
 and feing that we had both rather be talking with them, then 
 tatling of them, we will immediately goe to them. And truly 
 Euphues, I am not a lyttle glad, that I fhall haue thee not only a 
 comfort in my life, but alfo a companion in my loue : As thou 
 haft ben wife in thy choice, fo I hope thou fhalt be fortunate in 
 thy chaunce. Liuia is a wench of more wit then beautie, Lucilla 
 of more beautie then wit, both of more honeftie then honour, 
 and yet both of fuch honour, as in all Naples there is not one in 
 birth to be compared with any of them both. How much 
 therefore haue wee to reioyce in our choice. Touching our 
 acceffe, be thou fecure, I will flappe Ferardo in the mouth with 
 fome conceipt, and hi his olde head fo full of new fables, that 
 thou fhalt rather be earneftly entreated to repaire to his houfe, 
 then euill entreated to leaue it. As olde men are very fufpicious 
 to miftruft euery thing, fo are they verye credulous to beleeue 
 any thing : the blynde man doth eate manye a Flye, yea but 
 fayd Euphues, take heede my Philautus, that thou thy felf 
 fwallow not a Gudgen, which word Philautus did not mark, 
 vntil he had almoft digefted it. But faid Euphues, let vs go 
 deuoutly to ye fhrine of our Saints, there to offer our deuotion, 
 for my books teach me, that fuch a wound muft be healed wher 
 it was firf t hurt, and for this dif eaf e we will vf e a common remedie, 
 but yet comfortable. The eye that bhnded thee, fhall make 
 thee fee, the Scorpion that ftung thee fhall heale thee, a fharpe 
 fore hath a fhort cure, let vs goe : to the which Euphues conf ented 
 willyngly, fmiHng to himf elf e to fee how he had brought Philautus, 
 into a fooles Paradife. 
 
 Heere you may fee Gentlemen, the falfehood in fellowfhip, 
 the fraude in friendfhippe, the paynted fheath with the leaden 
 dagger, the faire wordes that make fooles faine : but I will not 
 trouble you with fuperfluous addition, vnto whom I feare mee I 
 haue bene tedious with the bare difcourfe of this rude hiftorie. 
 
 Philautus and Euphues repaired to the houfe of Ferardo, 
 where they founde Mif tres Lucilla and Liuia, accompanied with 
 other Gentlewomen, neyther beeing idle, nor well imployed, but 
 playing at cardes. But when Lucilla beheld Euphues, fhe coulde 
 
EVPHVES 73 
 
 fcarcely conteine hir felfe from embracing him, had not womanly 
 fhamefaftnes and Philautus his prefence, ftayed hir wifedome. 
 
 Euphues on the other fide was fallen into fuch a traunce, that 
 he had not ye power either to fuccor himfelfe, or falute the 
 gentlewomen. At the lalt Lucilla, began as one that belt might 
 be bolde, on this manner. 
 
 Gentlemen, although your long abfence gaue mee occafion to 
 think that you diflyked your late enterteinment, yet your 
 comming at the laft hath cut off my former fufpition : And by fo 
 much the more you are welcome, by how much the more you were 
 wifhed for. But you Gentleman (taking Euphues by the hande) 
 were the rather wifhed for, for that your difcourfe being left 
 vnperfect, caufed vs all to longe (as woemen are wont for thinges 
 that lyke them) to haue an ende thereoff . Unto whome Philautus 
 reply ed as followeth. 
 
 Miftres Lucilla, though your curtefie made vs nothing to 
 doubt of our welcome, yet modeftye caufed vs to pinch curtefie, 
 who fhould firft come : as for my friende, I thinke hee was neuer 
 wyfhed for heere fo earneftly of any as of himfelfe, whether it 
 myght be to renewe his talke, or to recant his fayings, I cannot 
 tell. Euphues takynge the tale out of Philautus mouth, 
 aunfwered : Miftres Lucilla, to recant verities were herefie, and 
 renewe the prayfes of woemen flattery : the onely caufe I 
 wyfhed my felfe heere, was to giue thankes for fo good enter- 
 tainment the which I could no wayes deferue, and to breede a 
 greater acquaintaunce if it might be to make amendes. 
 
 But whileft he was yet fpeakinge, Ferardo entered, whome 
 they all duetifully welcommed home, who rounding Philautus 
 in the eare, defired hym to accompanye hym immediatlye with- 
 out farther paufinge, protefting it fhoulde bee as well for his 
 preferment as for his owne profite. Philautus confentinge, 
 Ferardo fayde vnto hys daughter. 
 
 Lucilla, the vrgent aff[a]yres I haue in hande, wyll fcarce 
 fuffer mee to tarrye with you one houre, yet my returne I hope 
 will bee fo fhort, that my abfence fhall not breede thy forrowe : 
 in the meane feafon I commit all things into thy cuf tody, wifhing 
 thee to vfe thy accuftomable curtefie. And feeing I muft take 
 Philautus with mee, I will bee fo bolde to craue you Gentleman 
 
74 JOHN LYLY 
 
 (his friende) to fupply his roome, defiring you to take this haltye 
 warning for a hartye welcome, and fo to fpend this time of mine 
 abfence in honeft myrth. And thus I leaue you. 
 
 Philautus knewe well the caufe of thys fodeyne departure, 
 which was to redeeme certeine landes that were morgaged in his 
 Fathers time, to the vfe of Ferardo, who on that condition had 
 before time promifed him his daughter in mariage. But returne 
 we to Euphues. 
 
 Euphues was furprifed with fuch increadible ioye at this 
 ftraunge euent, that he had almoft founded, for feeing his coriuall 
 to be departed, and Ferardo to giue him fo friendly en tertaynment, 
 doubted not in time to get the good wil of Lucilla: Whom find- 
 ing in place conuenient without company, with a bold courage 
 and comely gefture, he began to affay hir in this fort. 
 
 Gentlewoman, my acquaintaunce beeing fo little, I am afrayd 
 my credite wyll be leffe, for that they commonly are fooneft 
 beleeued, that are beft beloued, and they lyked beft whom we 
 haue knowen longeft, neuertheleffe the noble minde fufpecteth 
 no guyle without cause, neither condemneth any wight without 
 proofe : hauing therefore notife of your heroycall heart, I am 
 the better perfwaded of my good hap. So it is Lucilla, that 
 comming to Naples but to fetch fire, as the by[e] word is, not to 
 make my place of abode, I haue founde fuch flames that I can 
 neither quench them with ye water of free will, neither coole 
 them with wisdome. It is your beautie (pardon my abrupte 
 boldneffe) Lady, that hath taken euery parte of me prifoner, 
 and brought mee vnto this deepe diftreffe, but feeing women 
 when one prayfeth them for their deferts, deeme that he fiattereth 
 them to obteine his defire, I am heere prefent to yeeld myfelfe 
 to fuch tryal, as your courtefie in this behalfe fhal require. 
 Thus not blinded by light affection, but dazeled with your rare 
 perfection, and boldened by your exceeding courtefie : I haue 
 vnfolded mine entire loue, defiring you hauing fo good leafure, 
 to giue fo friendlye an aunfwere, as I may receiue comforte, and 
 you commendacion. 
 
 Lucilla, although fhe were contented to heare this defired 
 difcourfe, yet did fhee feeme to bee fomewhat difpleafed. 
 And truely I know not whether it be peculiar to that fexe to 
 
EVPHVES 75 
 
 diffemble with thofe whom they molt defire, or whether by 
 craft they haue learned outwardly to loath that, which inwardly 
 they moft loue : yet wifely did fhe caft this in hir head, that if 
 fhe fhould yeelde at the firf t affault, he would thinke hir a light 
 hufwife : if fhe fhould reiect him fcornfully a very haggard : 
 minding therefore that he fhoulde neither take holde of hir 
 promife, neither vnkindeneffe of hir precifeneffe, fhe fed him 
 indifferently, with hope and difpaire, reafon and affection, life 
 and death. Yet in the ende arguing wittily vpon certeine 
 queftions, they fel to fuch agreement, as poore Philautus would 
 not haue agreed vnto if he had ben prefent, yet alwayes keeping 
 the [her] body vndefiled. And thus fhe replyed : I woulde not 
 Euphues that thou fhouldeft condemne me of rigour, in that I 
 feeke to affwage thy folly by reafon : but take this by the way, 
 that although as yet I am difpofed to lyke of none, yet when- 
 foeuer I fhall loue any, I wil not forget thee : in the meane feafon 
 accompt me thy friend, for thy foe I will neuer be. 
 
 Euphues was brought into a great quandary, and as it were a 
 colde fhiuering, to heare this newe kinde of kindneffe : fuch 
 fweete meate, fuch fowre fauce : fuch fayre wordes, fuch fainte 
 promifes : fuch hot loue, fuch colde defire : fuch certeine hope, 
 fuch fodeine chaunge : and ftoode lyke one that had looked on 
 Medujaes heade, and fo had beene tourned into a ftone. 
 
 Lucilla feeing him in this pitiful plight, and fearing he would 
 take ftand if the lure were not caft out, toke him by the hand, 
 and wringing him foftly, with a fmiling countenaunce began 
 thus to comfort him. 
 
 Me thinks Euphues chaunging f o your colour, vpon the fodeine, 
 you wil foone chaunge your coppie : is your minde on your 
 meate ? a penny for your thought. 
 
 Miftres (quoth he) if you would by al my thoughts at that 
 price? I fhould neuer be wearye of thinking, but feeing it is 
 too [fo] deere, reade it and take it for nothing. 
 
 It feemes to me (faid fhe) that you are in fome brown ftudy, 
 what coulours you might beft weare for your Lady. 
 
 In deede Lucilla you leuel fhrewdly at my thought, by the 
 ayme of your owne imagination, for you haue giuen vnto me a 
 true loue[r]s knot wrought of chaungeable Silke, and you deeme 
 
76 JOHN LYLY 
 
 that I am deuifing how I might haue my coulours chaungeable 
 alfo, that they might agree : But lette this with fuch toyes and 
 deuifes paffe, if it pleafe you to commaunde me anye feruice 
 I am heere ready to attend your [pjlealure. No feruice Euphues, 
 but that you keepe filence, vntil I haue vttered my minde : and 
 fecrecie when I haue vnfolded my meaning. 
 
 If I fhould offende in the one I were too bolde, if in the other 
 too beaftly. 
 
 Well then Euphues (fayd fhee) fo it is, that for the hope that 
 I conceiue of thy loyaltie, and the happie fucceffe that is like to 
 enfue of this our loue, I am content to yeelde thee the place in 
 my heart which thou defireft and deferueft aboue all other, 
 which confent in me if it may any wayes breede thy contentation, 
 fure I am that it will euery way worke my comfort. But as 
 either thou tendereft mine honour or thine owne fafetie, vfe 
 fuch fecrecie in this matter, that my father haue no inckling 
 heereoff, before I haue framed his minde fit for our purpofe. 
 And though women haue fmall force to ouercome men by reafon, 
 yet haue they good fortune to vndermine them by polhcie. No 
 no, Euphues, thou onely haft wonne me by loue, and fhalt onely 
 weare me by law : I force not Philautus his fury, f o I may haue 
 Euphues his" friendfhip : neither wil I prefer his poffeffions 
 before thy perfon, neither efteme better of his lands, then of thy 
 loue. Ferardo fhal fooner difherite me of my patrimony, then 
 dif honour me in breaking my promife ? It is not his great 
 mannors, but thy good manners, that fhal make my mariage. 
 In token of which my fincere affection, I giue thee my hande in 
 pawne, and my heart for euer to be thy Lucilla. Vnto whom 
 Euphues aunfwered in this manner. 
 
 If my tongue were able to vtter the ioyes that my heart hath 
 conceiued, I feare me though I be well beloued, yet I fhould 
 hardly be beleeued. Ah my Lucilla, how much am I bound to 
 thee, which preferreft mine vnworthineffe, before thy Fathers 
 wrath : my happineffe, before thine owne miffortune : my loue, 
 before thine owne life ? Commaund Euphues to runne, to ride, 
 to vndertake any exployt be it neuer fo daungerous, to hazard 
 himfelfe in any enterprife, be it neuer fo defperate. 
 
EVPHVES 77 
 
 And thus being fupper time they all fate downe, Lucilla well 
 pleafed, no man better content then Euphues, who after his 
 repaf t hauing no opportunitie to confer with his louer, had fmall 
 luft to continue with the gentlewomen any longer, he coyned an 
 excufe to haften his departure, promifing the next morning to 
 trouble them againe as a guef t more bold then welcome, although 
 in deede he thought himfelfe to be the better welcome, in faying 
 that he would come. 
 
 But as Ferardo went in poft, fo hee retourned in haft hauing 
 concluded with Philautus, that the mariage fhould immediatly 
 be confummated, which wrought fuch a content in Philautus, 
 that he was almoft in an extafie through the extremitie of his 
 paffions. 
 
 Hee vrged therefore Ferardo to breake with his Daughter, 
 who beeing willyng to haue the matche made, was content 
 incontinentlye to procure the meanes : finding therefore his 
 daughter at leafure, and hauing knowledge of hir former loue, 
 ■fpake to hir as followeth. 
 
 Deere daughter as thou haft long time liued a maiden, fo now 
 thou muft learne to be a Mother, and as I haue bene careful! 
 to bring thee vp a Virgin, fo am I now defirous to make thee a 
 Wife. Neither ought I in this matter to vfe any perfwafions, 
 for that maidens commonly now a dayes are no fooner borne, 
 but they beginne to bride it : neither to offer any great portions, 
 for that thou knoweft thou fhalt enherite al my poffeffions. 
 Mine onely care hath bene hetherto, to match thee with fuch an 
 one, as fhoulde be of good wealth, able to mainteine thee : of 
 . great worfhip, able to compare with thee in birth : of honef t 
 conditions, to deferue thy loue : and an Italian borne to enioy 
 my landes. At the laft I haue found one aunfwerable to my 
 defire, a Gentleman of great reuenewes, of a noble progenie, of 
 honeft behauiour, of comly perfonage, borne and brought vp in 
 Naples, Philautus (thy friend as I geffe) thy husband Lucilla 
 if thou lyke it, neither canft thou diflike him, who wanteth noth- 
 ing that fhould caufe thy liking, neither hath any thing that 
 fhould breede thy loathing. 
 
 And furely I reioyce the more that thou fhalt bee linked to 
 him in mariage, whom thou haft loued, as I heare beeing a 
 
78 JOHN LYLY 
 
 maiden, neither can there any iarres kindle betweene them, wher 
 the mindes be fo vnited, neither any iealoufie arife, where louc 
 hath fo long bene fetled. Therefore Lucilla, to the ende the 
 defire of either of you may now be accomplyfhed to the delyght 
 of you both, I am heere come to finifhe the contract by gluing 
 handes, which you haue already begunne betweene your felues 
 by ioyning of hearts, that as GOD doth witneffe the one in your 
 confciences, fo the world may teftifie the other, by your con- 
 uerfations, and therefore Lucilla, make fuch aunfwere to my 
 requeft, as may lyke me and fatiffie thy friende. 
 
 Lucilla abafhed with this fodaine fpeach of hir father, yet 
 boldened by the loue of hir friend, with a comly bafhfulneffe, 
 aunfwered him in this manner. 
 
 Reuerend fir, the fweeteneffe that I haue found in the 
 vndefyled eftate of virginitie, caufeth me to loath the fower 
 fauce which is myxed with matrimony, and the quiet life which I 
 haue tryed being a mayden, maketh me to fhun the cares that 
 are alwayes incident to a mother, neither am I fo wedded to the 
 world that I fhould be moued with great poffeffions. 
 
 My duetie therefore euer referued, I here on my knees for- 
 fweare PhiLautus for my husband, although I accept him for my 
 friend, and feeing I fhal hardly be induced euer to match with 
 any, I befech you if by your fatherly loue I fhall be compelled, 
 that I may match with fuch a one as both I may loue and you 
 may lyke. 
 
 Ferardo being a graue and wife Gentleman, although he were 
 throughly angry, yet he diffembled his fury, to the ende he might 
 by craft difcouer hir fancy, and whifpering Philautus in the eare 
 (who ftoode as though he had a flea in his eare) defired him to 
 kepe filence, vntil he had vndermined hir by fubtiltie, which 
 Philautus hauing graunted, Ferardo began to fift his daughter 
 with this deuice. Lucilla, thy coulour fheweth thee to bee in a 
 great choler, and thy hotte wordes bewray thy heauy wrath, but 
 be patient, f eing al my talke was onely to trye thee : I am neither 
 fo vnnaturall to wreaft thee againft thine owne wil, neither fo 
 malytious to wedde thee to any againft thine own lyking : for 
 well I know what iarres, what ieloufie, what ftrife, what ftormes 
 enfue, where the match is made rather by the compulfion of the 
 
EVPHVES 79 
 
 parents, then by the conlent of the parties : neither doe I hke 
 thee the leffe in that thou lykeft Philautus fo Kttle, neither can 
 Philautus loue thee ye worfe in that thou loueft thy felfe fo well, 
 wifhing rather to ftande to thy chaunce, then to the choyce of 
 any other. But this grieueth me moft, that thou art almoft 
 vowed to the vayne order of the veftal virgins. Thou knoweft 
 that the talleft Afh is cut down for fuell, bicaufe it beareth no 
 good fruite : that the Cow that giues no milke, is brought to the 
 flaughter : that the Drone that gathereth no Honny is con- 
 temned : that the woman that maketh hir felfe barren by not 
 marrying, is accompted amonge the Grecian Ladyes worfe then a 
 carryon, as Homer reporteth. 
 
 Therefore Lucilla, if thou haue any care to be a comfort to my 
 hoary haires, or a commoditie to thy common weale, frame thy 
 felf to that honourable ef tate of Matrimony, which was fanctified 
 in Paradife, allovv^ed of the Patriarches, hallowed of the olde 
 Prophets, and commended of al perfons. If thou lyke any, be 
 not afhamed to tell it me, which onely am to exhort thee, yea 
 and as much as in me lyeth to commaunde thee, to loue one. 
 
 Lucilla perceiuing the drift of the olde Foxe hir father, waied 
 with hir felf what was the beft to be done, at the laft not waying 
 .hir fathers ill will, but encouraged by loue, fhaped him an aun- 
 fwere which pleafed Ferardo but a lyttle, and pinched Philautus 
 on the perfons fyde, on this manner. 
 
 Deere Father Ferardo, although I fee the bayte you laye to 
 catch mee, yet I am content to fwallowe the hooke, neither are 
 you more defirous to take mee napping, then I willing to confeffe 
 my meaning. So it is that loue hath as well inuegled me as 
 others, which make it as ftraunge as I. Neither doe I loue him 
 fo meanely that I fhould be afhamed of his name, neither is his 
 perfonage fo meane that I fhoulde loue him fhamefully : It is 
 Euphues that lately a[r]riued here at Naples, that hath battered 
 the bulwark of my breft, and fhal fhortly enter as conquerour 
 into my bofome. And I hope Philautus will not be my foe, 
 feeing I haue chofen his deere friend, neither you Father be 
 difpleafed, in that Philautus is difplaced. 
 
 Ferardo interrupting hir in the middle of hir difcourfe, although 
 he were moued with inward grudge, yet he wifely repreffed his 
 
8o JOHN LYLY 
 
 anger, knowing that fharp words would but fharpen hir froward 
 will, and thus aunfwered hir briefely. 
 
 Lucilla, as I am not prefently to graunt my good wil, fo 
 meane I not to reprehend thy choyce, yet wifedome willeth me 
 to pawfe, vntill I haue called what may happen to my remem- 
 braunce, and warneth thee to be circumfpect, leaft thy ralh 
 conceipt bring a fharpe repentaunce. As for you Philautus, I 
 would not haue you difpayre, feeing a woman doth oftentimes 
 chaunge hir defyre. Vnto whome Philautus in few words made 
 aunfwere. 
 
 Certeinely Ferardo I take the leffe griefe, in that I fee hir fo 
 greedy after Euphues, and by fo much the more I am content to 
 leaue my fute, by how much the more fhe feemeth to difdaine 
 my feruice : but as for hope, bicaufe I would not by any meanes 
 tafte one dramme thereoff, I wil abiure all places of hir abode, 
 and loath hir company, whofe countenaunce I haue fo much 
 loued : as for Euphues, and there ftaying his f peach, he fiang 
 out of the dores and repairing to his lodging, vttered thefe 
 words. 
 
 Ah moft diffembhng wretch Euphues, O counterfayte com- 
 panion, couideft thou vnder the fhewe of a ftedfaft friende 
 cloake the mallice of a mortall foe ? vnder the coulour of fim- 
 plicitie, fhrowd the Image of deceipt ? Is thy Liuia, tourned 
 to my Lucilla? thy loue, to my louer : thy deuotion to my Saint ? 
 Is this the curtefie of Athens, the cauiUing of fchoUers, the crafte 
 of Grecians? But why rather exclaime I not againft Lucilla 
 whofe wanton lookes caufed Euphues to violate his pHghted 
 faith ? Ah wretched wench, canft thou be fo lyght of loue, as 
 to chaunge with euery winde ? fo vnconf tant as to prefer a new 
 louer before thine [an] olde friend ? Haue I ferued thee three 
 yeares faithfully, and am I ferued fo vnkindely ? fhall the fruite 
 of my defire be tourned to difdaine ? But vnleffe Euphues had 
 inueigled thee, thou hadf t yet bene conftant : yea, but if Euphues 
 had not feene thee willyng to be wonne, he woulde neuer haue 
 wo[o]ed thee : But had not Euphues entifed thee with faire 
 wordes, thou wouldft neuer haue loued him : but hadft thou not 
 giuen him faire lookes, he would neuer haue liked thee : I, but 
 Euphues gauc the onfet : I, but Lucilla gaue the occafion : I, 
 
EVPHVES 8i 
 
 but Euphues firft brake his minde : I, but Lucilla firft bewrayed 
 hir meaning. Tufh why goe I about to excufe any of them, 
 feeing I haue iuft caufe to accufe them both. Neither ought I to 
 difpute which of them hath proferred me the greatef t villany, f ith 
 that either of them hath committed periury. Yet although they 
 haue found me dull in perceiuing their falfehood, they fhall not 
 finde me flacke in reuenging their folly. As for Lucilla, feing I 
 meane altogether to forget hir, I meane alio to forgiue hir, leaf t in 
 feeking meanes to be reuenged, mine olde defire be renewed. 
 
 Philautus hauing thus difcourfed with himfelfe, began to write 
 to Euphues as followeth. 
 
 Although hetherto Euphues, I haue fhrined thee in my heart 
 for a truftie friende, I will fhunne thee heereafter as a tro thief fe 
 foe, and although I cannot fee in thee leffe wit then I was wont, 
 yet doe I finde leffe honeftie. But thou haft not much to boaft 
 off, for as thou haft won a fickle Lady, fo haft thou loft a faithful 
 friend. How canft thou be fecure of hir conftancie, when thou 
 haft had fuch tryall of hir lyghtneffe ? 
 
 How canft thou affure thy felfe that fhe will bee faithfull to 
 thee, which hath bene faithleffe to me? Ah Euphues, let not 
 my credulitie be an occafion heereafter for thee to practife the 
 lyke crueltie. Remember this that yet there hath neuer bene 
 any faythleffe to his friende, that hath not alfo bene fruiteleffe 
 to his God. But I way the treacherie the leffe, in that it commeth 
 from a Grecian, in whome is not trouth. Though I be to weake 
 to wraftle for a reuenge, yet God who permitteth no guile to be 
 guiltleffe, will fhortly requite this iniury : though Philautus haue 
 no pollicie to vndermine thee, yet thine owne practifes will be 
 fufificient to ouerthrow thee. 
 
 I will pray that thou maift be mefured vnto with the lyke 
 meafure that thou haft meaten vnto others : that [is,] as thou 
 haft thought it no confcience to betray mee, fo otheres may 
 deeme it no difhoneftie to deceiue thee : that as Lucilla made it a 
 hght matter to forfweare hir olde friend Philautus, fo fhe may 
 make it a mocke to forfake hir new pheere Euphues. Which if it 
 come to paffe, as it is lyke by my compaffe, then fhalt thou fee 
 the troubles and feele the torments which thou haft already 
 throwne into the heartes and eyes of others. 
 
82 JOHN LYLY 
 
 Thus hoping fhortly to fee thee as hopeleffe, as my felfe is 
 haples, I wifh my wifh, were as affectually ended, as it is hartely 
 looked for. And fo I leaue thee. 
 
 Thine once 
 Philautus. 
 
 Philautus difpatching a meffenger with this letter fpeadely 
 to Euphues, went into the fields to walk ther, either to digeft 
 his choler, or chew vpon his melancholy. But Euphues hauing 
 reade the contents, was well content, fetting his talke at naught, 
 and anfwering his taunts in thefe gibing termes. 
 
 I REMEMBER PhUautus how valyantly Aiax boafted in the 
 feates of armes, yet Vlyffes bare away the armour : and it may 
 be that though thou crake of thine owne courage, thou maift 
 eafily lofe the conqueft. The friendfhip betweene man and man 
 as it is common fo is it of courfe : betweene man and woman, as 
 it is feldome fo is it fincere, the one proceedeth of the fimilitude 
 of manners, the other of ye fincerity of the heart : if thou haddeft 
 learned the firft point [part] of banking, thou wouldft haue 
 learned to haue held faft, or the firft noat of Defcant, thou 
 wouldeft, haue kept thy Sol. Fa. to thy felfe. 
 
 But thou canft blame me no more of folly in leaning thee to 
 loue Lucilla, then thou maist reproue him of foolifhneffe that 
 hauing a Sparrow in his hande letteth hir goe to catch the Pheaf- 
 ant. I am of this minde, that both might and mallice, deceyte 
 and trecherye, all periurye, any impietie may lawfully be com- 
 mitted in loue, which is lawleffe. Tufh Philautus fet thy 
 heart at reft, for thy happe willeth thee to giue ouer all hope 
 both of my friendfhip, and hir loue : as for reuenge thou art not 
 fo able to lende a blow as I to ward it : neither more venterous to 
 challenge the combatte, then I vaHant to aunfwere the quarrell. 
 As Lucilla was caught by fraude, fo fhal fhe be kept by force : 
 and as thou waft too fimple to efpie my crafte, fo I thinke thou 
 wilt be too weake to withftande my courage : but if thy reuenge 
 ftande onely vpon thy wifh, thou fhalt neuer hue to fee my woe, 
 or to haue thy wil, and fo farewell. 
 
 Euphues. 
 
EVPHVES 83 
 
 This letter being difpatched, Euphiies fent it, and Philautus 
 read it, who difdayning thofe proud termes, difdayned alio to 
 aunfwere them, being readie to ryde with Ferardo. 
 
 Euphues hauing for a fpace ablented himfelfe from the houfe 
 of Ferardo, bicaufe he was at home, longed fore to fee Lucilla, 
 which nowe opportunitie offered vnto him, Ferardo being gon 
 again to Venice with Philautus, but in this his abfence, one 
 Curio a Gentleman of Naples of httle wealth and leffe wit, 
 haunted Lucilla hir company, and fo enchaunted hir, that 
 Euphues was alfo caft off with Philautus, which thing being 
 vnknown to Euphues, caufed him the fooner to make his repayre 
 to the prefence of his Lady, whome he finding in hir mufes, 
 began pleafantly to falute in this manner. 
 
 Mif treffe Lucilla, although my long abfence might breede your 
 iuft anger, (for that louers defire nothing fo much as often meet- 
 ing) yet I hope my prefence will diffolue your choler (for yat louers 
 are foone pleafed when of their wifhes they be fully poffeffed). 
 My abfence is the rather to be excufed in yat your father hath 
 bene alwayes at home, whofe frownes feemed to threaten my ill 
 fortune, and my prefence at this prefent the better to be accepted, 
 in that I haue made fuch fpeedy repaire to your prefence. 
 
 Vnto whom Lucilla aunfwered with this glyeke. 
 
 Truely Euphues you haue mift the cufhion, for I was neither 
 angry with your long abfence, neither am I well pleafed at your 
 prefence, the one gaue mee rather a good hope heereafter neuer 
 to fee you, ye other giueth me a greater occafion to abhorre you. 
 
 Euphues being nipped on the head, with a pale countenaunce 
 as though his foule had forfaken his body, replyed as followeth. 
 
 If this fodaine chaunge Lucilla, proceed of any defert of mine, 
 I am heere not only to aunfwere the fact, but alfo to make amends 
 for my fault : if of any new motion or minde to forf ake your new 
 friend, I am rather to lament your inconftancie then reuenge it : 
 but I hope that fuch hot loue cannot be fo foone colde, neither 
 fuch fure faith be rewarded with fo fodeine forgetfulneffe. 
 
 Lucilla not afhamed to confeffe hir folly, aunfwered him with 
 this frumpe. 
 
 Sir, whether your deferts or my defire haue wrought this 
 
84 JOHN LYLY 
 
 chaunge, it will boote you lyttle to know, neither do I craue 
 amends, neither feare reuenge : as for feruent loue, you know 
 there is no fire fo hotte but it is quenched with water, neither 
 affection fo ftrong but is weakened with reafon, let this fufhce 
 thee, that thou knowe I care not for thee. 
 
 Then I perceiue Lucilla (faid he) that I was made thy ftale, 
 and Philautus thy laughing f tocke : whofe friendfhip (I muf t 
 confeffe in deede), I haue refufed to obteine thy fauour : and 
 fithens an other hath won that we both haue loft, I am content 
 for my parte, neither ought I to be grieued feeing thou art fickle. 
 
 Certes Euphues (faid Lucilla) you fpend your wind in waft, for 
 your welcome is but fmall, and your cheere is Hke to be leffe, fancie 
 giueth no refon of his [her] change neither will be controlled for 
 any choice : this is therefore to warn you, that from henceforth 
 you neither folicite this fute, neither offer any way your feruice. 
 
 Well Lucilla (aunfwered Euphues) this cafe breedeth my forrow 
 the more, in that it is fo fodeine, and by fo much the more I 
 lament it, by how much ye leffe I looked for it. 
 
 Euphues (quoth fhee) you make a long Harueft for a lyttle 
 corne, and angle for the fifh that is alreadie caught. Curio, yea, 
 Curio is he that hath my loue at his pleafure, and fhall alfo haue 
 my life at his commaundement. 
 
 If Curio be the perfon, [said he] I would neither wifh thee a 
 greater plague, nor him a deadlyer poyfon. I for my part 
 thinke him worthy of thee, and thou vnworthie of him, for al- 
 though he be in body deformed, in minde foolilh, an innocent 
 borne, a begger by miffortune, yet doth he deferve a better then 
 thy felfe, whofe corrupte manners haue ftained thy heauenly 
 hue, whofe lyght behauior hath dimmed the lights of thy beautie, 
 whofe vnconftant minde hath betrayed the innocencie of fo 
 many a Gentleman. 
 
 Therefore farewell Lucilla, the moft inconftant that euer was 
 nurfed in Naples, farewel Naples the moft curfed towne in all 
 Italy, and women all farewell. 
 
 Euphues hauing thus giuen hir his laft farewell, yet being 
 folytary, began a frefh to recount his forrow on this manner. 
 
EVPHVES 85 
 
 A foolifh Euphues, why diddeft thou leaue Athens, the nurfe of 
 wifdome, to inhabite Naples the nourilher of wantonneffe ? 
 Had it not beene better for thee to haue eaten fait with the 
 Philofophers in Greece, then fugar with the courtiers of Italy? 
 But behold the courfe of youth, which alwayes enclyneth to 
 pleafure, I forfooke mine olde companions to fearch for new 
 friendes, I reiected the graue and fatherly counfaile of Eubulus,^ 
 to follow the brainficke humor of mine owne will. I addicted my 
 felfe wholly to the feruice of woemen, to fpend my Ufe in the 
 lappes of Ladyes, my lands in maintenance of brauery, my wit 
 in the vanities of idle Sonnettes. I had thought that woemen had 
 bene as we men, that is true, faithfull, zealous, conftant, but I 
 perceiue they be rather woe vnto men, by their falfehoode, 
 geloufie, [and] inconftancye. I will to Athens, there to toffe my 
 bookes, no more in Naples to liue with faire lookes. I will fo 
 frame my felf, as all youth heereafter fhal rather reioyce to fee 
 mine amendment, then be animated to follow my former Ufe. 
 Philofophy, Phifick, Diuinitie, fhal be my ftudy. 
 
 But feeing I fee mine owne impietie, I will endeauour my felfe 
 to amende all that is paft, and to bee a myrrour of Godlineffe 
 hereafter. As therefore I gaue a farewell to Lucilla, a farewell 
 to Naples, a farewell to women, fo nowe doe I giue a farewell 
 to the worlde, meaning rather to macerate my felfe with mel- 
 ancholye, then pine in follye, rather choofing to dye in my 
 ftudye amiddeft my bookes, then to court it in Italy, in ye com- 
 pany of ladyes. 
 
 Euphues hauing thus debated with himfelfe, went to his bed, 
 ther either with fleepe to deceiue his fancye, or with mufing to 
 renue his ill fortune, or recant his olde foUyes. 
 
 But it happened immediatly Ferardo to returne home, who 
 hearing this ftraunge euent, was not a lyttle amazed, and was 
 nowe more readye to exhorte Lucilla from the loue of Curio, 
 then before to the lyking of Philautus. Therefore in all hafte, 
 with watrye eyes, and a woeful heart, began on this manner to 
 reafon with his daughter. 
 
 Lucilla (daughter I am afhamed to call thee, feeing thou haft 
 
 ' An old gentleman who offers Euphues wholesome advice soon after his arrival at 
 Naples. 
 
86 JOHN LYLY 
 
 neither care of thy fathers tender affection, nor of thine owne 
 credite) what fp[i]rite hath enchaunted thy fpirit, that euery 
 minute thou alteref t thy minde ? I had thought that my hoary 
 haires fhould haue found comforte by thy golden lockes, and my 
 rotten age great eafe by thy rype years. But alas I fee in thee 
 neither wit to order thy doings, neither wil to frame thy felfe to 
 difcretion, neither the nature of a childe, neither the nurture of a 
 mayden, neither (I cannot without teares fpeake it) any regard 
 of thine honour, neither any care of thine honeftie. 
 
 Shall thine olde father lyue to fee thee match with a young 
 foole ? fhall my kinde heart be rewarded with fuch vnkinde hate ? 
 Ah Lucilla, thou knowef t not the care of a father, nor the duetie of 
 a childe, and as farre art thou from pietie as I from crueltie. 
 
 Nature will not permit me to difherit my daughter, and yet it 
 will fuffer thee to difhonour thy father. Affection caufeth me 
 to wifh thy lyfe, and fhall it entice thee to procure my death ? 
 It is mine onely comfort to fee thee fiourifh in thy youth, and is 
 it thine to fee me fade in mine age ? to conclude I defire to Hue 
 to fee thee profper, and thou to fee me perifh. But why caft I 
 the effecte of this vnnaturalneffe in thy teeth, feeing I my felfe 
 was the caufe ? I made more of thee then became a Father, and 
 thou leffe of me then befeemed a childe. And fhall my louing 
 care be caufe of thy wicked crueltie? Yea, yea, I am not the 
 firft that hath bene too carefull, nor the laft that fhall bee 
 handeled fo vnkindely : It- is common to fee fathers too fonde, 
 and children too frowarde. Well Lucilla, the teares which thou 
 feeft trickle downe my cheekes, and my droppes of bloude 
 (which thou canft not fee) that fal from my heart, enforce mee 
 to make an ende of my talke, and if thou haue any duetie of a 
 childe, or care of a friende, or courtefie of a f traunger, or feelyng 
 of a Chriftian, or humanitie of a reafonable creature, then 
 releafe thy father of griefe, and acquite thy felfe of vngrate- 
 fulneffe : Otherwife thou fhalt but haften my death, and en- 
 creafe thine owne defame : Which if thou doe, the game is mine, 
 and the loffe thine, and both infinite. 
 
 Lucilla either fo bewitched that fhe could not relent, or fo 
 wicked that fhe would not yeelde to hir Fathers requeft, aun- 
 fwered him on this manner. 
 
EVPHVES 87 
 
 Deere Father, as you would haue me to fhewe the duetie of a 
 childe, fo ought you to fhewe the care of a Parent, for as the one 
 ftandeth in obedience fo the other is grounded vpon refon. 
 You would haue me as I owe duetie to you to leaue Curio, and 
 I defire you as you owe mee any loue that you fuffer me to enioy 
 him. If you accufe me of vnnaturalnes in that I yeeld not to 
 your requeft, I am alfo to condempne you of vnkindneffe, in that 
 you graunt not my peticion. 
 
 Ferardo feeing his daughter, to haue neither regarde of hir 
 owne honour nor his requeft, conceyued fuch an inward griefe 
 that in fhort fpace he dyed, leaning Lucilla the onely heire of 
 his lands, and Curio to poffeffe them, but what ende came of hir, 
 feing it is nothing incident to the hiftory of Euplmes, it were 
 fuperfluous to infert it, and fo incredible that all women would 
 rather wonder at it then beleeue it, which euent beeing f o f traunge, 
 I had rather leaue them in a mufe what it fhould be, then in a 
 maze in telHng what it was. 
 
 Philaiitus hauing intellygence of Euphues his fucceffe, and the 
 falfehoode of Lucilla, although he began to reioyce at the miferie 
 of his fellow, yet feeing hir fickleneff e, coulde not but lament hir 
 folly, and pitie his friends miffortune. Thinking that the 
 lyghtneffe of Lucilla enticed Euphues to fo great lyking. 
 
 Euphues and Philautus hauing conference between themfelues, 
 cafting difcourtefie in thee teeth each of the other, but chiefely 
 noting difloyaltie in the demeanor of Lucilla, after much talke 
 renewed their old friendfhip both abandoning Lucilla, as moft 
 abhominable. Philautus was earneft to haue Euphues tarye in 
 Naples, and Euphues defirous to haue Philautus to Athens, but 
 the one was fo addicted to the court, the other fo wedded to the 
 vniuerfitie, that each refufed the offer of the other, yet this they 
 agreed betweene themfelues, that though their bodies were by 
 diftance of place feuered, yet the coniunction of their mindes 
 fhould neither be feperated by ye length of time nor alienated by 
 change of foyle, I for my part faid Euphues, to confirme me this 
 league, giue thee my hande and my heart, and fo Hkewife did 
 Philautus, and fo fhaking handes, they bidde each other farewell. 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 BOOK I 
 [The Shipwreck] 
 
 It was in the time that the earth begins to put on her new 
 apparel against the approach of her lover, and that the sun 
 running a most even course, becomes an indifferent arbiter 
 between the night and the day, when the hopeless shepherd 
 Strephon was come to the sands, which He against the island of 
 Cithera ; where viewing the place with a heavy kind of delight, 
 and sometimes casting his eyes to the isleward, he called his 
 friendly rival the pastor Claius unto him ; and setting first 
 down in his darkened countenance a doleful copy of what he 
 would speak, "O my Claius," said he, "hither we are now come 
 to pay the rent, for which we are so called by over-busy remem- 
 brance, remembrance, restless remembrance, which claims not 
 only this duty of us, but for it will have us forget ourselves. I 
 pray you, when we were amid our flock, and that of other shep- 
 herds some were running after their sheep, strayed beyond their 
 bounds ; some dehghting their eyes with seeing them nibble 
 upon the short and sweet grass ; some medicining their sick ewes ; 
 some setting a bell for an ensign of a sheepish squadron ; some 
 with more leisure inventing new games of exercising their bodies, 
 and sporting their wits ; did remembrance grant us any holiday, 
 either for pastime or devotion, nay either for necessary food, or 
 natural rest, but that still it forced our thoughts to work upon 
 this place, where we last (alas ! that the word last should so long 
 last) did graze our eyes upon her ever-flourishing beauty, did 
 it not still cry within us ? * Ah, you base-minded wretches ! — are 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 89 
 
 your thoughts so deeply bemired in the trade of ordinary worldHngs, 
 as for respect of gain some paltry wool may yield you, to let so 
 much time pass without knowing perfectly her estate, especially 
 in so troublesome a season ; to leave that shore unsaluted from 
 which you may see to the island where she dwelleth ; to leave 
 those steps unkissed wherein Urania printed the farewell of all 
 beauty ? ' Yonder, my Claius, Urania hghted ; the very horse, 
 methought, bewailed to be so disburdened : and as for thee, 
 poor Claius, when thou wentest to help her down, I saw reverence 
 and desire so divide thee, that thou didst at one instant both 
 blush and quake, and instead of bearing her wert ready to fall 
 down thyself. There she sat vouchsafing my cloak (then most 
 gorgeous) under her : at yonder rising on the ground she turned 
 herself, looking back towards her wonted abode, and because of 
 her parting, bearing much sorrow in her eyes, the lightsomeness 
 whereof had yet so natural a cheerfulness that it made even 
 sorrow seem to smile ; at that turning she spake to us all, opening 
 the cherry of her Hps, and Lord how greedily mine ears did feed 
 upon the sweet words she uttered. And here she laid her hand 
 over thine eyes, when she saw the tears springing in them, as if 
 she would conceal them from other, and yet herself feel some 
 of thy sorrow. But woe is me, yonder, yonder, did she put 
 her foot into the boat, at that instant, as it were, dividing her 
 heavenly beauty between the earth and the sea. But when she 
 was embarked, did you not mark how the winds whistled and 
 the seas danced for joy, how the sails did swell with pride, and 
 all because they had Urania ? O Urania, blessed be thou Urania, 
 the sweetest fairness, and fairest sweetness !" 
 
 With that word his voice brake so with sobbing, that he could 
 say no farther ; and Claius thus answered : 
 
 "Alas my Strephon," said he, "what needs this score to reckon 
 up only our losses ? What doubt is there, but that the sight of 
 this place doth call our thoughts to appear at the court of affec- 
 tion, held by that racking steward remembrance ? As well 
 may sheep forget to fear when they spy wolves, as we can miss 
 such fancies when we see any place made happy by her treading. 
 Who can choose that saw her, but think where she stayed, where 
 she walked, where she turned, where she spoke ? But what of 
 
90 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 all this ? No, no, let us think with consideration, and consider 
 with acknowledging, and acknowledge with admiration, and 
 admire with love, and love with joy in the midst of all woes. 
 Let us in such sort think, I say, that our poor eyes were so 
 enriched as to behold and our low hearts so exalted as to love a 
 maid who is such, that as the greatest thing the world can show 
 is her beauty, so the least thing that may be praised in her is her 
 beauty. Certainly as her eyelids are more pleasant to behold 
 than two white kids climbing up a fair tree, and browsing on its 
 tenderest branches, and yet they are nothing comparing to 
 the day-shining stars contained in them ; and as her breath is 
 more sweet than a gentle south-west wind, which comes creeping 
 over flowery fields and shadowed waters in the extreme heat of 
 summer ; and yet is nothing, compared to the honey-flowing 
 speech that breath doth carry : no more all that our eyes can 
 see of her (though when they have seen her, what else they 
 shall ever see is but dry stubble after clover-grass) is to be 
 matched with the flock of unspeakable virtues laid up delight- 
 fully in that best builded fold." 
 
 He was going on with his praises, but Strephon bade him stay 
 and look : and so they both perceived a thing which floated, 
 drawing nearer and nearer to the bank ; but rather by favorable 
 working of the sea than by any self-industry. They doubted 
 awhile what it should be till it was cast up even hard before them, 
 at which time they fully saw that it was a man. Whereupon 
 running for pity's sake unto him, they found his hands (as it 
 should appear, constanter friends to his hfe than his memory) 
 fast gripping upon the edge of a square small coffer which lay 
 all under his breast : else in himself no show of life, so that the 
 board seemed to be but a bier to carry him to the land to his 
 sepulchre. So drew they up a young man of goodly shape, 
 and well-pleasing favor, that one would think death had in him 
 a lovely countenance ; and that, though he were naked, naked- 
 ness was to him an apparel. That sight increased their compas- 
 sion, and their compassion called up their care ; so that Kfting 
 his feet above his head, making a great deal of salt water come 
 out of his mouth, they laid him upon some of their garments, 
 and fell to rub and chafe him, till they brought him to recover 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 91 
 
 both breath, the servant, and warmth, the companion, of living. 
 At length opening his eyes, he gave a great groan (a doleful 
 note, but a pleasant ditty, for by that they found not only life 
 but strength of life in him). They therefore continued on their 
 charitable office until, his spirits being well returned, he — with- 
 out so much as thanking them for their pains — gat up, and 
 looking round about to the uttermost limits of sight, and crying 
 upon the name of Pyrocles, nor seeing nor hearing cause of com- 
 fort, "What," said he, "and shall Musidorus live after Pyrocles's 
 destruction ?" 
 
 Therewithal he offered wilfully to cast himself into the sea : 
 a strange sight to the shepherds, to whom it seemed that before 
 being in appearance dead, yet had saved his life, and now coming 
 to his hfe, should be a cause to procure his death ; but they ran 
 unto him, and pulling him back (then too feeble for them) by 
 force stickled that unnatural fray. 
 
 "I pray you," said he, "honest men, what such right have you 
 in me, as not to suffer me to do with myself as I Hst, and what 
 poHcy have you to bestow a benefit where it is counted an in- 
 jury ? " 
 
 They hearing him speak in Greek (which was their natural 
 language) became the more tender-hearted towards him, and 
 considering by his calhng and looking that the loss of some dear 
 friend was the great cause of his sorrow, told him, they were poor 
 men that were bound, by course of humanity, to prevent so great 
 a mischief ; and that they wished him, if opinion of some body's 
 perishing bred such desperate anguish in him, that he should be 
 comforted by his own proof, who had lately escaped as apparent 
 danger as any might be. 
 
 "No, no," said he, "it is nor for me to attend so high a bliss- 
 fulness : but since you take care of me, I pray you find means 
 that some barque may be provided, that will go out of the haven 
 that if it be possible we may find the body, far, far too precious 
 food for fishes : and that for hire I have within this casket of 
 value sufficient to content them." 
 
92 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 [The shepherds, doing Musidorus's bidding, find Pyrocles alive; hut just as 
 they are about to rescue him, a pirate galley suddenly appears and carries him 
 of. They then continue their attentions to Musidorus.] 
 
 "Now, Sir," said they, "thus for ourselves it is; we are in 
 profession but shepherds, and in this country of Laconia Httle 
 better than strangers, and therefore neither in skill nor ability 
 of power greatly to stead you. But what we can present unto 
 you is this : Arcadia, of which country we are, is but a little way 
 hence ; and even upon the next confines there dwelleth a gentle- 
 man, by name Kalander, who vouchsafest much favor unto us : 
 a man who for his hospitality is so much haunted, that no news 
 stir but comes to his ears ; for his upright dealings so beloved of 
 his neighbors, that he hath many ever ready to do him their 
 utmost service ; and by the great good will our prince bears 
 him may soon obtain to use of his name and credit, which hath 
 a principal sway, not only in his own Arcadia, but in all these 
 countries of Peloponnesus : and (which is worth all) all these 
 things give him not so much power, as his nature gives him 
 will to benefit : so that it seems no music is so sweet to his ears 
 as deserved thanks. To him we will bring you, and there you 
 may recover again your health, without which you cannot be 
 able to make any diligent search for your friend ; and therefore 
 you must labour for it. Besides, we are sure the comfort of 
 courtesy and ease of wise counsel shall not be wanting." 
 
 Musidorus (who, besides he was merely unacquainted in the 
 country, had his wits astonished with sorrow) gave easy consent 
 to that from which he saw no reason to disagree : and therefore 
 (defraying the mariners with a ring bestowed upon them) they 
 took their journey through Laconia ; Claius and Strephon by 
 course carrying his chest for him, Musidorus only bearing in his 
 countenance evident marks of a sorrowful mind, supported with 
 a weak body ; which they perceiving, and knowing that the vio- 
 lence of sorrow is not, at the first, to be striven withal (being like 
 a mighty beast sooner tamed with following than overthrown by 
 withstanding), they gave way unto it, for that day and the next ; 
 never troubling him, either with asking questions or finding fault 
 with his melancholy ; but rather fitting to his dolour, dolorous 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 93 
 
 discourses of their own and other folks' misfortunes. Which 
 speeches, though they had not a lively entrance to his senses 
 shut up in sorrow, yet like one half asleep he took hold of much of 
 the matter spoken unto him, for that a man may say, e'er sorrow 
 was aware, they made his thoughts bear away something else 
 beside his own sorrow, which wrought so in him, that at length 
 he grew content to mark their speeches, then to marvel at such 
 wit in shepherds, after to like their company, and lastly to 
 vouchsafe conference : so that the third day after, in the time 
 that the morning did strew roses and violets in the heavenly floor 
 against the coming of the sun, the nightingales (striving one with 
 the other which could in most dainty variety recount their 
 wrong-caused sorrow) made them put off their sleep, and rising 
 from under a tree (which that night had been their paviHon) 
 they went on their journey, which by and by welcomed Musi- 
 dorus's eyes (wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia) with de- 
 lightful prospects. 
 
 There were hills which garnished their proud heights with 
 stately trees ; humble valleys whose base estate seemed com- 
 forted with the refreshing of silver rivers ; meadows enamelled 
 with all sorts of eye-pleasing flowers ; thickets, which, being lined 
 with most pleasant shade, were witnessed so too by the cheerful 
 disposition of many well-tuned birds ; each pasture stored with 
 sheep feeding with sober security, while the pretty lambs with 
 bleating oratory craved the dams' comfort ; here a shepherd's 
 boy piping, as though he should never be old ; there a young 
 shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her 
 voice comforted her hands to work and her hands kept time to 
 her voice-music. As for the houses of the country (for many 
 houses came under their eye) they were all scattered, no two 
 being one by the other, and yet not so far off as that it barred 
 mutual succour : a show, as it were, of an accompanable soli- 
 tariness and of a civil wildness. "I pray you," said Musidorus, 
 then first unseahng his long silent hps : "what countries be these 
 we pass through, which are so divers in show, the one wanting 
 no store, the other having no store but of want ?" 
 
 "The country," answered Claius, "where you were cast 
 ashore and are now past through is Laconia, not so poor by the 
 
94 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 barrenness of the soil (though in itself not passing fertile) as 
 by a civil war, which being these two years within the bowels of 
 that estate, between the gentlemen and the peasants (by them 
 named the Helots) , hath in this sort as it were disfigured the face 
 of nature, and made it so unhospitable as now you have found it. 
 
 *'But this country where now you set your foot is Arcadia: 
 and even hard by is the house of Kalander, whither we lead you. 
 This country being thus decked with peace and (the child of 
 peace) good husbandry, these houses you see so scattered are of 
 men, as we two are, that live upon the commodity of their sheep ; 
 and therefore in the division of the Arcadian estate are termed 
 shepherds : a happy people, wanting Uttle, because they desire 
 not much." 
 
 "What cause then," said Musidorus, "made you venture to 
 leave this sweet life, and put yourself in yonder unpleasant 
 and dangerous realm?" "Guarded with poverty," answered 
 Strephon, "and guided with love." "But now," said Claius, 
 " since it hath pleased you to ask anything of us, whose baseness is 
 such as the very knowledge is darkness, give us leave to know 
 something of you, and of the young man you so much lament, that 
 at least we may be the better instructed to inform Kalander, and 
 he the better know how to proportion his entertainment." 
 
 Musidorus, according to the agreement between Pyrocles and 
 him to alter their names, answered that he called himself Palla- 
 dius and his friend Daiphantus ; "but till I have him again," said 
 he, "I am indeed nothing, and therefore my story is nothing; 
 his entertainment (since so good a man he is) cannot be so low as 
 I count my estate ; and in sum, the sum of all his courtesy may 
 be to help me by some means to seek my friend." 
 
 They perceived he was not willing to open himself farther, and 
 therefore without farther questioning brought him to the house ; 
 about which they might see (with fit consideration both of the 
 air, and the prospect, and the nature of the ground) all such 
 necessary additions to a great house as might well show Kalander 
 knew that provision is the foundation of hospitality, and thrift 
 the fuel of magnificence. The house itself was built of fair and 
 strong stone, not affecting so much any extraordinary kind of 
 fineness as an honorable representing of a firm stateliness. The 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 95 
 
 lights, doors and stairs rather directed to the use of the guest 
 than to the eye of the artificer ; and yet as the one chiefly heeded, 
 so the other not neglected ; each place handsome without curiosity, 
 and homely without loathsomeness ; not so dainty as not to be 
 trod on, nor yet flubbered up with good-fellowship ; all more 
 lasting than beautiful, but that the consideration of the ex- 
 ceeding lastingness made the eye believe it was exceeding 
 beautiful. The servants not so many in number, as cleanly in 
 apparel and serviceable in behaviour, testifying even in their 
 countenances that their master took as well care to be served 
 as of them that did serve. One of them was forthwith ready to 
 welcome the shepherds as men whom though they were poor 
 their master greatly favoured ; and understanding by them that 
 the young man with them was much to be accounted of, for that 
 they had seen tokens of more than common greatness, howso- 
 ever now eclipsed with fortune, he ran to his master, who came 
 presently forth, and pleasantly welcoming the shepherds, but 
 especially applying himself to Musidorus, Strephon privately 
 told him all what he knew of him, and particularly that he found 
 this stranger was loth to be known. 
 
 "No," said Kalander speaking aloud, "I am no herald to in- 
 quire of men's pedigrees ; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues ; 
 which (if this young man's face be not a false witness) do better 
 apparel his mind, than you have done his body." While he was 
 thus speaking, there came a boy in show like a merchant's prentice, 
 who, taking Strephon by the sleeve delivered him a letter, 
 written jointly both to him and Claius, from Urania, which they 
 no sooner had read but that with short leave taking of Kalander 
 (who quickly guessed and smiled at the matter) and once again 
 (though hastily) recommending the young man unto him, they 
 went away, leaving Musidorus even loth to part with them, for 
 the good conversation he had had of them and obhgation he 
 accounted himself tied in unto them : and therefore, they deliver- 
 ing his chest unto him, he opened it, and would have presented 
 them with two very rich jewels, but they absolutely refused them, 
 teUing him that they were more than enough rewarded in the 
 knowing of him, and without hearkening unto a reply (hke men 
 whose hearts disdained all desires but one) gat speedily away, as 
 
96 SLR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 if the letter had brought wings to make them fly. But by that 
 sight Kalander soon judged that his guest was of no mean calling ; 
 and therefore the more respectfully entertaining him, Musidorus 
 found his sickness (which the fight, the sea and late travel had 
 laid upon him) grow greatly, so that fearing some sudden acci- 
 dent, he delivered the chest to Kalander, which was full of most 
 precious stones gorgeously and cunningly set in divers manners, 
 desiring him he would keep those trifles, and if he died, he would 
 bestow so much of it as was needful, to find out and redeem a 
 young man, naming himself Daiphantus, as then in the hands of 
 Laconian pirates. 
 
 But Kalander seeing him faint more and more, with careful 
 speed conveyed him to the most commodious lodging in his house, 
 where being possessed with an extreme burning fever he continued 
 some while with no great hope of life ; but youth at length got the 
 victory of sickness, so that in six weeks the excellence of his 
 returned beauty was a credible ambassador of his health, to the 
 great joy of Kalander, who, as in his time he had by certain 
 friends that dwelt near the sea in Missenia set forth a ship and a 
 galley to seek and succour Daiphantus, so at home did he omit 
 nothing which he thought might either profit or gratify Pal- 
 ladius. . . . 
 
 But Palladius having gotten his health, and only staying there 
 to be in place where he might hear answer of the ships set forth, 
 Kalander one afternoon led him abroad to a well-arrayed ground 
 he had behind his house, which he thought to show him before 
 his going, as the place himself more than in any other delighted. 
 The backside of the house was neither field, garden nor orchard ; 
 or rather it was both field, garden and orchard : for as soon as 
 the descending of the stairs had delivered them down, they 
 came into a place cunningly set with trees of the most taste- 
 pleasing fruits : but scarcely had they taken that into their con- 
 sideration before they were suddenly stept into a delicate green ; 
 of each side of the green a thicket, and behind the thickets again 
 new beds of flowers, which being under the trees the trees were 
 to them a pavillion, and they to the trees a mosaical floor, so 
 that it seemed that Art therein would needs be delightful, by 
 counterfeiting his enemy Error and making order in confusion. 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 97 
 
 In the midst of all the place was a fair pond whose shaking 
 crystal was a perfect mirror to all the other beauties, so that it 
 bear show of two gardens ; one in deed, the other in shadows. 
 And in one of the thickets was a fine fountain made thus : a 
 naked Venus of white marble, wherein the graver had used such 
 cunning that the natural blue veins of the marble were framed in 
 fit places to set forth the beautiful veins of her body. At her 
 breast she had her babe ^neas, who seemed, having begun to 
 suck, to leave that to look upon her fair eyes, which smiled at 
 the babe's folly, meanwhile the breast running. 
 
 Hard by was a house of pleasure built for a summer-retiring 
 place ;, whither Kalander leading him he found a square room 
 full of delightful pictures made by the most excellent workmen of 
 Greece. There was Diana when Actason saw her bathing ; 
 in whose cheeks the painter had set such a colour as was mixed 
 between shame and disdain, and one of her foolish nymphs, who 
 weeping, and withal lowering, one might see the workman 
 meant to set forth tears of anger. In another table was Atalanta, 
 the posture of whose hmbs was so Hvely expressed, that if the 
 eyes were only judges, as they be the only seers, one would have 
 sworn the very picture had run. Besides many more, as of 
 Helena, Omphale, lole : but in none of them all beauty seemed 
 to speak so much as in a large table, which contained a comely 
 old man, with a lady of middle-age, but of excellent beauty, and 
 more excellent would have been deemed, but that there stood 
 between a young maid, whose wonderfulness took away all 
 beauty from her, but that which it might seem she gave her back 
 again by her very shadow. And such difference (being known 
 that it did indeed counterfeit a person living) was there between 
 her and all the other, though goddesses, that it seemed the 
 skill of the painter bestowed on the other new beauty, but 
 that the beauty of her bestowed new skill on the painter. 
 Though he thought inquisitiveness an uncomely guest he could 
 not choose but ask who she was, that bearing show of one being 
 indeed could with natural gifts go beyond the reach of invention. 
 Kalander answered, that it was made by Philoclea, the younger 
 daughter of his prince, who also with his wife were contained 
 in mat table : the painter meaning to represent the present 
 
98 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 condition of the young lady, who stood watched by an over- 
 curious eye of her parents ; and that he would also have 
 drawn her eldest sister, esteemed her match for beauty, in her 
 shepherdish attire, but that rude clown her guardian would not 
 suffer it ; neither durst he ask leave of the prince, for fear of 
 suspicion. Palladius perceived that the matter was wrapped up 
 in some secrecy, and therefore would, for modesty, demand no 
 farther ; but yet his countenance could not but with dumb elo- 
 quence desire it. Which Kalander perceiving, "Well," said he, 
 "my dear guest, I know your mind, and I will satisfy it : neither 
 will I do it like a niggardly answer, going no farther than the 
 bounds of the question ; but I will discover unto you as well 
 that wherein my knowledge is common with others, as that which 
 by extraordinary means is delivered unto me ; knowing so much 
 in you (though not long acquainted) that I shall find your ears 
 faithful treasurers." So then sitting down in two chairs, and 
 sometimes casting his eye to the picture, he thus spake : 
 
 "This country Arcadia among all the provinces of Greece, hath 
 ever been had in singular reputation ; partly for the sweetness of 
 the air and other natural benefits, but principally for the well- 
 tempered minds of the people who (finding the shining title of 
 glory, so much affected by other nations, doth help Httle to the 
 happiness of life) are the only people which, as by their justice 
 and providence give neither cause nor hope to their neighbors to 
 annoy, so are they not stirred with false praise to trouble others' 
 quiet, thinking it a small reward for the wasting of their own 
 lives in ravening, that their posterity should long after say they 
 had done so. Even the muses seem to approve their good 
 determination by choosing this country for their chief repairing 
 place, and by bestowing their perfections so largely here that 
 the very shepherds have their fancies Hfted to so high conceits 
 that the learned of other nations are content both to borrow their 
 names and imitate their cunning. 
 
 "Here dwelleth and reigneth this prince (whose picture you 
 see) by name Basilius ; a prince of sufficient skill to govern so 
 quiet a country, where the good minds of the former princes had 
 set down good laws, and the well-bringing up of the people doth 
 serve as a most sure bond to hold them. But to be plain with 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 99 
 
 you, he excels in nothing so much as the jealous love of his 
 people, wherein he does not only pass all his foregoers but, as I 
 think, all the princes hving. Whereof the cause is, that though he 
 exceed not in the virtues which get admiration, as depth of wis- 
 dom, height of courage, and largeness of magnificence, yet he is 
 notable in those which stir affection, as truth of word, meekness, 
 courtesy, mercifulness, and hberty. 
 
 "He being already well stricken in years, married a young 
 princess, named Gynecia, daughter to the king of Cyprus, of 
 notable beauty, as by her picture you see : a woman of great wit, 
 and in truth of more princely virtues than her husband ; of most 
 unspotted chastity ; but x)i so working a mind and so vehement 
 spirits that a man may say, it was happy that she took a good 
 course for otherwise it would have been terrible. 
 
 "Of these two are brought into the world two daughters, so 
 beyond measure excellent in all the gifts alloted to reasonable 
 creatures that we may think that they were born to show that 
 nature is no stepmother to that sex, how much soever some men 
 (sharp-witted only in evil speaking) have sought to disgrace 
 them. The elder is named Pamela ; by many men not deemed 
 inferior to her sister : for my part, when I marked them both, 
 methought there was (if at least such perfections may receive 
 the word of more) more sweetness in Philoclea but more majesty 
 in Pamela : methought love played in Philoclea's eyes, and 
 threatened in Pamela's ; methought Philoclea's beauty only 
 persuaded, but so persuaded as all hearts must yield ; Pamela's 
 beauty used violence, and such violence as no heart could resist. 
 And it seems that such proportion is between their minds : 
 Philoclea so bashful, as though her excellencies had stolen into 
 her ere she was aware ; so humble, that she will put all pride out 
 of countenance ; in sum, such proceeding as will stir hope but 
 teach hope good manners. Pamela of high thoughts who avoids 
 not pride with not knowing her excellencies, but by making 
 that one if her excellencies to be void of pride ; her mother's 
 wisdom, greatness, nobility, but (if I can guess aright) knit with 
 a more constant temper. Now then, our Basilius being so 
 publicly happy as to be a prince, and so happy in that happiness 
 as to be a beloved prince ; and so in his private estate blessed 
 
TOO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 as to have so excellent a wife and so over-excellent children, 
 hath of late taken a course which yet makes him more spoken of 
 than all these blessings. For having made a journey to Delphos, 
 and safely returned, within short space, he brake up his court, 
 and retired himself, his wife and children, into a certain forest 
 hereby which he called his desert ; wherein (besides an house 
 appointed for stables and lodgings for certain persons of mean 
 calling who do all household services) he hath builded two fine 
 lodges : in the one of them himself remains with his younger 
 daughter Philoclea (which was the cause they three were matched 
 together in this picture) without having any other creature 
 living in that lodge with him. 
 
 "Which though it be strange, yet not strange as the course 
 he hath taken with the princess Pamela whom he hath placed 
 in the other lodge : but how think you accompanied ? Truly 
 with none other than one Dametas, the most arrant doltish 
 clown that I think ever was without the privilege of a bauble, 
 with his wife Miso and his daughter Mopsa, in whom no wit 
 can devise anything wherein they may pleasure her but to 
 exercise her patience and to serve for a foil of her perfections. 
 This loutish clown is such that you never saw so ill-favoured a 
 visor ; his behaviour such that he is beyond the degree of ridicu- 
 lous ; and for his apparel, even as I would wish him : Miso his wife 
 so handsome a beldam, that only her face and her splayfoot have 
 made her accused for a witch ; only one good point she hath, 
 having a forward mind in a wretched body. Between these two 
 personages (who never agree in any humour, but in disagreeing) 
 is issued forth Mistress Mopsa,^ a fit woman to participate of 
 both their perfections : but because a pleasant fellow of my ac- 
 quaintance set forth her praises in verse, I will only repeat them, 
 and spare mine own tongue, since she goes for a woman. . . . 
 
 1 Mopsa is one of the most clearly defined types in the book ; her clownishness is con- 
 stantly emphasized by such descriptions as these : "With that he imprisoned his look for a 
 while upon Mopsa, who thereupon fell into a very wide smiling." Again, "He looked, and 
 saw that Mopsa indeed sat swallowing the sleep with open mouth, making such a noise 
 withal, as nobody could lay the stealing of a nap to her charge." Again, "He would have 
 said farther, but Pamela calling aloud Mopsa, she suddenly started up, staggering, and 
 rubbing her eyes, ran first out of the door, and then back to them, till at length, being fully 
 come to her little self, she asked Pamela why she had called her." (The "Arcadia" with 
 introduction by E. A. Baker, London and N. Y., n. d., pages 152 and 177.) 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA loi 
 
 The beginning of his credit was by the prince's straying out of 
 the way one time he hunted, where meeting this fellow, and 
 asking him the way, and so falling into other questions, he found 
 some of his answers not unsensible, and all uttered with such 
 rudeness, which he interpreted plainness (though there be a 
 great difference between them) that Basilius conceiving a sudden 
 delight, took him to his court, with apparent show of his good 
 opinion : where the flattering courtier had no sooner taken the 
 prince's mind, but that there were straight reasons to confirm 
 the prince's doing, and shadows of virtues found for Dametas. 
 His silence grew wit, his bluntness integrity, his beastly ignorance 
 virtuous simplicity, and the prince (according to the nature of 
 great persons, in love with what he had done himself) fancied 
 that his weakness with his presence would be much mended. 
 And so like a creature of his own making, he liked him more and 
 more ; and thus having first given him the office of principal 
 herdsman; lastly, since he took this strange determination, 
 he hath in a manner put the life of himself and his children into 
 his hands. Which authority (like too great a sail for so small a 
 boat) doth so overway poor Dametas, that, if before he was a good 
 fool in a chamber, he might be allowed it now in a comedy, so 
 as I doubt me (I fear me indeed) my master will in the end (with 
 his cost) find that his office is not to make men, but to use men 
 as men are, no more than a horse will be taught to hunt, or an ass 
 to manage. But in sooth I am afraid I have given your ears too 
 great a surfeit with gross discourses of that heavy piece of flesh. 
 But the zealous grief I conceive to see so great an error in my 
 lord hath made me bestow more words than I confess so base a 
 subject deserveth." 
 
 [The Story of Argalus and Parthenia] 
 
 [An Incident told to Palladius by Kalander's Steward.] 
 
 "My Lord," said he, "when our good king Basilius, with better 
 success than expectation, took to wife (even in his more than 
 decaying years) the fair young princess Gynecia, there came 
 
I02 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 with her a young lord, cousin german to herself, named Argalus, 
 led hither partly by the love and honour of his noble kinswoman, 
 partly with the humour of youth, which ever thinks that good, 
 whose goodness he sees not. And in this court he received so 
 good an increase of knowledge, that after some years spent, he 
 so manifested a virtuous mind in all his actions, that Arcadia 
 gloried such a plant was transported unto them, being a gentle- 
 man indeed most rarely accomplished, excellently learned, but 
 without all vain glory : friendly without factiousness ; vahant, 
 so as for my part I think the earth hath no man that hath done 
 more heroical acts than he. My master's son Clitophon being 
 a young gentleman as of great birth so truly of good nature and 
 one that can see good and love it, haunted more the company of 
 this worthy Argalus, than of any other. About two years since, it 
 so fell out that he brought him to a great lady's house, sister to my 
 master, who had with her her only daughter, the fair Parthenia, 
 fair indeed (fame, I think, itself not daring to call any fairer, 
 if it be not Helena, queen of Corinth, and the two incomparable 
 sisters of Arcadia) and that which made her fairness much the 
 fairer was, that it was but a fair ambassador of a most fair mind ; 
 full of wit, and a wit which delighted more to judge itself than 
 to show itself : her speech being as rare, as precious ; her silence 
 without fullness ; her modesty without affectation ; her shame- 
 facedness without ignorance : in sum, one that to praise well, 
 one must first set down with himself what it is to be excellent : 
 for so she is. 
 
 "I think you think that these perfections meeting could 
 not choose but find one another, and delight in what they found ; 
 for likeness of manners is likely in reason to draw likeness of 
 affection ; men's actions do not always cross with reason : to 
 be short, it did so indeed. They loved, although for a while 
 the fire thereof (hope's wings being cut off) were blown by the 
 bellows of despair upon this occasion. 
 
 ''There had been a good while before, and so continued, a suitor 
 to this same lady, a great noble man, though of Laconia, yet near 
 neighbor to Parthenia's mother, named Demagoras ; a man 
 mighty in riches and power, and proud thereof, stubbornly stout, 
 loving nobody but himself, and, for his own delight's sake, 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 
 
 103 
 
 Parthenia : and pursuing vehemently his desire, his riches had 
 so gilded over his other imperfections that the old lady had 
 given her consent ; and using a mother's authority upon her 
 fair daughter had made her yield thereunto, not because she 
 liked her choice, but because her obedient mind had not yet 
 taken upon it to make choice. And the day of their assurance 
 drew near, when my young lord Clitophon brought this noble 
 Argalus, perchance principally to see so rare a sight, as Parthenia 
 by all well-judging eyes was judged. 
 
 "But though few days were before the time of assurance ap- 
 pointed, yet love, that saw he had a great journey to make in 
 short time, hasted so himself that before her word could tie her 
 to Demagoras, her heart had vowed her to Argalus with so 
 grateful a receipt of mutual affection that if she desired above 
 all things to have Argalus, Argalus feared nothing but to miss 
 Parthenia. And now Parthenia had learned both liking and mis- 
 liking, loving and loathing ; and out of passion began to take the 
 authority of judgment ; insomuch that when the time came that 
 Demagoras (full of proud joy) thought to receive the gift of herself ; 
 she, with words of refusal (though with tears showing she was sorry 
 she must refuse) assured her mother that she would first be bedded 
 in her grave than wedded to Demagoras. The change was no 
 more strange than unpleasant to the mother who being deter- 
 minately (lest I should say of a great lady, wilfully) bent to 
 marry her to Demagoras, tried all ways, which a witty and hard- 
 hearted mother could use upon so humble a daughter in whom 
 the only resisting power was love. But the more she assaulted, 
 the more she taught Parthenia to defend ; and the more Parthenia 
 defended, the more she made her mother obstinate in the assault : 
 who at length finding that Argalus standing between them, was 
 it that most eclipsed her affection from shining on Demagoras, 
 she sought all means how to remove him, so much the more as 
 he manifested himself an unremovable suitor to her daughter : 
 first by employing him in as many dangerous enterprises as 
 ever the evil step-mother Juno recommended to the famous 
 Hercules : but the more his virtue was tried, the more pure it 
 grew, while all the things she did to overthrow him, did set him 
 up upon the height of honour ; enough to have moved her heart, 
 
I04 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 especially to a man every way so worthy as Argalus ; but strug- 
 gling against all reason, because she would have her will, and 
 shew her a^uthority in matching her with Demagoras, the more 
 virtuous Argalus was the more she hated him, thinking herself 
 conquered in his conquests, and therefore still employing him 
 in more and more dangerous attempts : in the meanwhile she 
 used all the extremities possible upon her fair daughter to make 
 her give over herself to her direction. But it was hard to judge 
 whether he in doing, or she in suffering, shewed greater constancy 
 of affection : for, as to Argalus the world sooner wanted occasions 
 than he valor to go through them : so to Parthenia malice 
 sooner ceased than her unchanged patience. Lastly, by treasons 
 Demagoras and she would have made way with Argalus, but he 
 with providence and courage so past over all that the mother 
 took such a spiteful grief at it that her heart brake withal, and 
 she died. 
 
 "But then Demagoras assuring himself that now Parthenia 
 was her own she would never be his, and receiving as much by 
 her own determinate answer, not more desiring his own happiness, 
 than envying Argalus, whom he saw with narrow eyes, even 
 ready to enjoy the perfection of his desires, strengthening his 
 conceit with all the mischievous counsels which disdained love 
 and envious pride could give unto him, the wicked wretch 
 (taking a time that Argalus was gone to his country to fetch 
 some of his principal friends to honour the marriage which 
 Parthenia had most joyfully consented unto) the wicked Demag- 
 oras, I say, desiring to speak with her, with unmerciful force 
 (her weak arms in vain resisting) rubbed all over her face a 
 most horrible poison : the effect whereof was such, that never 
 leper looked more ugly than she did : which done, having his 
 men and horses ready, departed away in spite of her servants, as 
 ready to revenge as could be, in such an unexpected mischief. 
 But the abominableness of this fact being come to my Lord 
 Kalander, he made such means, both by our king's intercession 
 and his own, that by the king and senate of Lacedaemon, Demag- 
 oras was, upon pain of death, banished the country : who 
 hating the punishment, where he should have hated the fault, 
 joined himself, with all the power he could make, unto the Helots, 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 105 
 
 lately in rebellion against that state : and they (glad to have a 
 man of such authority among them) made him their general, 
 and under him have committed divers the most outrageous 
 villanies that a base multitude (full of desperate revenge) can 
 imagine. 
 
 "But within a while after this pitiful fact committed upon Par- 
 thenia, Argalus returned (poor Gentleman) having her fair 
 image in his heart, and already promising his eyes the uttermost 
 of his felicity when they (nobody else daring to tell it him) were 
 the first messengers to themselves of their own misfortune. I 
 mean not to move passion with telling you the grief of both, 
 when he knew her, for at first he did not ; nor at first knowledge 
 could possibly have virtue's aid so ready, as not even weakly to 
 lament the loss of such a jewel, so much the more, as that skilful 
 men in that art assured it was unrecoverable : but within a 
 while, truth of love (which still held the first face in his memory) 
 a virtuous constancy, and even a delight to be constant, faith, 
 given, and inward worthiness shining through the foulest mists, 
 took so full hold of the noble Argalus, that not only in such com- 
 fort which witty arguments may bestow upon adversity, but even 
 with the most abundant kindness that an eye-ravished lover 
 can express, he laboured both to drive the extremity of sorrow 
 from her, and to hasten the celebration of their marriage : 
 I whereunto he unfeignedly shewed himself no less cheerfully 
 earnest than if she had never been disinherited of that goodly 
 portion which nature had so liberally bequeathed unto her ; 
 j and for that cause deferred his intended revenge upon Demag- 
 I oras, because he might continually be in her presence, shewing 
 more humble serviceableness and joy to content her than ever 
 I before. 
 
 "But as he gave this rare example, not to be hoped for of any 
 other, but of another Argalus, so of the other side, she took as 
 strange a course in affection : for where she desired to enjoy him 
 more than to five yet did she overthrow both her own desire 
 and his, and in no sort would yield to marry him : with a strange 
 encounter of love's affects and effects ; that he by an affection 
 sprung from excessive beauty should delight in horrible foulness ; 
 and she of a vehement desire to have him should kindly build a 
 
io6 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 resolution never to have him ; for truth it is, that so in heart 
 she loved him, as she could not find in her heart he should be 
 tied to what was unworthy of his presence. 
 
 "Truly, Sir, a very good orator might have a fair field to use 
 eloquence in, if he did but only repeat the lamentable, and truly 
 affectionate speeches, while he conjured her by the remembrance 
 of her affection, and true oaths of his own affection, not to make 
 him so unhappy, as to think he had not only lost her face, but 
 her heart ; that her face, when it was fairest, had been but a 
 marshal to lodge the love of her in his mind, which now was so 
 well placed that it needed no further help of any outward har- 
 binger ; beseeching her, even with tears, to know that his love 
 was not so superficial as to go no further than the skin, which 
 yet now to him was most fair since it was hers : how could he be 
 so ungrateful as to love her the less for that which she had only 
 received for his sake ; that he never beheld it, but therein he 
 saw the loveliness of her love towards him ; protesting unto her 
 that he would never take joy of his life if he might not enjoy her, 
 for whom principally he was glad he had life. But (as I heard 
 by one that overheard them) she (wringing him by the hand) 
 made no other answer but this. 'My Lord,' said she, 'God 
 knows I love you ; if I were princess of the whole world, and had, 
 withal, all the blessings that ever the world brought forth, I 
 should not make delay to lay myself and them under your feet ; 
 or if I had continued but as I was, though (I must confess) 
 far unworthy of you, yet would I (with too great a joy for my 
 heart now to think of) have accepted your vouchsafing me to be 
 yours, and with faith and obedience would have supplied all 
 other defects. But first let me be much more miserable than I 
 am e'er I match such an Argalus to such a Parthenia. Live 
 happy, dear Argalus, I give you full liberty, and I beseech you 
 to take it ; and I assure you I shall rejoice (whatsoever become 
 of me) to see you so coupled, as may be both fit for your honour 
 and satisfaction. With that she burst out crying and weeping, 
 not able longer to control herself from blaming her fortune, 
 and wishing her own death. 
 
 "But Argalus, with a most heavy heart still pursuing his desire, 
 she fixed of mind to avoid further entreaty, and to fly all com- 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 107 
 
 pany which (even of him) grew unpleasant unto her, one night 
 she stole away ; but whither as yet it is unknov/n or indeed what 
 is become of her. 
 
 "Argalus sought her long and in many places." 
 
 [His eforts proving of no avail, he makes his way to the house of Kalander 
 where he is received with joy and kindly entertained. The rest of the story of 
 Ar galas and Parthenia falls in with the time of the main narrative.] 
 
 But while all men, saving poor Argalus, made the joy of their 
 eyes speak for their hearts, fortune (that belike was bid to 
 that banquet, and meant to play the good fellow) brought a 
 pleasant adventure among them. It was that as they had newly 
 dined, there came in to Kalander a messenger, that brought him 
 word, a young noble lady, near kinswoman to the fair Helen, 
 queen of Corinth, was come thither, and desired to be lodged in 
 his house. Kalander (most glad of such an occasion) went out, 
 and all his other worthy guests with him, saving only Argalus, 
 who remained in his chamber, desirous that this company were 
 once broken up, that he might go in his solitary quest after 
 Parthenia. But when they met this lady, Kalander straight 
 thought he saw his niece Parthenia, and was about in such 
 familiar sort to have spoken unto her, but she, in grave and 
 honourable manner, giving him to understand that he was 
 mistaken ; he, half ashamed, excused himself with the exceeding 
 likeness was between them, though indeed it seemed that this 
 lady was of the more pure and dainty complexion, she said, it 
 might very well be, having been many times taken one for the 
 other. But as soon as she was brought into the house, before 
 she would rest her, she desired to speak with Argalus publicly, 
 who she heard was in the house. Argalus came hastily, and as 
 hastily thought as Kalander had done, with sudden change of 
 sorrow. But she, when she had staid their thoughts with telhng 
 them her name and quahty, in this sort spake unto him. "My 
 Lord Argalus," said she, "being of late left in the court of queen 
 Helen of Corinth, as chief in her absence, she being upon some 
 occasion gone thence, there came unto me the lady Parthenia, so 
 disfigured, as I think Greece hath nothing so ugly to behold. 
 
io8 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 For my part, it was many days, before, with vehement oaths, and 
 some good proofs, she could make me think that she was Par- 
 thenia. Yet at last finding certainly it was she, and greatly 
 pitying her misfortune, so much the more as that all men had 
 ever told me, as now do you, of the great Ukeness between us, I 
 took the best care I could of her, and of her understood the whole 
 tragical history of her undeserved adventure : and therewithal of 
 the most noble constancy in you my lord Argalus, which who- 
 soever loves not, shews himself to be a hater of virtue, and un- 
 worthy to live in the society of mankind. But no outward 
 cherishing could salve the inward sore of her mind ; but a few 
 days since she died ; before her death earnestly desiring, and 
 persuading me to think of no husband but of you, as of the 
 only man in the world worthy to be loved. Withal she gave me 
 this ring to deliver to you, desiring you, and by the authority of 
 love commanding you that the affection you bare her, you should 
 turn to me ; assuring you that nothing can please her soul more 
 than to see you and me matched together. Now my lord, 
 though this office be not, perchance, suitable to my estate nor sex, 
 who should rather look to be desired ; yet, an extraordinary 
 desert requires an extraordinary proceeding, and therefore I 
 am come, with faithful love built upon your worthiness, to offer 
 myself, and to beseech you to accept the offer : and if these 
 noble gentlemen present will say it is great folly, let them withal 
 say, it is great love." And then she stayed, earnestly attending 
 Argalus's answer ; who, first making most hearty sighs, doing 
 such obsequies as he could to Parthenia, thus answered her. 
 
 ''Madame," said he, "infinitely am I bound to you, for this 
 no more rare than noble courtesy ; but much bound for the good- 
 ness I perceive you showed to the lady Parthenia (with that the 
 tears ran down his eyes, but he followed on) and as much as so 
 unfortunate a man, fit to be the spectacle of misery, can do you 
 a service ; determine you have made a purchase of a slave, while 
 I five, never to fail you. But this great matter you propose 
 unto me, wherein I am not so bhnd as not to see what happiness 
 it should be unto me, excellent lady, know that if my heart were 
 mine to give, you before all others should have it ; but Parthenia's 
 it is, though dead : there I began, there I end all matter of 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 109 
 
 affection : I hope I shall not long tarry after her, with whose 
 beauty if I only had been in love, I should be so with you, who 
 have the same beauty ; but it was Parthenia's self I loved, and 
 love, which no likeness can make one, no commandment dis- 
 solve, no foulness defile, nor no death finish." "And shall I 
 receive," said she, "such disgrace as to be refused?" "Noble 
 lady," said he, "let not that hard word be used ; who know your 
 exceeding worthiness far beyond my desert ; but it is only happi- 
 ness I refuse, since of the only happiness I could and can desire, 
 I am refused." 
 
 He had scarce spoken these words, when she ran to him and 
 embracing him, "Why then Argalus," said she, "take thy Par- 
 thenia": and Parthenia it was indeed. But because sorrow 
 forbade him too soon to believe, she told him the truth, with 
 all circumstances : how being parted alone, meaning to die in 
 some solitary place, as she happened to make her complaint, 
 the queen Helen of Corinth (who likewise felt her part of miser- 
 ies) being then walking alone in that lovely place, heard her, and 
 never left, till she had known the whole discourse. Which the 
 noble queen greatly pitying, she sent to her a physician of hers, 
 the most excellent man in the world, in hope that he could help 
 her : which in such sort as they saw he had performed, and she 
 taking with her one of the queen's servants, thought yet to make 
 this trial, whether he would quickly forget his true Parthenia, 
 or no. Her speech was confirmed by the Corinthian gentleman, 
 who before had kept her counsel, and Argalus easily persuaded 
 to what more than ten thousand years of life he desired : and 
 Kalander would needs have the marriage celebrated in his house, 
 principally the longer to hold his dear guest, towards whom he 
 was now, besides his own habits of hospitality, carried with love 
 and duty : and therefore omitted no service that his wit could 
 invent and power minister. 
 
no SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 [After they have been some time married Ar gains receives a stidden summons 
 to the wars.] 
 
 The messenger made speed and found Argalus at a castle of his 
 own, sitting in a parlour with the fair Parthenia, he reading in a 
 book the stories of Hercules, she by him, as to hear him read : 
 but while his eyes looked on the book, she looked on his eyes, 
 and sometimes staying him with some pretty question, not so 
 much to be resolved of the doubt, as to give him occasion to look 
 upon her : a happy couple, he joying in her, she joying in herself, 
 but in herself, because she enjoyed him : both increased their 
 riches by giving to each other ; each making one life double, 
 because they made a double Hf e one ; where desire never wanted 
 satisfaction, nor satisfaction ever bred satiety; he ruling, be- 
 cause she would obey, or rather because she would obey, he 
 therein ruling. 
 
 But when the messenger came in with letters in his hand, and 
 haste in his countenance, though she knew not what to fear, yet 
 she feared because she knew not ; but she rose, and went aside, 
 while he deUvered his letters and message : yet afar off she 
 looked, now at the messenger, and then at her husband : the 
 same fear, which made her loth to have cause of fear, yet making 
 her seek cause to nourish her fear. And well she found there was 
 some serious matter : for her husband's countenance figured 
 some resolution between lothness and necessity : and once his 
 eye cast upon her, and finding hers upon him, he blushed, 
 and she blushed, because he blushed, and yet straight grew 
 pale because she knew not why he had blushed. But when he 
 had read, and heard, and dispatched away the messenger, Hke a 
 man in whom honour could not be rocked asleep by affection, 
 with promise quickly to follow ; he came to Parthenia, and as 
 sorry as might be for parting, and yet more sorry for her sorrow, 
 he gave her the letter to read. She with fearful slowness took it, 
 and with fearful quickness read it; and having read it, "Ah my 
 Argalus," said she, "and have you made such haste to answer? 
 and are you so soon resolved to leave me?" but he discoursing 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA iii 
 
 unto her how much it imported his honour, which since it was 
 dear to him, he knew it would be dear unto her, her reason 
 overclouded with sorrow, suffered her not presently to reply, 
 but left the charge thereof to tears, and sighs, which he not able 
 to bear, left her alone, and went to give order for his present 
 departure. 
 
 But by that time he was armed, and ready to go, she had re- 
 covered a little strength of spirit again, and coming out, and see- 
 ing him armed, and wanting nothing for his departure but her fare- 
 well, she ran to him, took him by the arm, and kneeling down 
 without regard who either heard her speech, or saw her de- 
 meanour. "My Argalus, my Argalus," said she, "do not thus 
 forsake me. Remember, alas remember that I have interest in 
 you, which I will never yield shall be thus adventured. Your 
 valour is already sufficiently known : sufficiently have you al- 
 ready done for your country : enough, enough there are beside 
 you to lose less worthy lives. Woe is me, what shall become of 
 me if you thus abandon me ? then was it time for you to follow 
 those adventures, when you adventured nobody but yourself, 
 and were nobody's but your own. But now pardon me, that 
 now, or never, I claim mine own ; mine you are, and without 
 me you can undertake no danger : and will you endanger Par- 
 thenia ? Parthenia shall be in the battle of your fight : Parthenia 
 shall smart in your pain, and your blood must be bled by Par- 
 thenia." "Dear Parthenia," said he, "this is the first time that 
 ever you resisted my will : I thank you for it, but persevere not 
 in it; and let not the tears of these most beloved eyes be a 
 presage unto me of that which you would not should happen, I 
 shall live, doubt not : for so great a blessing as you are was not 
 given unto me so soon to be deprived of it. Look for me therefore 
 shortly, and victorious ; and prepare a joyful welcome, and I 
 will wish for no other triumph." She answered not, but stood 
 as it were thunder-stricken with amazement, for true love made 
 obedience stand up against all other passions. But when he took 
 her in his arms, and sought to print his heart in her sweet lips, 
 she fell in a swoon, so that he was fain to leave her to her gentle- 
 women, and carried away by the tyranny of honour, though 
 with many a back cast look and hearty groan, went to the camp. 
 
112 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 [In the course of the war Ar gains is slain hy Amphialus, inconsequence of 
 which Parthenia gives way to grievous dispair. Shortly after this event, 
 Amphialus is called out to do battle with a stranger called the Knight of the 
 Tomb. In the combat that ensues, fortune falls to the challenged, the Knight 
 of the Tomb receiving a mortal wound; whereupon Amphialus hastens to 
 unhelm the foe in order to discover his identity l\ 
 
 But the headpiece was no sooner off, but that there fell about 
 the shoulders of the overcome knight the treasure of fair golden 
 hair, which with the face, soon known by the badge of excellency, 
 witnessed that it was Parthenia, the unfortunately virtuous 
 wife of Argalus ; her beauty then, even in despite of the passed 
 sorrow, or coming death, assuring all beholders that it was noth- 
 ing short of perfection. For her exceeding fair eyes, having 
 with continual weeping gotten a little redness about them, her 
 round sweetly sweUing lips a little trembling, as though they 
 kissed their neighbor death ; in her cheeks the whiteness striving 
 little by little to get upon the rosiness of them ; her neck, a neck 
 indeed of alabaster, displaying the wound, which with most 
 dainty blood laboured to drown his own beauties ; so that here 
 was a river of purest red, there an island of perfectest white, each 
 giving lustre to the other, with the sweet countenance, God 
 knows, full of an unaffected languishing ; so that Amphialus 
 was astonished with grief, compassion and shame, detesting his 
 fortune that made him unfortunate in victory. 
 
 Therefore putting off his headpiece and gauntlet, kneeling 
 down unto her, and with tears testifying his sorrow, he offered 
 his, by himself accursed, hands to help her, protesting his hfe 
 and power to be ready to do her honour. But Parthenia, who had 
 inward messengers of the desired death's approach, looking upon 
 him, and straight turning away her feeble sight, as from a delight- 
 less object, drawing out her words, which her breath, loth to de- 
 part from so sweet a body, did faintly deliver: "Sir," said she, 
 "I pray you, if prayers have place in enemies, to let my maids 
 take my body untouched by you : the only honour I now desire 
 by your means, is, that I have no honour of you. Argalus made 
 no such bargain with you, that the hands which killed him should 
 help me. I have of them, and I do not only pardon you, but 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 113 
 
 thank you for it, the service which I desired. There rests nothing 
 now, but that I go Hve with him, since whose death I have 
 done nothing but die." Then pausing, and a httle fainting, and 
 again coming to herself ; "O sweet life, welcome," said she, *'now 
 feel I the bands united of the cruel death, which so long hath 
 held me. And O Ufe, O death, answer for me, that my thoughts 
 have not so much as in a dream tasted any comfort, since they 
 were deprived of Argalus. I come, my Argalus, I come : and, 
 O God, hide my faults in thy mercies, and grant, as I feel thou 
 dost grant, that in thy eternal love, we may love each other 
 eternally. And this, O Lord:" — but there Atropos cut off 
 her sentence : for with that, casting up both eyes and hands 
 to the skies, the noble soul departed (one might well assure 
 himself) to heaven, which left the body in so heavenly a de- 
 meanour. 
 
 But Amphialus, with a heart oppressed with grief, because of 
 her request, withdrew himself : but the judges, as full of pity, 
 had been all this while disarming her, and her gentlewomen with 
 lamentable cries labouring to staunch the remediless wounds : 
 and a while she was dead before they perceived it, death being 
 able to divide the soul, but not the beauty from that body. Then 
 kissing her cold hands and feet, weary of the world, since she was 
 gone who was their world, the very heavens seemed with a 
 cloudy countenance to lour at the loss, and fame itself (though by 
 nature glad to tell such rare accidents) yet could not choose but 
 deliver it in lamentable accents, and in such sort quickly it went 
 all over the camp. Basilius himself came forth and brought the 
 fair Gynecia with him. Both they and the rest of the principal 
 nobility went out to make honour triumph over death, conveying 
 that excellent body (whereto Basilius himself would needs lend 
 his shoulder) to a church a mile from the camp, where the 
 valiant Argalus lay entombed ; recommending to that sepulchre 
 the blessed relics of a faithful and virtuous love, giving order for 
 the making of two marble images to represent them, and each 
 way enriching the tomb : upon which Basilius himself caused 
 this epitaph to be written. 
 
 His Being was in her alone 
 And he not Being she was none. 
 
114 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 They joyed One joy, One grief they griev'd, 
 One love they lov'd, One Ufe they Uv'd. 
 The hand was One, One was the sword 
 That did his death, her death afford. 
 
 As all the rest ; so now the stone 
 That tombs the Two is justly One. 
 
 Argalus and Parthenia. 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 [Philoclea becomes conscious of her Love for Zelmane, who 
 IS MusiDORUs's Friend, Pyrocles, disguised as an Amazon.] 
 
 The sweet minded Philoclea was in their degree of well-doing, 
 to whom the not knowing of evil serve th for a ground of virtue, 
 and hold their inward powers in better form with an unspotted 
 simplicity, than many who rather cunningly seek to know what 
 goodness is than willingly take into themselves the following of 
 it. But as that sweet and simple breath of heavenly goodness 
 is the easier to be altered because it hath not passed through the 
 worldly wickedness, nor feelingly found the evil that evil carries 
 with it, so now the lady Philoclea (whose eyes and senses had 
 received nothing, but according as the natural sense of each 
 thing required ; whose tender youth had obediently lived under 
 her parents' behests, without framing out of her own will the fore- 
 choosing of any thing) when now she came to a point wherein 
 her judgment was to be practised in knowing faultiness by his 
 first tokens, she was like a young fawn who, coming in the 
 wind of the hunters, doth not know whether it be a thing or not 
 to be eschewed ; whereof at this time she began to get a costly 
 experience. For after that Zelmane had a while Hved in the 
 lodge with her, and that her only being a noble stranger had 
 bred a kind of heedful attention ; her coming to that lonely 
 place, where she had nobody but her parents, a willingness of 
 conversation ; her wit and behaviour, a liking and silent admira- 
 tion ; at length the excellency of her natural gifts, joined with the 
 
 • The passages chosen from Book II have been placed out of order, so that the story of 
 Argalus and Parthenia which appears in Books I and III may form a connected whole. 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 115, 
 
 extreme shows she made of most devout honouring Philoclea 
 (carrying thus, in one person, the only two bands of goodwill, 
 lovehness and lovingness) brought forth in her heart a yielding 
 to a most friendly affection ; which when it had gotten so full 
 possession of the keys of her mind that it would receive no 
 message from her senses without that affection were the in- 
 terpreter, then straight grew an exceeding delight still to be with 
 her, with an unmeasurable liking of all that Zelmane did : matters 
 being so turned in her, that where at first liking her manners did 
 breed goodwill, now goodwill became the chief cause of liking 
 her manners : so that within a while Zelmane was not prized 
 for her demeanour, but the demeanour was prized because it was 
 Zelmane's. Then followed that most natural effect of conform- 
 ing herself to that which she did like, and not only wishing to be 
 herself such another in all things, but to ground an imitation upon 
 so much an esteemed authority, so that the next degree was to 
 mark all Zelmane's doings, speeches, and fashions, and to take 
 them into herself as a pattern of worthy proceeding. Which 
 when once it was enacted, not only by the commonality of 
 passions, but agreed unto by her most noble thoughts, and that 
 reason itself, not yet experienced in the issues of such matters, 
 had granted his royal assent, then friendship, a diligent officer, 
 took care to see the statute thoroughly observed. Then grew on 
 that not only did she imitate the soberness of her countenance, 
 the gracefulness of her speech, but even their particular gestures, 
 so that as Zelmane did often eye her, she would often eye Zel- 
 mane ; and as Zelmane's eyes would deliver a submissive, but 
 vehement desire in their look, she, though as yet she had not the 
 desire in her, yet should her eyes answer in like piercing kind- 
 ness of a look. Zelmane, as much as Gynecia's jealousy would 
 suffer, desired to be near Philoclea ; Philoclea, as much as 
 Gynecia's jealousy would suffer, desired to be near Zelmane. 
 If Zelmane took her hand, and softly strained it, she also, thinking 
 the knots of friendship ought to be mutual, would, with a sweet 
 fastness, show she was loth to part from it. And if Zelmane 
 sighed, she would sigh also ; when Zelmane was sad, she deemed 
 it wisdom, and therefore she would be sad too. Zelmane's 
 languishing countenance with crossed arms, and sometimes cast 
 
ii6 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 up eyes, she thought to have an excellent grace, and therefore 
 she also willingly put on the same countenance, till at last, 
 poor soul, e'er she were aware, she accepted not only the badge, 
 but the service ; not only the sign, but the passion signified. 
 For whether it were that her wit in continuance did find that 
 Zelmane's friendship was full of impatient desire, having more 
 than ordinary limits, and therefore she was content to second 
 Zelmane, though herself knew not the limits, or that in truth, 
 true love, well considered, hath an infective power, at last 
 she fell in acquaintance with love's harbinger, wishing; first 
 she would wish that they two might live all their lives together 
 like two of Diana's nymphs. But that wish she thought not 
 sufficient, because she knew there would be more nymphs be- 
 sides them, who also would have their part in Zelmane. Then 
 would she wish that she were her sister, that such a natural 
 band might make her more special to her, but against that, she 
 considered, that, though being her sister, if she happened to be 
 married she should be robbed of her. Then grown bolder she 
 would wish either herself, or Zelmane, a man, that there might 
 succeed a blessed marriage between them. But when that wish 
 had once displayed his ensign in her mind, then followed whole 
 squadrons of longings that so it might be, with a main battle of 
 mislikings and repinings against their creation, that so it was not. 
 Then dreams by night began to bring more unto her than she 
 durst wish by day, whereout waking did make her know herself 
 the better by the image of those fancies. But as some diseases 
 when they are easy to be cured, they are hard to be known, but 
 when they grow easy to be known, they are almost impossible 
 to be cured, so the sweet Philoclea, while she might prevent it, 
 she did not feel it, now she felt it, when it was past preventing ; 
 like a river, no rampires being built against it, till already it have 
 overflowed. For now indeed love pulled off his mask, and showed 
 his face unto her, and told her plainly that she was his prisoner. 
 Then needed she no more paint her face with passions, for 
 passions shone through her face ; then her rosy colour was 
 often increased with extraordinary blushing, and so another time, 
 perfect whiteness descended to a degree of paleness ; now hot, 
 then cold, desiring she knew not what, nor how, if she knew what. 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 117 
 
 Then her mind, though too late, by the smart was brought to 
 think of the disease, and her own proof taught her to know her 
 mother's mind, which, as no error gives so strong assault as 
 that which comes armed in the authority of a parent, so greatly 
 fortified her desires to see that her mother had the like desires. 
 And the more jealous her mother was, the more she thought the 
 jewel precious which was with so many locks guarded. But 
 that prevailing so far, as to keep the two lovers from private 
 conference, then began she to feel the sweetness of a lover's 
 solitariness, when freely with words and gestures, as if Zelmane 
 were present, she might give passage to her thoughts, and so, as 
 it were, utter out some smoke of those flames, wherewith else 
 she was not only burned but smothered. As this night, that 
 going from one lodge to the other, by her mother's command- 
 ment, with doleful gestures and uncertain paces, she did willingly 
 accept the time's offer to be a while alone : so that going a little 
 aside into the wood, where many times before she had delighted 
 to walk, her eyes were saluted with a tuft of trees, so close set 
 together, that, with the shade the moon gave through it, it 
 might breed a fearful kind of devotion to look upon it : but true 
 thoughts of love banished all vain fancy of superstition. Full 
 well she did both remember and like the place, for there had 
 she often with their shade beguiled Phoebus of looking upon her : 
 there had she enjoyed herself often, while she was mistress of 
 herself and had no other thoughts, but such as might arise out of 
 quiet senses. 
 
 [in this spot she gives way to an expression of her passion.] 
 
 In this depth of muses and divers sorts of discourses, would 
 she ravingly have remained, but that Dametas and Miso, who were 
 round about to seek her, understanding that she was come to their 
 lodge that night, came hard by her ; Dametas saying that he 
 would not deal in other bodys' matters, but for his part he did 
 not like that maids should once stir out of their fathers' houses, 
 but if it were to milk a cow or save a chicken from a kite's foot, 
 or some such other matter of importance. And Miso swearing 
 that if it were her daughter Mopsa, she would give her a lesson 
 
ii8 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 for walking so late that should make her keep within doors for 
 one fortnight. But their jangling made Philoclea rise, and pre- 
 tending as though she had done it but to sport with them, went 
 with them, after she had willed Miso to wait upon her mother to 
 the lodge. ... 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 [The Princesses bathe in the River Ladon.] 
 
 Their sober dinner being come and gone, to recreate themselves 
 something, even tired with the noisesomeness of Miso's conversa- 
 tion, they determined to go, while the heat of the day lasted, to 
 bathe themselves, such being the manner of the Arcadian nymphs 
 often to do, in the river Ladon, and take with them a lute, mean- 
 ing to delight them under some shadow. But they could not 
 stir, but that Miso, with her daughter Mopsa was after them : 
 and as it lay in their way to pass by the other lodge, Zelmane 
 out of her window espied them, and so stole down after them, 
 which she might the better do, because that Gynecia was sick, 
 and Basilius, that day being his birth-day, according to his 
 manner, was busy about his devotions ; and therefore she went 
 after, hoping to find some time to speak with Philoclea : but not 
 a word could she begin, but that Miso would be one of the 
 audience, so that she was driven to recommend thinking, speak- 
 ing, and all, to her eyes, who dihgently performed her trust, 
 till they came to the river side, which of all rivers of Greece had 
 the praise for excellent pureness and sweetness, insomuch as the 
 very bathing in it was accounted exceeding healthful. It ran 
 upon so fine and dehcate a ground, as one could not easily judge 
 whether the river did more wash the gravel, or the gravel did 
 purify the river ; the river not running forth right, but almost 
 continually winding, as if the lower streams would return to 
 their spring, or that the river had a dehght to play with itself. 
 The banks of either side seeming arms of the loving earth that 
 fain would embrace it, and the river a wanton nymph which still 
 would slip from it ; either side of the bank being fringed with 
 most beautiful trees, which resisted the sun's darts from over- 
 much piercing the natural coldness of the river. There was 
 
THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE'S ARCADIA 119 
 
 among the rest a goodly cypress, who bowing her fair head over 
 the water, it seemed she looked into it, and dressed her green 
 locks by that running river. 
 
 There the princesses determining to bathe themselves, though 
 it was so privileged a place, upon pain of death, as nobody durst 
 presume to come hither ; yet for the more surety, they looked 
 round about, and could see nothing but a water-spaniel, who 
 came down the river, showing that he hunted for a duck, and 
 with a snuffling grace, disdaining that his smelling force could 
 not as well prevail through the water as through the air ; and 
 therefore waiting with his eye to see whether he could espy the 
 ducks getting up again, but then a little below them failing of his 
 purpose, he got out of the river, and shaking off the water (as 
 great men do their friends) now he had no farther cause to use 
 it, inweeded himself so that the ladies lost the farther marking 
 of his sportfulness : and inviting Zelmane also to wash herself 
 with them, and she excusing herself with having taken a late 
 cold, they began by piece-meal to take away the eclipsing of their 
 apparel. 
 
 Zelmane would have put to her helping hand, but she was 
 taken with such a quivering, that she thought it more wisdom 
 to lean herself to a tree, and look on, while Miso and Mopsa, 
 like a couple of foreswat melters, were getting the pure silver of 
 their bodies out of the ure of their garments. But as the rai- 
 ments went off to receive the kisses of the ground, Zelmane 
 envied the happiness of all, but of the smock was even jealous, 
 and when that was taken away too, and that Philoclea remained, 
 for her Zelmane only marked, like a diamond taken from out of 
 the rock, or rather like the sun getting from under a cloud, and 
 showing his naked beams to the full view, then was the beauty 
 too much for a patient sight, the delight too strong for a stayed 
 conceit, so that Zelmane could not choose but run, to touch, 
 embrace and kiss her. But conscience made her come to herself, 
 and leave Philoclea, who blushing, and withal smiling, making 
 shamefacedness pleasant, and pleasure shamefaced, tenderly 
 moved her feet, unwonted to feel the naked ground, till the 
 touch of the cold water made a pretty kind of shrugging come 
 over her body, like the twinkling of the fairest among the fixed 
 
I20 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY 
 
 stars. But the river itself gave way unto her, so that she was 
 straight breast high, which was the deepest that thereabout she 
 could be : and when cold Ladon had once fully embraced them, 
 himself was no more so cold to those ladies, but as if his cold 
 complexion had been heated with love, so seemed he to play 
 about every part he could touch. 
 
 "Ah sweet, now sweetest Ladon," said Zelmane, "why dost 
 thou not stay thy course to have more full taste of thy happiness ? 
 but the reason is manifest, the upper streams make such haste 
 to have their part of embracing, that the nether, though lothly, 
 must needs give place unto them. O happy Ladon within 
 whom she is, upon whom her beauty falls, through whom her 
 eye pierceth. O happy Ladon, which art now an unperfect 
 mirror of all perfection, can'st thou ever forget the blessedness of 
 this impression ? if thou do, then let thy bed be turned from fine 
 gravel to weeds and mud ; if thou do, let some unjust niggards 
 make wares to spoil thy beauty ; if thou do, let some greater 
 river fall into thee, to take away the name of Ladon, ! Ladon, 
 happy Ladon, rather slide than run by her, lest thou should'st 
 make her legs slip from her, and then, O happy Ladon, who 
 would then call thee, but the most cursed Ladon?" But as 
 the ladies played then in the water, sometimes striking it with 
 their hands, the water, making lines in his face, seemed to smile 
 at such beating, and with twenty bubbles not to be content to 
 have the picture of their face in large upon him, but he would 
 in each of these bubbles set forth the miniature of them. 
 
THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER 
 OR, Jack Wilton 
 
 THOMAS NASHE 
 
 About that time that the terror of the world and fever quartan 
 of the French, Henry the Eight (the only true subject of chroni- 
 cles), advanced his standard against the two hundred and fifty 
 towers of Tournay and Terouenne, and had the Emperor and 
 all the nobihty of Flanders, Holland, and Brabant as mercenary 
 : attendants on his full-sailed fortune, I, Jack Wilton, (a gentle- 
 I man at least,) was a certain kind of an appendix or page, belong- 
 [ ing or appertaining in or unto the confines of the English court ; 
 where what my credit was, a number of my creditors that I 
 I cozened can testify : Coslum petimus stuUitia, which of us all is 
 I not a sinner ? Be it known to as many as will pay money enough 
 j to peruse my story, that I followed the court or the camp, or 
 ^ the camp and the court. There did I (Soft, let me drink before 
 ' I go any further !) reign sole king of the cans and black jacks, 
 , prince of the pygmies, county palatine of clean straw and provant, 
 I and, to conclude, lord high regent of rashers of the coals and red 
 i herring cobs. Paulo majora canamus. Well, to the purpose. 
 What stratagemical acts and monuments do you think an ingeni- 
 ous infant of my years might enact ? You will say, it were 
 sufficient if he slur a die, pawn his master to the utmost penny, 
 and minister the oath of the pantofle artificially. These are 
 signs of good education, I must confess, and arguments of In 
 grace and virtue to proceed. Oh, but Aliquid latet quod non 
 patet, there's a further path I must trace : examples confirm ; 
 list, lordings, to my proceedings. Whosoever is acquainted 
 with the state of a camp understands that in it be many quarters, 
 and yet not so many as on London bridge. In those quarters 
 are many companies : Much company, much knavery, as true 
 as that old adage, "Much courtesy, much subtilty." Those 
 
122 THOMAS NASHE 
 
 companies, like a great deal of corn, do yield some chaff ; the 
 corn are cormorants, the chaff are good fellows, which are quickly 
 blown to nothing with bearing a light heart in a hght purse. 
 Amongst this chaff was I winnowing my wits to hve merrily, 
 and by my troth so I did : the prince could but command men 
 spend their blood in his service, I could make them spend all 
 the money they had for my pleasure. But poverty in the end 
 parts friends ; though I was prince of their purses, and exacted 
 of my unthrift subjects as much liquid allegiance as any kaiser 
 in the world could do, yet where it is not to be had the king must 
 lose his right : want cannot be withstood, men can do no more 
 than they can do : what remained then, but the fox's case must 
 help, when the lion's skin is out at the elbows ? 
 
 There was a lord in the camp, let him be a Lord of Misrule if 
 you will, for he kept a plain alehouse without welt or guard of any 
 ivy bush, and sold cider and cheese by pint and by pound to all 
 that came, (at the very name of cider I can but sigh, there is so 
 much of it in Rhenish wine nowadays). Well, Tendit ad sidera 
 virtus, there's great virtue belongs (I can tell you) to a cup of 
 cider, and very good men have sold it, and at sea it is Aqua 
 ccelestis; but that's neither here nor there, if it had no other 
 patron but this peer of quart pots to authorise it, it were suffi- 
 cient. This great lord, this worthy lord, this noble lord, thought 
 no scorn (Lord, have mercy upon us !) to have his great velvet 
 breeches larded with the droppings of this dainty liquor, and yet 
 he was an old servitor, a cavaHer of an ancient house, as might 
 appear by the arms of his ancestors, drawn very amiably in 
 chalk on the inside of his tent door. 
 
 He and no other was the man I chose out to damn with a 
 lewd moneyless device ; for coming to him on a day, as he was 
 counting his barrels and setting the price in chalk on the head of 
 them, I did my duty very devoutly, and told his ale-y honour I 
 had matters of some secrecy to impart unto him, if it pleased 
 him to grant me private audience. "With me, young Wilton ? " 
 quod he; "marry, and shalt ! Bring us a pint of cider of a fresh 
 tap into the Three Cups here ; wash the pot." So into a back 
 room he led me, where after he had spit on his finger, and picked 
 off two or three moats of his old moth-eaten velvet cap, and 
 
THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER 123 
 
 sponged and wrung all the rheumatic drivel from his ill-favoured 
 goat's beard, he bade me declare my mind, and thereupon he 
 drank to me on the same. I up with a long circumstance, alias, 
 a cunning shift of the seventeens, and discoursed unto him what 
 entire affection I had borne him time out of mind, partly for the 
 high descent and lineage from whence he sprung, and partly 
 for the tender care and provident respect he had of poor soldiers, 
 that, whereas the vastity of that place (which afforded them no 
 indifferent supply of drink or of victuals) might humble them to 
 some extremity, and so weaken their hands, he vouchsafed in his 
 own person to be a victualler to the camp (a rare example of mag- 
 nificence and honourable courtesy), and diligently provided that 
 without far travel every man might for his money have cider and 
 cheese his belly full ; nor did he sell his cheese by the wey only, 
 or his cider by the great, but abased himself with his own hands 
 to take a shoemaker's knife (a homely instrument for such a high 
 personage to touch) and cut it out equally, like a true justiciary, 
 in Httle pennyworths that it would do a man good for to look 
 upon. So likewise of his cider, the poor man might have his 
 moderate draught of it (as there is a moderation in all things) 
 as well for his doit or his dandiprat as the rich man for his half 
 sous or his denier. "Not so much," quoth I, "but this tapster's 
 linen apron which you wear to protect your apparel from the 
 imperfections of the spigot, most amply bewrays your lowly 
 mind. I speak it with tears, too few such noble men have we, 
 that will draw drink in linen aprons. Why, you are every 
 child's fellow ; any man that comes under the name of a soldier 
 and a good fellow, you will sit and bear company to the last pot, 
 yea, and you take in as good part the homely phrase of 'Mine 
 host, here's to you,' as if one saluted you by all the titles of your 
 barony. These considerations, I say, which the world suffers 
 to sHp by in the channel of forgetfulness, have moved me, in 
 ardent zeal of your welfare, to forewarn you of some dangers that 
 have beset you and your barrels." At the name of dangers he 
 start up, and bounced with his fist on the board so hard that his 
 tapster overhearing him, cried, "Anon, anon, sir ! by and by !" 
 and came and made a low leg and asked him what he lacked. 
 He was ready to have striken his tapster for interrupting him in 
 
124 THOMAS NASHE 
 
 attention of this his so much desired relation, but for fear of 
 displeasing me he moderated his fury, and only sending for the 
 other fresh pint, willed him look to the bar, and come when he 
 is called, "with a devil's name !" Well, at his earnest impor- 
 tunity, after I had moistened my Hps to make my lie run glib to 
 his journey's end, forward I went as followeth. "It chanced 
 me the other night, amongst other pages, to attend where the 
 King, with his lords and many chief leaders, sat in counsel : 
 there, amongst sundry serious matters that were debated, and 
 intelHgences from the enemy given up, it was privily informed 
 (No villains to these privy informers !) that you, even you that 
 I now speak to, had — (O would I had no tongue to tell the rest ; 
 by this drink, it grieves me so I am not able to repeat it !) " 
 Now was my drunken lord ready to hang himself for the end of 
 the full point, and over my neck he throws himself very lubberly, 
 and entreated me, as I was a proper young gentleman and ever 
 looked for pleasure at his hands, soon to rid him out of this hell 
 of suspense, and resolve him of the rest : then fell he on his knees, 
 wrung his hands, and I think on my conscience, wept out all the 
 cider that he had drunk in a week before : to move me to have 
 pity on him, he rose and put his rusty ring on my finger, gave 
 me his greasy purse with that single money that was in it, prom- 
 ised to make me his heir, and a thousand more favours, if I would 
 expire the misery of his unspeakable tormenting uncertainty. 
 I, being by nature inchned to Mercie (for indeed I knew two or 
 three good wenches of that name), bade him harden his ears, 
 and not make his eyes abortive before their time, and he should 
 have the inside of my breast turned outward, hear such a tale 
 as would tempt the utmost strength of life to attend it and not 
 die in the midst of it. "Why (quoth I) myself that am but a 
 poor childish well- wilier of yours, with the very thought that a 
 man of your desert and state by a number of peasants and var- 
 lets should be so injuriously abused in hugger mugger, have 
 wept. The wheel under our city bridge carries not so much 
 water over the city, as my brain hath welled forth gushing streams 
 of sorrow. My eyes have been drunk, outrageously drunk, 
 with giving but ordinary intercourse through their sea-circled 
 islands to my distilling dreariment. What shall I say? that 
 
THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER 125 
 
 which maKce hath said is the mere overthrow and murder of 
 your days. Change not your colour, none can slander a clear 
 conscience to itself ; receive all your fraught of misfortune in at 
 once. 
 
 "It is buzzed in the King's head that you are a secret friend 
 to the enemy, and under pretence of getting a license to furnish 
 the camp with cider and such like provant, you have furnished 
 the enemy, and in empty barrels sent letters of discovery and corn 
 innumerable." 
 
 I might well have left here, for by this time his white liver had 
 mixed itself with the white of his eye, and both were turned up- 
 wards, as if they had offered themselves a fair white for death 
 to shoot at. The truth was, I was very loth mine host and I 
 should part with dry lips : wherefore the best means that I could 
 imagine to wake him out of his trance, was to cry loud in his 
 ear, "Ho, host, what's to pay ? will no man look to the reckoning 
 here?" And in plain verity it took expected effect, for with 
 the noise he started and bustled, like a man that had been 
 scared with fire out of his sleep, and ran hastily to his tapster, 
 and all to belaboured him about the ears, for letting gentlemen 
 call so long and not look in to them. Presently he remembered 
 himself, and had like to fall into his memento again, but that I 
 met him half ways and asked his lordship what he meant to slip 
 his neck out of the collar so suddenly, and, being revived, strike 
 his tapster so hastily. 
 
 "Oh (quoth he), I am bought and sold for doing my country 
 such good service as I have done. They are afraid of me, be- 
 cause my good deeds have brought me into such estimation with 
 the commonalty. I see, I see, it is not for the lamb to live with 
 the wolf." 
 
 "The world is well amended (thought I) with your eldership ; 
 such another forty years' nap together as Epimenides had, would 
 make you a perfect wise man." "Answer me (quoth he), my 
 wise young Wilton, is it true that I am thus underhand dead and 
 buried by these bad tongues ?" 
 
 "Nay (quoth I), you shall pardon me, for I have spoken too 
 much already ; no definitive sentence of death shall march out 
 of my well-meaning lips; they have but lately sucked milk, 
 
126 THOMAS NASHE 
 
 and shall they so suddenly change their food and seek after 
 blood?" 
 
 ''Oh, but (quoth he) a man's friend is his friend ; fill the other 
 pint, tapster : what said the King ? did he believe it when he 
 heard it ? I pray thee say ; I swear by my nobility, none in the 
 world shall ever be made privy that I received any light of this 
 matter by thee." 
 
 "That firm affiance (quoth I) had I in you before, or else I 
 would never have gone so far over the shoes, to pluck you out 
 of the mire. Not to make many words, (since you will needs 
 know,) the King says flatly, you are a miser and a snudge, and he 
 never hoped better of you." "Nay, then (quoth he) question- 
 less some planet that loves not cider hath conspired against 
 me." "Moreover, which is worse, the King hath vowed to give 
 Terouenne one hot breakfast only with the bungs that he will 
 pluck out of your barrels. I cannot stay at this time to report 
 each circumstance that passed, but the only counsel that my 
 long cherished kind inclination can possibly contrive, is now in 
 your old days to be liberal : such victuals or provision as you 
 have, presently distribute it frankly amongst poor soldiers ; I 
 would let them burst their bellies with cider and bathe in it, be- 
 fore I would run into my prince's ill opinion for a whole sea of it. 
 If greedy hunters and hungry tale-tellers pursue you, it is for a 
 little pelf that you have ; cast it behind you, neglect it, let them 
 have it, lest it breed a farther inconvenience. Credit my advice, 
 you shall find it prophetical : and thus have I discharged the part 
 of a poor friend." With some few like phrases of ceremony, 
 "Your Honour's poor suppliant," and so forth, and "Farewell, 
 my good youth, I thank thee and will remember thee," we parted. 
 
 But the next day I think we had a dole of cider, cider in bowls, 
 in scuppets, in helmets ; and to conclude, if a man would have 
 filled his boots full, there he might have had it : provant thrust 
 itself into poor soldiers' pockets whether they would or no. 
 We made five peals of shot into the town together of nothing 
 but spiggots and faucets of discarded empty barrels : every 
 under-foot soldier had a distenanted tun, as Diogenes had his 
 tub to sleep in. I myself got as many confiscated tapster's 
 aprons as made me a tent as big as any ordinary commander's 
 
THE UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER 127 
 
 in the field. But in conclusion, my well-beloved baron of double 
 beer got him humbly on his mary-bones to the king, and com- 
 plained he was old and stricken in years, and had never an heir 
 to cast at a dog, wherefore if it might please his Majesty to take 
 his lands into his hands, and allow him some reasonable pension 
 to live, he should be marvellously well pleased : as for wars, he 
 was weary of them ; yet as long as his Highness ventured his 
 own person, he would not flinch a foot, but make his withered 
 body a buckler to bear off any blow advanced against him. 
 
 The King, marvelling at this alteration of his cider merchant 
 (for so he often pleasantly termed him), with a little farther 
 talk bolted out the whole complotment. Then was I pitifully 
 whipped for my holiday lie, though they made themselves 
 merry with it many a winter's evening after. 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 
 In the Similitude of a Dream 
 
 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 As I walked through the wilderness of this world, I lighted on 
 a certain place where was a Den, and I laid me down in that 
 
 place to sleep : and, as I slept, I dreamed a dream. 
 
 I dreamed, and behold I saw a man clothed with rags, 
 standing in a certain place, with his face from his own house, 
 a book in his hand, and a great burden upon his back (Isa. Ixiv. 
 6; Luke xiv. 33; Ps. xxxviii. 4; Hab. ii. 2; Acts xvi. 31). I 
 looked, and saw him open the book and read therein; and, as 
 
 he read, he wept, and trembled ; and not being able 
 
 longer to contain, he brake out with a lamentable cry, 
 saying, "What shall I do?" (Acts ii. 37.) 
 
 In this plight, therefore, he went home and refrained himself 
 as long as he could, that his wife and children should not per- 
 ceive his distress ; but he could not be silent long, because that 
 his trouble increased. Wherefore at length he brake his mind 
 to his wife and children ; and thus he began to talk to them. O 
 Thi Id ^^ ^^^^ wife, said he, and you the children of my 
 
 bowels, I, your dear friend, am in myself undone by 
 reason of a burden that lieth hard upon me ; moreover, I am for 
 certain informed that this our city will be burned with fire from 
 heaven, in which fearful overthrow both myself, with thee, my 
 wife, and you my sweet babes, shall miserably come to ruin, 
 He knows no ^^^ept (the which yet I see not) some way of escape 
 way of es- can be found, whereby we may be delivered. At 
 cape as yet. ^j^j^ j^-^ j-gi^j-j^Qj-^g were sore amazed ; not for that they 
 
 believed that what he had said to them was true, but because 
 they thought that some frenzy distemper had got into his 
 
 128 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 
 129 
 
 head ; therefore, it drawing towards night, and they hoping 
 that sleep might settle his brains, with all haste they got him 
 to bed. But the night was as troublesome to him as the day ; 
 wherefore, instead of sleeping, he spent it in sighs and tears. 
 So, when the morning was come, they would know how he did. 
 He told them. Worse and worse : he also set to talking to them 
 again : but they began to be hardened. They also thought 
 to drive away his distemper by harsh and surly carriages to him ; 
 sometimes they would deride, sometimes they would 
 chide, and sometimes they would quite neglect him. physic for a 
 Wherefore he began to retire himself to his chamber, ^^*^^ 
 to pray for and pity them, and also to condole his own misery ; 
 he would also walk solitarily in the fields, sometimes reading, and 
 sometimes praying : and thus for some days he spent his time. 
 
 Now, I saw, upon a time, when he was walking in the fields, 
 that he was, as he was wont, reading in his book, and greatly 
 distressed in his mind ; and as he read, he burst out, as he had 
 done before, crying, "What shall I do to be saved?" 
 
 I saw also that he looked this way and that way, as if he 
 would run ; yet he stood still, because, as I perceived, he could 
 not tell which way to go. I looked then, and saw a man named 
 Evangelist coming to him, who asked. Wherefore dost thou 
 cry? (Job xxxiii. 23.) 
 
 He answered. Sir, I perceive by the book in my hand that I 
 am condemned to die, and after that to come to judgment (Heb. 
 ix. 27), and I find that I am not willing to do the first (Job xvi. 
 21), nor able to do the second (Ezek. xxii. 14). 
 
 Then said Evangelist, Why not willing to die, since this life 
 is attended with so many evils ? The man answered. Because 
 I fear that this burden that is upon my back will sink me lower 
 than the grave, and I shall fall into Tophet (Isa. xxx. 33). And, 
 sir, if I be not fit to go to prison, I am not fit to go to judgment, 
 and from thence to execution ; and the thoughts of ^ . . 
 
 ° Conviction 
 
 these thmgs make me cry. oftheneces- 
 
 Then said Evangelist, If this be thy condition, why s'*yo^flyi°g- 
 standest thou still ? He answered. Because I know not whither 
 to go. Then he gave him a parchment roll, and there was writ- 
 ten within, "Flee from the wrath to come" (Matt. iii. 7). 
 
I30 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 The man therefore read it, and looking upon Evangelist very 
 carefully, said. Whither must I fly ? Then said Evangelist, 
 pointing with his finger over a very wide field. Do you see yonder 
 wicket-gate? (Matt. vii. 13, 14.) The man said, No. Then 
 said the other, Do you see yonder shining light ? (Ps. cxix. 
 105 ; 2 Pet. i. 19.) He said, I think I do. Then said Evangelist, 
 Keep that light in your eye, and go up directly thereto : so shalt 
 ch • t d thou see the gate ; at which when thou knockest 
 the way to it shall be told thee what thou shalt do. So I saw 
 b™fo*ifi^°* in my dream that the man began to run. Now, 
 without the he had not run far from his own door, but his wife 
 
 ""^ ■ and children perceiving it, began to cry after him to 
 
 return ; but the man put his fingers in his ears, and ran on, 
 crying. Life ! life ! eternal life ! (Luke xiv. 26.) So he looked 
 not behind him, but fled towards the middle of the plain (Gen. 
 xix. 17). 
 
 The neighbours also came out to see him run (Jer. xx. 10) ; 
 and as he ran, some mocked, others threatened, and some cried 
 The that after him to return ; and, among those that did so, 
 fly from the there were two that resolved to fetch him back by 
 ^a}^ 1^-. o force. The name of the one was Obstinate, and the 
 
 come, are a ' 
 
 gazing-stock name of the other Pliable. Now by this time, the 
 o e wor . j^g^j^ ^g^g gQ^ ^ good distance from them ; but, how- 
 ever, they were resolved to pursue him, which they did, and in 
 a little time they overtook him. Then said the man, Neigh- 
 Obstinate hours, wherefore are ye come ? They said. To per- 
 andPUabie suade you to go back with us. But he said, That 
 o ow mi. ^^^ 1^^ ^^ means be ; you dwell, said he, in the City 
 of Destruction, the place also where I was born : I see it to 
 be so ; and dying there, sooner or later, you will sink lower than 
 the grave, into a place that burns with fire and brimstone : be 
 content, good neighbours, and go along with me. 
 
 Obst. What ! said Obstinate, and leave our friends and our 
 comforts behind us? 
 
 Chr. Yes, said Christian (for that was his name), because 
 that ALL which you shall forsake is not worthy to be compared 
 with a little of that which I am seeking to enjoy (2 Cor. iv. 18) ; 
 and if you will go along with me, and hold it, you shall fare as 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 131 
 
 I myself ; for there, where I go, is enough and to spare (Luke xv. 
 17). Come away, and prove my words. 
 
 Obst. What are the things you seek, since you leave all the 
 world to find them ? 
 
 Chr. I seek an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that 
 fadeth not away (i Pet. i. 4), and it is laid up in heaven, and safe 
 there (Heb. xi. 16), to be bestowed, at the time appointed, on 
 them that diligently seek it. Read it so, if you will, in my book. 
 
 Obst. Tush ! said Obstinate, away with your book. Will 
 you go back with us or no ? 
 
 Chr. No, not I, said the other, because I have laid my hand 
 to the plough (Luke ix. 62). 
 
 Obst. Come then, neighbour Pliable, let us turn again, 
 and go home without him ; there is a company of these crazy- 
 headed coxcombs, that, when they take a fancy by the end, are 
 wiser in their own eyes than seven men that can render a reason 
 (Prov. xxvi. 16). 
 
 Pli. Then said Pliable, Don't revile ; if what the good Chris- 
 tian says is true, the things he looks after are better than ours : 
 my heart inclines to go with my neighbour. 
 
 Obst. What ! more fools still ! Be ruled by me, and go back ; 
 who knows whither such a brain-sick fellow will lead you ? 
 Go back, go back, and be wise. 
 
 Chr. Nay, but do thou come with thy neighbour, Pliable ; 
 
 there are such things to be had which I spoke of, 
 
 and many more glories besides. If you believe not and obsti- 
 
 me, read here in this book ; and for the truth of what ^^te pull for 
 
 . Pliable's 
 
 is expressed therein, behold all is confirmed by the soul. 
 
 blood of Him that made it (Heb. ix. 17-21). 
 
 Pli. Well, neighbour Obstinate, said PHable, I begin to come 
 
 to a point; I intend to go along with this good man, 
 
 ,^ '. , .,,. , ^ , Pliable con- 
 
 and to cast m my lot with him ; but, my good com- tented to go 
 panion, do you know the way to this desired place ? ^^^^ Chns- 
 
 Chr. I am directed by a man, whose name is 
 Evangelist, to speed me to a Kttle gate that is before us, where 
 we shall receive instructions about the way. 
 
 Pli. Come, then, good neighbour, let us be going. Then 
 they went both together. 
 
132 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 Obst. And I will go back to my place, said Obstinate ; I 
 will be no companion of such misled, fantastical 
 
 goes railing fellows. 
 
 ^**^^- Now, I saw in my dream, that, when Obstinate 
 
 was gone back. Christian and Pliable went talking over the 
 
 plain ; and thus they began their discourse, 
 tween^ Chr. Come, neighbour Pliable, how do you do? 
 
 Christian J am glad you are persuaded to go along with me. 
 Had even Obstinate himself but felt what I have felt 
 of the powers and terrors of what is yet unseen, he would not 
 thus lightly have given us the back. 
 
 Pli. Come, neighbour Christian, since there are none but us 
 two here, tell me now further what the things are, and how to 
 be enjoyed, whither we are going. 
 
 Chr. I can better conceive of them with my mind, than 
 God's things speak of them with my tongue ; but yet, since you 
 
 unspeak- are desirous to know, I will read of them in my 
 able. 1 1 
 
 book. 
 
 Now, I saw in my dream, that just as they had ended this 
 talk they drew near to a very miry slough, that was in the 
 The Slough midst of the plain ; and they, being heedless, did 
 of Despond. ^^Q^^i fall suddenly into the bog. The name of the 
 slough was Despond. Here, therefore, they wallowed for a 
 time, being grievously bedaubed with the dirt; and Christian, 
 because of the burden that was on his back, began to sink in the 
 mire. 
 
 Pli. Then said Pliable, Ah ! neighbour Christian, where are 
 you now ? 
 
 Chr. Truly, said Christian, I do not know. 
 
 Pli. At this Pliable began to be offended, and angrily said 
 to his fellow, Is this the happiness you have told me all this 
 while of ? If we have such ill speed at our first setting out, what 
 may we expect betwixt this and our journey's end ? May I 
 get out again with my life, you shall possess the 
 enough to brave country alone for me. And, with that, he 
 be pliable, gg^ye a desperate struggle or two, and got out of the 
 mire on that side of the slough which was next to his own house 
 so away he went, and Christian saw him no more. 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 133 
 
 Wherefore Christian was left to tumble in the Slough of De- 
 spond alone : but still he endeavoured to struggle ^^ . ,. . 
 
 r 1 1 1 1 -11 r 1 r Chnstian in 
 
 to that side of the slough that was still further from trouble 
 his own house, and next to the wicket-gate ; the ^gt^urth^,.**' 
 which he did, but could not get out, because of the from his 
 burden that was upon his back. : but I beheld in my ^^"^ house, 
 dream, that a man came to him, whose name was Help, and 
 asked him, What he did there ? 
 
 Chr. Sir, said Christian, I was bid go this way by a man 
 called Evangelist, who directed me also to yonder gate, that I 
 might escape the wrath to come ; and as I was going thither I 
 fell in here. The Prom- 
 
 Help. But why did not you look for the steps ? i^es. 
 
 Chr. Fear followed me so hard, that I fled the next way and 
 fell in. 
 
 Help. Then said he. Give me thy hand : so he gave him his 
 hand, and he drew him out, and set him upon sound Help lifts 
 ground, and bid him go on his way (Ps. xl. 2). him up. 
 
 Then I stepped to him that plucked him out, and said. Sir, 
 wherefore, since over this place is the way from the City of 
 Destruction to yonder gate, is it that this plat is not mended, 
 that poor travellers might go thither with more security ? And 
 he said unto me. This miry slough is such a place as cannot be 
 mended ; it is the descent whither the scum and filth „„ . , 
 
 ' ... . what makes 
 
 that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, thesiough 
 and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond ; for ° ^^^°°^ ' 
 still, as the sinner is awakened about his lost condition, there 
 ariseth in his soul many fears, and doubts, and discouraging 
 apprehensions, which all of them get together, and settle in this 
 place. And this is the reason of the badness of this ground. 
 
 It is not the pleasure of the King that this place should 
 remain so bad (Isa. xxxv. 3, 4). His labourers also have, by 
 the direction of His Majesty's surveyors, been for above these 
 sixteen hundred years employed about this patch of ground, if 
 perhaps it might have been mended : yea, and to my knowledge, 
 said he, here have been swallowed up at least twenty thousand 
 cart-loads, yea, millions of wholesome instructions, that have 
 at all seasons been brought from all places of the King's domin- 
 
134 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 ions, and they that can tell, say they are the best materials to 
 make good ground of the place ; if so be, it might have been 
 mended, but it is the Slough of Despond still, and so will be when 
 they have done what they can. 
 
 True, there are, by the direction of the Lawgiver, certain good 
 and substantial steps, placed even through the very 
 ises of midst of the slough ; but at such time as this place 
 forgiveness (Joth much spew out its filth, as it doth against change 
 ance to life of weather, these steps are hardly seen ; or, if they 
 by faith in j^g^ men, through the dizziness of their heads, step 
 beside, and then they are bemired to purpose, not- 
 withstanding the steps be there ; but the ground is good when 
 they are once got in at the gate (i Sam. xii. 23) 
 
 Then I saw in my dream, that when they ^ were got out of 
 the wilderness, they presently saw a town before them, and the 
 name of that town is Vanity ; and at the town there is a fair 
 kept, called Vanity Fair : it is kept all the year long ; it beareth 
 the name of Vanity Fair, because the town where it is kept is 
 lighter than vanity ; and also because all that is there sold, or 
 that Cometh thither, is vanity. As is the saying of the wise, "all 
 that Cometh ^5 vanity "(Eccles.i. 2, 14; ii. 11,17; xi.8; Isa.xli. 29). 
 
 This fair is no new-erected business, but a thing of ancient 
 standing; I will show you the original of it. 
 
 Almost five thousand years agone, there were pilgrims walk- 
 The antiq- ^^S to the Celestial City, as these two honest persons 
 uity of this are : and Beelzebub, Apollyon, and Legion, with their 
 ^' companions, perceiving by the path that the pilgrims 
 
 made, that their way to the city lay through this town of Vanity, 
 they contrived here to set up a fair; a fair wherein should be 
 sold all sorts of vanity, and that it should last all the year long : 
 „, therefore at this fair are all such merchandise sold, 
 
 The mer- ' 
 
 chandise of as houses, lands, trades, places, honours, preferments, 
 this fair. titles, countries, kingdoms, lusts, pleasures, and de- 
 lights of all sorts, as whores, bawds, wives, husbands, children, 
 masters, servants, lives, blood, bodies, souls, silver, gold, pearls, 
 precious stones, and what not. 
 
 And, moreover, at this fair there is at all times to be seen 
 
 ' Christian and Faithful. 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 
 135 
 
 juggling, cheats, games, plays, fools, apes, knaves, and rogues, 
 and that of every kind. 
 
 Here are to be seen, too, and that for nothing, thefts, murders, 
 adulteries, false swearers, and that of a blood-red colour. 
 
 And as in other fairs of less moment, there are the several 
 rows and streets, under their proper names, where such and such 
 wares are vended ; so here likewise you have the proper places, 
 rows, streets (viz. countries and kingdoms), where the wares 
 of this fair are soonest to be found. Here is the Britain 
 Row, the French Row, the Italian Row, the Spanish xhe streets 
 Row, the German Row, where several sorts of vanities °^ t^s fair, 
 are to be sold. But, as in other fairs, some one commodity is 
 as the chief of all the fair, so the ware of Rome and her merchan- 
 , dise is greatly promoted in this fair ; only our Enghsh nation, 
 I with some others, have taken a dislike thereat. 
 I Now, as I said, the way to the Celestial City lies just through 
 this town where this lusty fair is kept ; and he that will go to the 
 I City, and yet not go through this town, must needs Q^mst went 
 I "go out of the world" (i Cor. v. 10). The Prince through this 
 j of princes himself, when here, went through this town ^' 
 \ to his own country, and that upon a fair day too ; yea, and as 
 ' I think, it was Beelzebub, the chief lord of this fair, that invited 
 him to buy of his vanities ; yea, would have made 
 I him lord of the fair, would he but have done him rev- bought 
 ierence as he went through the town (Matt. iv. 8; nothing in 
 ;Luke iv. 5-7). Yea, because he was such a person 
 1 of honour, Beelzebub had him from street to street, and showed 
 I him all the kingdoms of the world in a little time, that he might, 
 if possible, allure the Blessed One to cheapen and buy jj^gpy 
 some of his vanities ; but he had no mind to the grims enter 
 merchandise, and therefore left the town, without *^®*^- 
 laying out so much as one farthing upon these vanities. This 
 fair, therefore, is an ancient thing, of long standing, and a very 
 great fair. Now these pilgrims, as I said, must needs The fair in a 
 go through this fair. Well, so they did : but, behold, hubbub 
 even as they entered into the fair, all the people in * °" ®™" 
 the fair" were moved, and the town itself as it were in a hubbub 
 about them ; and that for several reasons : for — 
 
136 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 First, The pilgrims were clothed with such kind of raiment 
 as was diverse from the raiment of any that traded in that fair. 
 The first The people, therefore, of the fair, made a great gazing 
 cause of the upon them : some said they were fools, some they 
 were bedlams, and some they are outlandish men 
 (i Cor. ii. 7, 8). 
 
 Secondly, And as they wondered at their apparel, so they did 
 Second likewise at their speech ; for few could understand 
 
 cause of the what they said ; they naturally spoke the language 
 of Canaan, but they that kept the fair were the men 
 of this world ; so that, from one end of the fair to the other, 
 they seemed barbarians each to the other. 
 
 Thirdly, But that which did not a little amuse the merchan- 
 disers was, that these pilgrims set very light by all their wares ; 
 Third cause ^^^Y cared not so much as to look upon them ; and if 
 of the they called upon them to buy, they would put their 
 
 " " ■ fingers in their ears, and cry, "Turn away mine eyes 
 from beholding vanity," and look upwards, signifying that their 
 trade and traffic was in heaven (Ps. cxix. 37 ; Phil. iii. 19, 20). 
 
 One chanced mockingly, beholding the carriage of the men, 
 Fourth to ^^y unto them. What will ye buy? But they, 
 
 cause of the looking gravely upon him, answered, "We buy the 
 truth" (Prov. xxiii. 23). At that there was an 
 occasion taken to despise the men the more ; some mocking, 
 They are some taunting, some speaking reproachfully, and 
 mocked. some Calling upon others to smite them. At last 
 things came to a hubbub and great stir in the fair, insomuch 
 The fair in a that all order was confounded. Now was word 
 hubbub. presently brought to the great one of the fair, who 
 quickly came down, and deputed some of his most trusty friends 
 They are to take these men into examination, about whom 
 examined. |^]^g fg^jj- -y^^g almost Overturned. So the men were 
 brought to examination ; and they that sat upon them, asked 
 They tell them whence they came, whither they went, and what 
 who they ^-j^gy ^[^ there, in such an unusual garb ? The men 
 whence they told them that they were pilgrims and strangers in 
 came. ^-j^e world, and that they were going to their own 
 
 country, which was the heavenly Jerusalem (Heb. xi. 13-16) ; 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 137 
 
 and that they had given no occasion to the men of the town, 
 nor yet to the merchandisers, thus to abuse them, and to let 
 them in their journey, except it was for that, when They are not 
 one asked them what they would buy, they said they believed, 
 would buy the truth. But they that were appointed to examine 
 them did not believe them to be any other than bed- They are put 
 lams and mad, or else such as came to put all things i° *^® <^*s®- 
 into a confusion in the fair. Therefore they took them and beat 
 them, and besmeared them with dirt, and then put them into 
 the cage, that they might be made a spectacle to all the men 
 of the fair. 
 
 Behold Vanity Fair ! the Pilgrims there 
 
 Are chained and stand beside : 
 Even so it was our Lord passed here, 
 
 And on Mount Calvary died. 
 
 There, therefore, they lay for some time, and were made the 
 objects of any man's sport, or malice, or revenge, the great one 
 of the fair laughing still at all that befell them. But _. . 
 'the men being patient, and not rendering railing for behaviour 
 1 railing, but contrariwise, blessing, and giving good ^" *^® '^*^®' 
 words for bad, and kindness for injuries done, some men in the 
 fair that were more observing, and less prejudiced than the 
 {rest, began to check and blame the baser sort for their 
 continual abuses done by them to the men ; they, the fair do 
 [therefore, in angry manner, let fly at them again, fail out 
 counting them as bad as the men in the cage, and themselves 
 j telling them that they seemed confederates, and about these 
 'should be made partakers of their misfortunes. The 
 j other replied, that for aught they could see, the men were quiet, 
 land sober, and intended nobody any harm ; and that there were 
 Imany that traded in their fair that were more worthy They are 
 to be put into the cage, yea, and pillory too, than ™^^^ *^® 
 were the men they had abused. Thus, after divers this dis- 
 [Words had passed on both sides, the men behaving turbance. 
 themselves all the while very wisely and soberly before them, 
 they fell to some blows among themselves, and did harm one to 
 another. Then were these two poor men brought before their 
 
138 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 examiners again, and there charged as being guilty of the late 
 hubbub that had been in the fair. So they beat 
 ie/up*and them pitifully, and hanged irons upon them, and 
 down the Jed them in chains up and down the fair, for an 
 chains, for example and a terror to others, lest any should 
 a terror to speak in their behalf, or join themselves' unto them. 
 
 others 
 
 But Christian and Faithful behaved themselves yet 
 more wisely, and received the ignominy and shame that was 
 
 cast upon them, with so much meekness and patience, 
 men of the that it won to their side, though but few in compari- 
 fair won to gon of the rest, several of the men in the fair. This 
 
 put the other party yet into greater rage, insomuch 
 that they concluded the death of these two men. Wherefore 
 
 they threatened, that neither cage nor irons should 
 sariesre- serve their turn, but that they should die, for the abuse 
 solve to kiu they had done, and for deluding the men of the fair. 
 Then were they remanded to the cage again, until 
 further order should be taken with them. So they put them 
 in, and made their feet fast in the stocks. 
 
 Here, therefore, they called again to mind what they had 
 heard from their faithful friend Evangelist, and were the more 
 confirmed in their way and sufferings, by what he told them 
 would happen to them. They also now comforted each other, 
 that whose lot it was to suffer, even he should have the best of 
 it ; therefore each man secretly wished that he might have that 
 preferment : but committing themselves to the all-wise disposal 
 
 of Him that ruleth all things, with much content, they 
 again put abode in the condition in which they were, until they 
 into the should be Otherwise disposed of. 
 after Then a convenient time being appointed, they 
 
 brought to brought them forth to their trial, in order to their 
 
 condemnation. When the time was come, they were 
 brought before their enemies and arraigned. The Judge's name 
 was Lord Hate-good. Their indictment was one and the same 
 Their in substance, though somewhat varying in form, the 
 
 indictment, contents whereof were this : — 
 
 "That they were enemies to and disturbers of their trade; 
 that they had made commotions and divisions in the town, and 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 139 
 
 had won a party to their own most dangerous opinions, in con- 
 tempt of the law of their prince." 
 
 Now, Faithful, play the man, speak for thy God : 
 Fear not the wicked's malice, nor their rod : 
 Speak boldly, man, the truth is on thy side : 
 Die for it, and to life in triimiph ride. 
 
 Then Faithful began to answer, that he had only set himself 
 against that which hath set itself against Him that is higher 
 than the highest. And, said he, as for disturbance, p^ithfui's 
 I make none, being myself a man of peace; the answer for 
 parties that were won to us, were won by beholding *^™^®"- 
 our truth and innocence, and they are only turned from the 
 worse to the better. And as to the king you talk of, since he is 
 Beelzebub, the enemy of our Lord, I defy him and all his angels. 
 
 Then proclamation was made, that they that had aught to 
 Isay for their lord the king against the prisoner at the bar, should 
 [forthwith appear and give in their evidence. So there came in 
 three witnesses, to wit, Envy, Superstition, and Pickthank. 
 They were then asked if they knew the prisoner at the bar ; 
 I and what they had to say for their lord the king against him. 
 
 Then stood forth Envy, and said to this effect : 
 
 , . . , Envy begins. 
 
 My Lord, I have known this man a long time, and 
 
 will attest upon my oath before this honourable bench that 
 
 he is 
 
 Judge. Hold ! Give him his oath. (So they sware him.) 
 ;Then he said — 
 
 ' Envy. My Lord, this man, notwithstanding his plausible name, 
 ^is one of the vilest men in our country. He neither regardeth 
 'prince nor people, law nor custom ; but doth all that he can to 
 possess all men with certain of his disloyal notions, which he in 
 •the general calls principles of faith and holiness. And, in par- 
 jticular, I heard him once myself affirm that Christianity and the 
 customs of our town of Vanity were diametrically opposite, 
 and could not be reconciled. By which saying, my Lord, he 
 idoth at once not only condemn all our laudable doings, but us 
 jin the doing of them. 
 
 i Judge. Then did the Judge say to him, Hast thou any more 
 I to say ? 
 
I40 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 Envy. My Lord, I could say much more, only I would not 
 be tedious to the court. Yet, if need be, when the other gentle- 
 men have given in their evidence, rather than anything shall 
 be wanting that will despatch him, I will enlarge my testimony 
 against him. So he was bid to stand by. 
 
 Then they called Superstition, and bid him look upon the 
 prisoner. They also asked, what he could say for their lord 
 the king against him. Then they sware him ; so he began. 
 
 Super. My Lord, I have no great acquaintance with this 
 man, nor do I desire to have further knowledge of him ; however, 
 Supersti- this I know, that he is a very pestilent fellow, from 
 tion follows, some discourse that, the other day, I had with him 
 in this town ; for then, talking with him, I heard him say, that 
 our religion was nought, and such by which a man could by no 
 means please God. Which sayings of his, my Lord, your Lord- 
 ship very well knows, what necessarily thence will follow, to wit, 
 that we do still worship in vain, are yet in our sins, and finally 
 shall be damned ; and this is that which I have to say. 
 
 Then was Pickthank sworn, and bid say what he knew, in 
 behalf of their lord the king, against the prisoner at the bar. 
 
 Pick. My Lord, and you gentlemen all. This fellow I have 
 known of a long time, and have heard him speak things that 
 Pickthank's ought not to be spoke ; for he hath railed on our noble 
 testimony, prince Beelzebub, and hath spoken contemptibly of 
 his honourable friends, whose names are the Lord Old Man, the 
 Lord Carnal Dehght, the Lord Luxurious, the Lord Desire of Vain 
 Sins are all G^^^Y' ^Y ^^^ Lord Lechery, Sir Having Greedy, with 
 lords, and all the rest of our nobility; and he hath said, more- 
 great ones. Qygj.^ That if all men were of his mind, if possible, 
 there is not one of these noblemen should have any longer a 
 being in this town. Besides, he hath not been afraid to rail on 
 you, my Lord, who are now appointed to be his judge, calhng you 
 an ungodly villain, with many other such like vihfying terms, 
 with which he hath bespattered most of the gentry of our town. 
 
 When this Pickthank had told his tale, the Judge directed his 
 speech to the prisoner at the bar, saying, Thou runagate, heretic, 
 and traitor, hast thou heard what these honest gentlemen have 
 witnessed against thee ? 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 
 141 
 
 Faith. May I speak a few words in my own defence ? 
 
 Judge. Sirrah ! Sirrah ! thou deservest to live no longer, but 
 to be slain immediately upon the place ; yet, that all men may 
 see our gentleness towards thee, let us hear what thou, vile runa- 
 gate, hast to say. 
 
 Faith, i. I say, then, in answer to what Mr. Envy hath 
 spoken, I never said aught but this, That what rule, ^ ... , 
 or laws, or customs, or people, were flat against the defence of 
 Word of God, are diametrically opposite to Chris- ^"^^^^^• 
 tianity. If I have said amiss in this, convince me of my error, 
 and I am ready here before you to make my recantation. 
 
 2. As to the second, to wit, Mr. Superstition, and his charge 
 against me, I said only this, That in the worship of God there is 
 required a Divine faith ; but there can be no Divine faith with- 
 out a Divine revelation of the will of God. Therefore, what- 
 ever is thrust into the worship of God that is not agreeable to 
 Divine revelation, cannot be done but by a human faith, which 
 faith will not be profitable to eternal life. 
 
 3. As to what Mr. Pick thank hath said, I say (avoiding terms, 
 as that I am said to rail, and the like), that the prince of this 
 town, with all the rabblement, his attendants, by this gentleman 
 named, are more fit for a being in hell, than in this town and 
 country : and so, the Lord have mercy upon me ! 
 
 Then the Judge called to the jury (who all this while stood 
 by, to hear and observe) : Gentlemen of the jury, you see this 
 man about whom so great an uproar hath been made ^j^^ , ^ ^,^ 
 in this town. You have also heard what these worthy speech to 
 gentlemen have witnessed against him. Also you ^^^^' 
 have heard his reply and confession. It lieth now in your 
 breasts to hang him or save his fife ; but yet I think meet to 
 instruct you into our law. 
 
 There was an Act made in the days of Pharaoh the Great, 
 servant to our prince, that lest those of a contrary rehgion should 
 multiply and grow too strong for him, their males should be 
 thrown into the river (Exod. i. 22). There was also an Act 
 made in the days of Nebuchadnezzar the Great, another of his 
 servants, that whosoever would not fall down and worship his 
 golden image, should be thrown into a fiery furnace (Dan. iii. 6). 
 
142 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 There was also an Act made in the days of Darius, that whoso, 
 for some time, called upon any god but him, should be 
 cast into the Hons' den (Dan. vi). Now the substance of 
 these laws this rebel has broken, not only in thought (which is 
 not to be borne), but also in word and deed ; which must there- 
 fore needs be intolerable. 
 
 For that of Pharaoh, his law was made upon a supposition, 
 to prevent mischief, no crime being yet apparent; but here is 
 a crime apparent. For the second and third, you see he dis- 
 puteth against our rehgion ; and for the treason he hath con- 
 fessed, he deserveth to die the death. 
 
 Then went the jury out, whose names were, Mr. Blind-man, 
 
 Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. 
 
 Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. 
 
 The jury, Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, and Mr. Implacable; who 
 
 and their , , . . , . . , . 
 
 names. every one gave m his private verdict against mm 
 
 among themselves, and afterwards unanimously con- 
 cluded to bring him in guilty before the Judge. And first, 
 among themselves, Mr. Blind-man, the foreman, said, I see 
 _ , clearly that this man is a heretic. Then said Mr. 
 
 Every one's -^ 
 
 private ver- No-good, Away with such a fellow from the earth. 
 ^'^^ Ay, said Mr. Malice, for I hate the very looks of 
 
 him. Then said Mr, Love-lust, I could never endure him. 
 Nor I, said Mr. Live-loose, for he would always be condemning 
 my way. Hang him, hang him, said Mr. Heady. A sorry scrub, 
 said Mr. High-mind. My heart riseth against him, said Mr. 
 Enmity. He is a rogue, said Mr. Liar. Hanging is too good 
 for him, said Mr. Cruelty. Let us despatch him out of the way, 
 They con- said Mr. Hate-light. Then said Mr. Implacable, 
 elude to Might I have all the world given me, I could not 
 
 bring him m . r i • i 
 
 guilty of be reconciled to him ; therefore, let us forthwith 
 death. bring him in guilty of death. And so they did ; 
 
 therefore he was presently condemned to be had from the place 
 where he was, to the place from whence he came, and there to be 
 The cruel P^^ ^° ^^^ most cruel death that could be invented, 
 death of They, therefore, brought him out, to do with him 
 
 ^ ' according to their law ; and, first, they scourged him, 
 then they buffeted him, then they lanced his flesh with knives ; 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 143 
 
 after that, they stoned him with stones, then pricked him with 
 their swords ; and, last of all, they burned him to ashes at the 
 stake. Thus came Faithful to his end. ^ A chariot 
 
 Now I saw that there stood behind the multitude ^^^ horses 
 a chariot and a couple of horses, waiting for Faith- away Faith- 
 ful, who (so soon as his adversaries had despatched ^"*- 
 him) was taken up into it, and straightway was carried up 
 through the clouds, with sound of trumpet, the nearest way to 
 the celestial gate. 
 
 Brave Faithful, bravely done in word and deed ; 
 Judge, witnesses, and jury have, instead 
 Of overcoming thee, but shown their rage : 
 When they are dead, thou'lt live from age to age. 
 
 But as for Christian, he had some respite, and was remanded 
 back to prison. So he there remained for a space ; but He 
 that overrules all things, having the power of their christian 
 rage in his own hand, so wrought it about, that '^ still alive. 
 Christian for that time escaped them, and went his way ; and 
 as he went, he sang, saying — 
 
 The Song 
 
 Well, Faithful, thou hast faithfully prof est 
 
 Unto thy Lord ; with whom thou shalt be blest, ^'^t Chr^- 
 
 When faithless ones, with all their vain delights, -tian mide 
 
 Are crying out under their hellish plights : of Faithful 
 
 Sing, Faithful, sing, and let thy name survive ; h th 
 For, though they killed thee, thou art yet alive. 
 
 Now I saw in my dream, that Christian went not forth alone, 
 for there was one whose name was Hopeful (being made so by 
 the beholding of Christian and Faithful in their _ . ^ 
 
 111. . . Chnstian 
 
 words and behaviour, in their sufferings at the Fair) , has another 
 who joined himself unto him, and, entering into a ^°^'^^^°^- 
 brotherly covenant, told him that he would be his companion. 
 Thus, one died to bear testimony to the truth, and There are 
 another rises out of his ashes, to be a companion with ^°^^ °^ ^^ 
 Christian in his pilgrimage. This Hopeful also told Fair will 
 Christian, that there were many more of the men follow- 
 in the Fair, that would take their time and follow after. 
 
144 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 I saw, then, that they ^ went on their way to a pleasant river ; 
 which David the king called "the river of God," but John, 
 . . "the river of the water of Hfe" (Ps. Ixv. o ; Rev. xxii. 
 
 A river. 
 
 I, 2; Ezek. xlvii. 1-12). Now their way lay just 
 upon the bank of the river; here, therefore. Christian and his 
 companion walked with great dehght; they drank also of the 
 water of the river, which was pleasant, and enhvening to their 
 weary spirits : besides, on the banks of this river, on either side, 
 were green trees, that bore all manner of fruit ; and the leaves 
 Trees by of the trees were good for medicine ; with the fruit 
 the river. of these trees they were also much delighted ; and 
 
 The fruit , , . ^ r • , i 
 
 and leaves the leaves they eat to prevent surfeits, and other 
 of the trees, diseases that are incident to those that heat their 
 blood by travels. On either side of the river was also a meadow, 
 curiously beautified with lilies, and it was green all the year 
 A meadow ^ong. In this meadow they lay down, and slept ; 
 in which for here they might lie down safely. When they 
 down to awoke, they gathered again of the fruit of the trees, 
 sleep. and drank again of the water of the river, and then 
 
 lay down again to sleep (Ps. xxiii. 2; Isa. xiv. 30). Thus 
 they did several days and nights. Then they sang — 
 
 Behold ye how these crystal streams do glide, 
 
 To comfort pilgrims by the highway side ; 
 
 The meadows green, beside their fragrant smell, 
 
 Yield dainties for them : and he that can tell 
 
 What pleasant fruit, yea, leaves, these trees do yield. 
 
 Will soon sell all, that he may buy this field. 
 
 So when they were disposed to go on (for they were not, as 
 yet, at their journey's end), they ate and drank, and departed. 
 
 Now, I beheld in my dream, that they had not journeyed far, 
 but the river and the way for a time parted ; at which they were 
 not a little sorry ; yet they durst not go out of the way. Now 
 the way from the river was rough, and their feet tender, by rea- 
 By-path son of their travels; "so the souls of the pilgrims 
 Meadow. were much discouraged because of the way" (Num. 
 xxi. 4). Wherefore, still as they went on, they wished for better 
 way. Now, a Httle before them, there was on the left hand of 
 
 • Christian and Hopeful. 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 145 
 
 the road a meadow, and a stile to go over into it ; and that 
 
 meadow is called By-path Meadow. Then said Christian to his 
 
 fellow, If this meadow lieth along by our wayside, 
 
 let us go over into it. Then he went to the stile to tion does'* 
 
 see, and behold, a path lay along by the way, on ™ake way 
 
 the other side of the fence. It is according to my 
 
 wish, said Christian. Here is the easiest going; come, good 
 
 Hopeful, and let us go over. 
 
 Hope. But how if this path should lead us out of the 
 way? 
 
 Chr. That is not like, said the other. Look, doth it not 
 go along by the wayside ? So Hopeful, being per- 
 suaded by his fellow, went after him over the stile, christians 
 When they were gone over, and were got into the ^^y/^ad 
 
 . . weak ones 
 
 path, they found it very easy for their feet ; and out of the 
 withal, they, looking before them, espied a man ^^^' 
 walking as they did (and his name was Vain-confidence) ; so 
 they called after him, and asked him whither that ggg ^^^t it 
 way led. He said, To the Celestial Gate. Look, is too sud- 
 said Christian, did not I tell you so? By this you in with ° 
 may see we are right. So they followed, and he went strangers, 
 before them. But, behold, the night came on, and it grew very 
 dark ; so that they that were behind lost the sight of him that 
 went before. 
 
 He, therefore, that went before (Vain-confidence by name), 
 not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit 
 (Isa. ix. 16), which was on purpose there made, by catch the 
 the Prince of those grounds, to catch vain-glorious vain-giori- 
 fools withal, and was dashed in pieces with his fall. 
 
 Now Christian and his fellow heard him fall. So they called 
 to know the matter, but there was none to answer. Reasoning 
 only they heard a groaning. Then said Hopeful, ^t^'^^f" 
 Where are we now ? Then was his fellow silent, as and Hope- 
 mistrusting that he had led him out of the way ; and *"^- 
 now it began to rain, and thunder, and lighten in a very dread- 
 ful manner ; and the water rose amain. 
 
 Then Hopeful groaned in himself, saying. Oh, that I had kept 
 on my way ! 
 
146 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 Chr. Who could have thought that this path should have 
 led us out of the way ? 
 
 Hope. I was afraid on it at the very first, and therefore gave 
 you that gentle caution. I would have spoken plainer, but that 
 you are older than I. 
 
 Chr. Good brother, be not offended ; I am sorry I have 
 Christian's brought thee out of the way, and that I have put 
 repentance thee into such imminent danger ; pray, my brother, 
 ^ofilT^^^ forgive me ; I did not do it of an evil intent, 
 brother out HoPE. Be Comforted, my brother, for I forgive 
 o the way. ^.j^^^ . ^^^ believe, too, that this shall be for our good. 
 
 Chr. I am glad I have with me a merciful brother ; but we 
 must not stand thus : let us try to go back again. 
 
 Hope. But, good brother, let me go before. 
 
 Chr. No, if you please, let me go first, that if there be any 
 danger, I may be first therein, because by my means we are both 
 gone out of the way. 
 
 Hope. No, said Hopeful, you shall not go first ; for your mind 
 being troubled may lead you out of the way again. Then, for 
 their encouragement, they heard the voice of one sa3dng, "Set 
 thine heart toward the highway, even the way which thou 
 wentest ; turn again" (Jer. xxxi. 21). But by this time the 
 They are in waters were greatly risen, by reason of which the 
 danger of ^ay of going back was very dangerous. (Then I 
 
 drowning as -^ ° ^ . . -^ . r .u 1. 
 
 they go thought that it IS easier going out of the way, when 
 
 back. -^Q are in, than going in when we are out.) Yet they 
 
 adventured to go back, but it was so dark, and the flood was so 
 high, that in their going back they had like to have been 
 drowned nine or ten times. 
 
 Neither could they, with all the skill they had, get again 
 to the stile that night. Wherefore, at last, fighting under a 
 They sleep httle shelter, they sat down there until the day- 
 in the break ; but, being weary, they fell asleep. Now 
 
 Giant De° there was, not far from the place where they lay, a 
 spair. castle called Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was 
 
 Giant Despair ; and it was in his grounds they now were sleep- 
 ing : wherefore he, getting up in the morning early, and walk- 
 ing up and down in his fields, caught Christian and Hopeful 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 147 
 
 asleep In his grounds. Then, with a grim and surly voice, he 
 
 bid them awake ; and asked them whence they were, and what 
 
 they did in his grounds. They told him they were 
 
 pilgrims, and that they had lost their way. Then ^hem in his 
 
 said the Giant, You have this night trespassed on me, grounds, 
 
 by trampling in and lying on my grounds, and therefore them to 
 
 you must go along with me. So they were forced to go, Doubting 
 
 because he was stronger than they. They also had 
 
 but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault. The Giant, 
 
 therefore, drove them before him, and put them 
 
 into his castle, into a very dark dungeon, nasty and ousness of 
 
 stinking to the spirits of these two men (Ps. Ixxxviii. ^^f^ i™- 
 
 18). Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning 
 
 till Saturday night, without one bit of bread, or drop of drink, 
 
 or light, or any to ask how they did ; they were, therefore, here 
 
 in evil case, and were far from friends and acquaintance. Now 
 
 in this place Christian had double sorrow, because it was through 
 
 his unadvised counsel that they were brought into this distress. 
 
 The pilgrims now, to gratify the flesh, 
 Will seek its ease ; but oh ! how they afresh 
 Do thereby plunge themselves new griefs into ! 
 Who seek to please the flesh, themselves undo. 
 
 Now, Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. 
 So when he was gone to bed, he told his wife what he had done ; 
 to wit, that he had taken a couple of prisoners and cast them into 
 his dungeon, for trespassing on his grounds. Then he asked her 
 also what he had best to do further to them. So she asked him 
 what they were, whence they came, and whither they were 
 bound ; and he told her. Then she counselled him that when 
 he arose in the morning he should beat them without any mercy. 
 So, when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crab-tree cudgel, 
 and goes down into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to 
 rating of them as if they were dogs, although they never gave 
 him a word of distaste. Then he falls upon them, and on Thurs- 
 beats them fearfully, in such sort, that they were ^^ay- Giant 
 
 , Till 1 Despair 
 
 not able to help themselves, or to turn them upon beats his 
 the floor. This done, he withdraws and leaves them, prisoners, 
 there to condole their misery, and to mourn under their dis- 
 
148 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 tress. So all that day they spent the time in nothing but sighs and 
 bitter lamentations. The next night, she, talking with her hus- 
 band about them further, and understanding they were yet aHve, 
 did advise him to counsel them to make away with themselves. 
 So when morning was come, he goes to them in a surly manner 
 as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with the stripes 
 that he had given them the day before, he told them, that since 
 On Friday, ^^^y Were never like to come out of that place, their 
 Giant De- only way would be forthwith to make an end of 
 seiTthenTto themselves, either with knife, halter, or poison, for 
 km them- why, said he, should you choose life, seeing it is 
 
 selves • 
 
 attended with so much bitterness? But they de- 
 sired him to let them go. With that he looked ugly upon them, 
 and, rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them him- 
 
 The Giant ^^^^' ^^^ ^^^^ ^^ ^^^^ ^^^^ °^^ °^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^'^^ ^^ SOme- 
 
 sometimes times, in sunshiuy Weather, fell into fits), and lost for 
 *^ *^" a time the use of his hand ; wherefore he withdrew, 
 and left them as before, to consider what to do. Then did the 
 prisoners consult between themselves, whether it was best to 
 take his counsel or no ; and thus they began to discourse : — 
 
 Chr. Brother, said Christian, what shall we do ? The life 
 that we now live is miserable. For my part I know not whether 
 Christian it is best, to live thus, or to die out of hand. "My 
 crushed. ggul chooseth strangling rather than life," and the 
 grave is more easy for me than this dungeon (Job. vii. 15). 
 Shall we be ruled by the Giant ? 
 
 Hope. Indeed, our present condition is dreadful, and death 
 would be far more welcome to me than thus for ever to abide ; 
 Hopeful ^^^ y^^' ^^^ ^^ consider, the Lord of the country 
 comforts to which we are going hath said, Thou shalt do no 
 ™' murder : no, not to another man's person ; much more, 
 
 then, are we forbidden to take his counsel to kill ourselves. 
 Besides, he that kills another, can but commit murder upon his 
 body ; but for one to kill himself is to kill body and soul at once. 
 And, moreover, my brother, thou talkest of ease in the grave ; 
 but hast thou forgotten the hell, whither for certain the mur- 
 derers go? For "no murderer hath eternal life," &c. And let 
 us consider, again, that all the law is not in the hand of Giant 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 
 149 
 
 Despair. Others, so far as I can understand, have been taken 
 by him, as well as we; and yet have escaped out of his hand. 
 Who knows, but that God that made the world may cause that 
 Giant Despair may die ? or that, at some time or other, he may 
 forget to lock us in ? or that he may, in a short time, have another 
 of his fits before us, and may lose the use of his limbs ? and if 
 ever that should come to pass again, for my part, I am resolved 
 to pluck up the heart of a man, and to try my utmost to get from 
 under his hand. I was a fool that I did not try to do it before ; 
 but, however, my brother, let us be patient, and endure a while. 
 The time may come that may give us a happy release ; but let 
 us not be our own murderers. With these words. Hopeful at 
 present did moderate the mind of his brother ; so they continued 
 together (in the dark) that day, in their sad and doleful condition. 
 
 Well, towards evening, the Giant goes down into the dungeon 
 again, to see if his prisoners had taken his counsel ; but when 
 he came there he found them alive ; and truly, alive was all ; 
 for now, what for want of bread and water, and by reason of the 
 wounds they received when he beat them, they could do Httle 
 but breathe. But, I say, he found them alive ; at which he fell 
 into a grievous rage, and told them that, seeing they had dis- 
 obeyed his counsel, it should be worse with them than if they had 
 never been born. 
 
 At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell 
 into a swoon ; but, coming a little to himself again, . 
 they renewed their discourse about the Giant's stm de- 
 counsel ; and whether yet they had best to take it i^^^^^- 
 or no. Now Christian again seemed to be for doing it, but 
 Hopeful made his second reply as followeth : — 
 
 Hope. My brother, said he, rememberest thou not how 
 valiant thou hast been heretofore ? Apollyon could 
 not crush thee, nor could all that thou didst hear, or Hopeful 
 
 . ' comforts 
 
 see, or feel, m the Valley of the Shadow of Death, him again, 
 What hardship, terror, and amazement hast thou ^^j.^^^ 
 already gone through ! And art thou now nothing but things to 
 fear ! Thou seest that I am in the dungeon with ^j^^™" 
 thee, a far weaker man by nature than thou art ; 
 also, this Giant has wounded me as well as thee, and hath 
 
I50 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 also cut off the bread and water from my mouth ; and with thee 
 I mourn without the Ught. But let us exercise a httle more 
 patience ; remember how thou playedst the man at Vanity Fair, 
 and wast neither afraid of the chain, nor cage, nor yet of bloody 
 death. Wherefore let us (at least to avoid the shame, that 
 becomes not a Christian to be found in) bear up with patience 
 as well as we can. 
 
 Now, night being come again, and the Giant and his wife being 
 in bed, she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had 
 taken his counsel. To which he replied,- They are sturdy rogues, 
 they choose rather to bear all hardship, than to make away 
 themselves. Then said she, Take them into the castle-yard to- 
 morrow, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou 
 hast already despatched, and make them believe, ere a week 
 comes to an end, thou also wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast 
 done their fellows before them. 
 
 So when the morning was come, the Giant goes to them again, 
 and takes them into the castle-yard, and shows them, as his wife 
 had bidden him. These, said he, were pilgrims as 
 On Satur- y^^ ^^.^^ once, and they trespassed in my grounds, as 
 Giant you have done ; and when I thought fit, I tore them 
 
 tharshorti ^^ picccs, and so, within ten days, I will do you. 
 he would Go, get you down to your den again ; and with that 
 ItlleT"^ '° ^^e beat them all the way thither. They lay, there- 
 fore, all day on Saturday in a lamentable case, as 
 before. Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence 
 and her husband, the Giant, were got to bed, they began to 
 renew their discourse of their prisoners ; and withal the old Giant 
 wondered, that he could neither by his blows nor his counsel 
 bring them to an end. And with that his wife replied, I fear, 
 said she, that they live in hope that some will come to relieve 
 them, or that they have picklocks about them, by the means of 
 which they hope to escape. And sayest thou so, my dear? 
 said the Giant ; I will, therefore, search them in the morning. 
 
 Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and 
 continued in prayer till almost break of day. 
 
 Now, a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half 
 amazed, brake out in this passionate speech : What a fool, 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 151 
 
 quoth he, am I, thus to lie in a stinking dungeon, when I 
 may as well walk at liberty ! I have a key in my bosom, 
 called Promise, that will, I am persuaded, open any 
 lock in Doubting Castle. Then said Hopeful, That ^J^?V" , 
 
 v^xlilSTlclIl S 
 
 is good news, good brother; pluck it out of thy bosom, 
 
 bosom, and try. called Prom- 
 
 . . . . ise, opens 
 
 Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began any lock in 
 to try at the dungeon door, whose bolt (as he turned castie^'^^ 
 the key) gave back, and the door flew open with ease, 
 and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the 
 outward door that leads into the castle-yard, and, with his key, 
 opened that door also. After, he went to the iron gate, for that 
 must be opened too ; but that lock went damnable hard, yet the 
 key did open it. Then they thrust open the gate to make their 
 escape with speed, but that gate, as it opened, made such a 
 creaking, that it waked Giant Despair, who, hastily rising to 
 pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him 
 again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then they 
 went on, and came to the King's highway, and so were safe, 
 because they were out of his jurisdiction. 
 
 Now, when they were gone over the stile, they began to con- 
 trive with themselves what they should do at that stile, to pre- 
 vent those that should come after, from falling into the hands of 
 Giant Despair. So they consented to erect there a a pillar 
 pillar, and to engrave upon the side thereof this sen- ^,^'^}^^ ^y 
 
 ,. „ , . X . , ^ , . Christian 
 
 tence — Over this stile is the way to Doubting and Ws 
 Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who despiseth ^®^io^- 
 the King of the Celestial Country, and seeks to destroy his holy 
 pilgrims." Many, therefore, that followed after, read what was 
 written, and escaped the danger. 
 
 [The End or the Pilgrimage] 
 
 Now I saw in my dream, that by this time the pilgrims were 
 got over the Enchanted Ground, and entering into the country 
 of Beulah, whose air was very sweet and pleasant, the way lying 
 directly through it, they solaced themselves there for a season 
 (Isa. Ixii. 4). Yea, here they heard continually the singing of 
 
152 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 birds, and saw every day the flowers appear in the earth, and 
 heard the voice of the turtle in the land (Can. ii. 10-12). In 
 this country the sun shineth night and day ; wherefore this was 
 beyond the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and also out of the 
 reach of Giant Despair, neither could they from this place so 
 much as see Doubting Castle. Here they were within sight of 
 the city they were going to, also here met them some of the 
 inhabitants thereof; for in this land the Shining 
 
 Angels . 
 
 Ones commonly walked, because it was upon the 
 borders of heaven. In this land also, the contract between the 
 bride and the bridegroom was renewed; yea, here, "As the 
 bridegroom rejoiceth over the bride, so did their God rejoice 
 over them " (Isa. Ixii. 5). Here they had no want of corn and 
 wine ; for in this place they met with abundance of what they 
 had sought for in all their pilgrimage (Verse 8). Here they 
 heard voices from out of the city, loud voices, saying, "Say ye 
 to the daughter of Zion, Behold, thy salvation cometh ! Be- 
 hold, his reward is with him!" (Verse 11.) Here all the 
 inhabitants of the country called them, "The holy people, The 
 redeemed of the Lord, Sought out," &c. (Verse 12). 
 
 Now, as they walked in this land, they had more rejoicing 
 than in parts more remote from the kingdom to which they 
 were bound ; and drawing near to the city, they had yet a more 
 perfect view thereof. It was builded of pearls and precious 
 stones, also the street thereof was paved with gold ; so that by 
 reason of the natural glory of the city, and the reflection of the 
 sunbeams upon it, Christian with desire fell sick ; Hopeful also 
 had a fit or two of the same disease. Wherefore, here they lay 
 by it a while, crying out, because of their pangs, "If ye find my 
 beloved, tell him that I am sick of love " (Can. v. 8). 
 
 But, being a httle strengthened, and better able to bear their 
 sickness, they walked on their way, and came yet nearer and 
 nearer, where were orchards, vineyards, and gardens, and their 
 gates opened into the highway. Now, as they came up to these 
 places, behold the gardener stood in the way, to whom the pil- 
 grims said, Whose goodly vineyards and gardens are these? 
 He answered, They are the King's, and are planted here for his 
 own delight, and also for the solace of pilgrims. So the gar- 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 153 
 
 dener had them into the vineyards, and bid them refresh them- 
 selves with the dainties (Deut. xxiii. 24). He also showed 
 them there the King's walks, and the arbours where he delighted 
 to be ; and here they tarried and slept. 
 
 Now I beheld in my dream, that they talked more in their 
 sleep at this time than ever they did in all their journey ; and 
 being in a muse thereabout, the gardener said even to me, 
 Wherefore musest thou at the matter ? It is the nature of the 
 fruit of the grapes of these vineyards to go down so sweetly as 
 to cause the lips of them that are asleep to speak. 
 
 So I saw that when they awoke, they addressed them- 
 selves to go up to the city ; but, as I said, the reflection of the 
 sun upon the city (for "the city was pure gold," Rev. xxi. 18) 
 was so extremely glorious, that they could not, as yet, with open 
 face behold it, but through an instrument made for that pur- 
 pose (2 Cor. iii. 18). So I saw, that as they went on, there met 
 them two men, in raiment that shone like gold ; also their faces 
 shone as the light. 
 
 These men asked the pilgrims whence they came ; and they 
 told them. They also asked them where they had lodged, what 
 difficulties and dangers, what comforts and pleasures they had 
 met in the way ; and they told them. Then said the men that 
 met them, You have but two difficulties more to meet with, and 
 then you are in the city. 
 
 Christian then, and his companion, asked the men to go along 
 with them ; so they told them they would. But, said they, 
 you must obtain it by your own faith. So I saw in my dream 
 that they went on together, until they came in sight of the gate. 
 
 Now, I further saw, that betwixt them and the gate was a 
 river, but there was no bridge to go over : the river was very 
 deep. At the sight, therefore, of this river, the 
 
 . o ? 1 7 Death 
 
 pilgrims were much stunned ; but the men that went 
 
 with them said. You must go through, or you cannot come at 
 
 the gate. 
 
 The pilgrims then began to inquire if there was no other way 
 to the gate ; to which they answered. Yes ; but there hath 
 not any, save two, to wit, Enoch and Elijah, been permitted 
 to tread that path, since the foundation of the world, nor 
 
154 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 shall, until the last trumpet shall sound (i Cor. xv. 51, 52). 
 The pilgrims then, especially Christian, began to despond in 
 
 their minds, and looked this way and that, but no 
 SekmnMo* ^^y could be found by them, by which they might 
 nature, escape the river. Then they asked the men if the 
 
 hwe^pa^ss waters were all of a depth. They said, No; yet 
 out of this they could not help them in that case ; for, said they, 
 giory*^ ^^*° you shall find it deeper or shallower, as you beheve 
 
 in the King of the place. 
 Angels help They then addressed themselves to the water; 
 
 us not com- -^ ^ . ' 
 
 fortabiy and entering, Christian began to sink, and crying 
 death^^ out to his good friend Hopeful, he said, I sink in deep 
 
 waters ; the billows go over my head, all his waves 
 go over me ! Selah. 
 
 Then said the other, Be of good cheer, my brother, I feel the 
 bottom, and it is good. Then said Christian, Ah ! my friend, 
 
 "the sorrows of death have compassed me about;" 
 confllcTat^ I shall not see the land that flows with milk and 
 the hour of honey ; and with that a great darkness and horror 
 
 fell upon Christian, so that he could not see before 
 him. Also here he in great measure lost his senses, so, that he 
 could neither remember, nor orderly talk of any of those sweet 
 refreshments that he had met with in the way of his pilgrimage. 
 But all the words that he spake still tended to discover that he 
 had horror of mind, and heart fears that he should die in that 
 river, and never obtain entrance in at the gate. Here also, as 
 they that stood by perceived, he was much in the troublesome 
 thoughts of the sins that he had committed, both since and 
 before he began to be a pilgrim. It was also observed that he 
 was troubled with apparitions of hobgoblins and evil spirits, for 
 ever and anon he would intimate so much by words. Hopeful, 
 therefore, here had much ado to keep his brother's head above 
 water; yea, sometimes he would be quite gone down, and then, 
 ere a while, he would rise up again half dead. Hopeful also would 
 endeavour to comfort him, saying, Brother, I see the gate, and 
 men standing by to receive us; but Christian would answer. 
 It is you, it is you they wait for; you have been Hopeful ever 
 since I knew you. And so have you, said he to Christian. Ah, 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 155 
 
 brother ! said he, surely if I was right he would now arise to help 
 me ; but for my sins he hath brought me into the snare, and hath 
 left me. Then said Hopeful, My brother, you have quite forgot 
 the text, where it is said of the wicked, ''There are no bands in 
 their death, but their strength is firm. They are not in trouble 
 as other men, neither are they plagued like other men" (Ps. 
 Ixxiii. 4, 5). These troubles and distresses that you go through 
 in these waters are no sign that God hath forsaken you ; but 
 are sent to try you, whether you will call to mind that which 
 heretofore you have received of his goodness, and live upon him 
 in your distresses. 
 
 Then I saw in my dream, that Christian was as in a muse a 
 while. To whom also Hopeful added this word. Be of good 
 cheer. Jesus Christ maketh thee whole ; and with christian 
 that Christian brake out with a loud voice. Oh ! I see delivered 
 him again, and he tells me, "When thou passest fears in 
 through the waters, I will be with thee ; and through death, 
 the rivers, they shall not overflow thee" (Isa. xliii. 2). Then 
 they both took courage, and the enemy was after that as still 
 as a stone, until they were gone over. Christian therefore 
 presently found ground to stand upon, and so it followed that 
 the rest of the river was but shallow. Thus they 
 got over. Now, upon the bank of the river, on ^o waU^ftr 
 the other side, they saw the two shining men again^ them, so 
 who there waited for them; wherefore, being come ^^eyare 
 out of the river, they saluted them saying, We are passed out 
 ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for those ^^,1^^ 
 that shall be heirs of salvation. Thus they went 
 along towards the gate. 
 
 Now, now look how the holy pilgrims ride, 
 Clouds are their Chariots, Angels are their Guide : 
 Who would not here for him all hazards run, 
 That thus provides for his when this world's done. 
 
 ( Now you must note that the city stood upon a mighty hill, but 
 the pilgrims went up that hill with ease, because they ^^ y^^^^ 
 I had these two men to lead them up by the arms ; also, put off mor- 
 i they had left their mortal garments behind them in *^*^- 
 the river, for though they went in with them, they came out 
 
156 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 without them. They, therefore, went up here with much agility 
 and speed, though the foundation upon which the city was framed 
 was higher than the clouds. They, therefore, went up through 
 the regions of the air, sweetly talking as they went, being com- 
 forted, because they safely got over the river, and had such glori- 
 ous companions to attend them. 
 
 The talk they had with the Shining Ones was about the glory 
 of the place ; who told them that the beauty and glory of it was 
 inexpressible. There, said they, is the "Mount Zion, the heav- 
 enly Jerusalem, the innumerable company of angels, and the 
 spirits of just men made perfect" (Heb. xii. 22-24). You are 
 going now, said they, to the paradise of God, wherein you shall 
 see the tree of Ufe, and eat of the never-fading fruits thereof ; 
 and when you come there, you shall have white robes given you, 
 and your walk and talk shall be every day with the King, even 
 all the days of eternity (Rev. ii. 7 ; iii. 4 ; xxii. 5). There you 
 shall not see again such things as you saw when you were in the 
 lower region upon the earth, to wit, sorrow, sickness, affliction, 
 and death, "for the former things are passed away." You are 
 now going to Abraham, to Isaac, and Jacob, and to the prophets 
 — men that God hath taken away from the evil to come, and 
 that are now resting upon their beds, each one walking in his 
 righteousness (Isa. Ivii. i, 2; Ixv. 17). The men then asked. 
 What must we do in the holy place ? To whom it was answered. 
 You must there receive the comforts of all your toil, and have 
 joy for all your sorrow ; you must reap what you have sown, 
 even the fruit of all your prayers, and tears, and sufferings for 
 the King by the way (Gal. vi. 7). In that place you must 
 wear crowns of gold, and enjoy the perpetual sight and vision of 
 the Holy One, for " there you shall see him as he is " (i John iii. 2) . 
 There also you shall serve him continually with praise, with 
 shouting, and thanksgiving, whom you desired to serve in the 
 world, though with much difficulty, because of the infirmity of 
 your flesh. There your eyes shall be delighted with seeing, and 
 your ears with hearing the pleasant voice of the Mighty One. 
 There you shall enjoy your friends again, that are gone thither 
 before you ; and there you shall with joy receive, even every 
 one that follows into the holy place after you. There also shall 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 157 
 
 you be clothed with glory and majesty, and put into an equipage 
 fit to ride out with the King of glory. When he shall come with 
 sound of trumpet in the clouds as upon the wings of the wind, 
 you shall come with him ; and when he shall sit upon the throne 
 of judgment, you shall sit by him ; yea, and when he shall pass 
 sentence upon all the workers of iniquity, let them be angels or 
 men, you also shall have a voice in that judgment, because they 
 were his and your enemies (i Thess. iv. 13-17 ; Jude 14; Dan. 
 vii. 9, 10; I Cor. vi. 2, 3). Also, when he shall again return to 
 the city, you shall go too, with sound of trumpet, and be ever 
 with him. 
 
 Now while they were thus drawing towards the gate, behold a 
 company of the heavenly host came out to meet them ; to whom 
 it was said, by the other two Shining Ones, These are the men 
 that have loved our Lord when they were in the world, and that 
 have left all for his holy name ; and he hath sent us to fetch them, 
 and we have brought them thus far on their desired journey, 
 that they may go in and look their Redeemer in the face with 
 joy. Then the heavenly host gave a great shout, saying, 
 ''Blessed are they which are called unto the marriage supper 
 of the Lamb" (Rev. xix. 9). There came out also at this time 
 to meet them, several of the King's trumpeters, clothed in white 
 and shining raiment, who, with melodious noises, and loud, made 
 even the heavens to echo with their sound. These trumpeters 
 saluted Christian and his fellow with ten thousand welcomes 
 from the world ; and this they did with shouting, and sound of 
 trumpet. 
 
 This done, they compassed them round on every side ; some 
 went before, some behind, and some on the right hand, some on 
 the left (as it were to guard them through the upper regions), 
 continually sounding as they went, with melodious noise, in 
 notes on high : so that the very sight was to them that could be- 
 hold it, as if heaven itself was come down to meet them. Thus, 
 therefore, they walked on together ; and as they walked, ever and 
 anon these trumpeters, even with joyful sound, would, by mixing 
 their music with looks and gestures, still signify to Christian and 
 his brother, how welcome they were into their company, and with 
 what gladness they came to meet them ; and now were these two 
 
158 JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 men, as it were, in heaven, before they came at it, being swallowed 
 up with the sight of angels, and with hearing of their melodious 
 notes. Here also they had the city itself in view, and they 
 thought they heard all the bells therein to ring, to welcome them 
 thereto. But above all, the warm and joyful thoughts that they 
 had about their own dwelling there, with such company, and that 
 for ever and ever. Oh, by what tongue or pen can their glorious 
 joy be expressed ! And thus they came up to the gate. 
 
 Now, when they were come up to the gate, there was written 
 over it in letters of gold, "Blessed are they that do his com- 
 mandments, that they may have right to the tree of hfe, and may 
 enter in through the gates into the city" (Rev. xxii. 14). 
 
 Then I saw in my dream, that the Shining Men bid them call 
 at the gate ; the which, when they did, some looked from above 
 over the gate, to wit, Enoch, Moses, and Elijah, &c., to whom it 
 was said. These pilgrims are come from the City of Destruction, 
 for the love that they bear to the King of this place ; and then the 
 pilgrims gave in unto them each man his certificate, which they 
 had received in the beginning ; those, therefore, were carried in 
 to the King, who, when he had read them, said. Where are the 
 men ? To whom it was answered. They are standing without 
 the gate. The King then commanded to open the gate, "That 
 the righteous nation," said he, "which keepeth the truth, may 
 enter in" (Isa. xxvi. 2). 
 
 Now I saw in my dream that these two men went in at the gate : 
 and lo, as they entered, they were transfigured, and they had 
 raiment put on that shone Hke gold. There were also that met 
 them with harps and crowns, and gave them to them — the harps 
 to praise withal, and the crowns in token of honour. Then I 
 heard in my dream that all the bells in the city rang again for 
 joy, and that it was said unto them, "Enter ye into the joy 
 OF YOUR Lord." I also heard the men themselves, that they 
 sang with a loud voice, saying, "Blessing and honour, and 
 
 GLORY, and power, BE UNTO HIM THAT SITTETH UPON THE 
 THRONE, AND UNTO THE LaMB, FOR EVER AND EVER" (Rcv. V. 13). 
 
 Now, just as the gates were opened to let in the men, I looked 
 in after them, and, behold, the City shone like the sun ; the 
 streets also were paved with gold, and in them walked many men, 
 
THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 159 
 
 with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and golden 
 harps to sing praises withal. 
 
 There were also of them that had wings, and they answered 
 one another without intermission, saying, ''Holy, holy, holy is 
 the Lord" (Rev. iv. 8). And after that they shut up the gates ; 
 which, when I had seen, I wished myself among them. 
 
 Now while I was gazing upon all these things, I turned my 
 head to look back, and saw Ignorance come up to the river side ; 
 but he soon got over, and that without half that 
 difficulty which the other two men met with. For it comes up 
 happened that there was then in that place, one *» ^^^ 
 
 river 
 
 Vain-hope, a ferryman, that with his boat helped him 
 over ; so he, as the other I saw, did ascend the hill, to come up 
 to the gate, only he came alone ; neither did any man meet him 
 with the least encouragement. When he wa^ come „ . ^ 
 
 ° , . Vain-hope 
 
 up to the gate, he looked up to the writing that was does ferry 
 above, and then began to knock, supposing that en- ^^ °^^^' 
 trance should have been quickly administered to him ; but he 
 was asked by the men that looked over the top of the gate. 
 Whence came you ? and what would you have ? He answered, 
 I have eat and drank in the presence of the King, and he has 
 taught in our streets. Then they asked him for his certificate, 
 that they might go in and show it to the King ; so he fumbled in 
 his bosom for one, and found none. Then said they. Have you 
 none ? But the man answered never a word. So they told the 
 King, but he would not come down to see him, but commanded 
 the two Shining Ones that conducted Christian and Hopeful to 
 the City, to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and 
 foot, and have him away. Then they took him up, and carried 
 him through the air, to the door that I saw in the side of the hill, 
 and put him in there. Then I saw that there was a way to hell, 
 even from the gates of heaven, as well as from the City of De- 
 struction ! So I awoke, and behold it was a dream. 
 
OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 
 MRS. APHRA BEHN 
 
 I DO not pretend, in giving you the history of this Royal Slave, 
 to entertain my Reader with the adventures of a feigned hero, 
 whose life and fortunes fancy may manage at the poet's pleasure ; 
 nor, in relating the truth, design to adorn it with any accidents, 
 but such as arrived in earnest to him : and it shall come simply 
 into the world, recommended by its own proper merits, and nat- 
 ural intrigues ; there being enough of reality to support it, and 
 to render it diverting without the addition of invention. 
 
 I was myself an eye-witness to a greater part of what you will 
 find here set down ; and what I could not be witness of, I re- 
 ceived from, the mouth of the chief actor in this history, the hero 
 himself, who gave us the whole transactions of his youth : and 
 I shall omit, for brevity's sake, a thousand little accidents of his 
 Ufe, which, however pleasant to us, where history was scarce, 
 and adventures very rare, yet might prove tedious and heavy to 
 my reader, in a world where he finds diversions for every minute, 
 new and strange. But we who were perfectly charmed with 
 the character of this great man, were curious to gather every 
 circumstance of his Hfe. 
 
 The scene of the last part of his adventures lies in a colony in 
 America, called Surinam, in the West Indies. 
 
 But before I give you the story of this gallant slave, it is fit 
 that I tell you the manner of bringing them to these new colo- 
 nies ; those they make use of there, not being natives of the 
 place : for those we live with in perfect amity, without daring 
 to command them ; but, on the contrary, caress them with all 
 the brotherly and friendly affection in the world ; trading with 
 them for their fish, venison, buffaloes' skins, and little rarities ; 
 as marmosets, a sort of monkey, as big as a rat or weasel, but of 
 
 1 60 
 
OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE i6i 
 
 a marvelous and delicate shape, having face and hands like a 
 human creature ; and cousheries, a little beast in the form and 
 fashion of a Hon, as big as a kitten, but so exactly made in all 
 parts like that noble beast, that it is it in miniature : then for 
 the little parrakeets, great parrots, mackaws, and a thousand 
 other birds and beasts of wonderful and surprising forms, shapes, 
 and colours. . . . We dealt with them with beads of all colours, 
 knives, axes, pins, and needles, which they used only as tools to 
 drill holes with in their ears, noses, and lips, where they hang a 
 great many Httle things ; as long beads, bits of tin, brass or silver 
 beat thin, and any shining trinket. The beads they weave into 
 aprons about a quarter of an ell long, and of the same breadth ; 
 working them very prettily in flowers of several colours ; which 
 apron they wear just before them, as Adam and Eve did the fig- 
 leaves ; the men wearing a long strip of Hnen, which they deal 
 with us for. They thread these beads also on long cotton-threads, 
 and make girdles to tie their aprons to, which come twenty times 
 or more, about the waist, and then cross, hke a shoulder-belt 
 both ways and round their necks, arms and legs. This adorn- 
 ment, with their long black hair, and the face painted in little 
 specks or flowers here and there, makes them a wonderful figure 
 to behold. Some of the beauties, which indeed are finely shaped, 
 as almost all are, and who have pretty features, are charming 
 and novel ; for they have all that is called beauty, except the 
 colour, which is a reddish yellow ; or after a new oiling, which 
 they often use to themselves they are of the colour of a new brick, 
 but smooth, soft and sleek. And these people represented to 
 me an absolute idea of the first state of innocence, before man 
 knew how to sin : And 'tis most evident and plain, that simple 
 Nature is the most harmless, inoffensive and virtuous mistress. 
 It is she alone, if she were permitted, that better instructs the 
 world, than all the inventions of man : religion here would but 
 destroy that tranquillity they possess by ignorance ; and laws 
 would but teach them to know offences, of which now they have 
 no notion. They once made mourning and fasting for the death 
 of the English Governor, who had given his hand to come on 
 such a day to them, and neither came nor sent ; believing, when 
 a man's word was past, nothing but death could or should pre- 
 
1 62 MRS. APHRA BEHN 
 
 vent his keeping it : and when they saw he was not dead, they 
 asked him what name they had for a man who promised a thing 
 he did not do ? The Governor told them such a man was a Uar, 
 which was a word of infamy to a gentleman. Then one of them 
 replied, "Governor, you are a Uar, and guilty of that infamy." 
 They have a native justice, which knows no fraud ; and they 
 understand no vice, or cunning, but when they are taught by 
 the white men. 
 
 With these people, as I said, we live in perfect tranquillity, 
 and good understanding, as it behooves us to do ; they knowing 
 all the places where to seek the best food of the country, and the 
 means of getting it ; and for very small and invaluable trifles, 
 supplying us with what it is almost impossible for us to get. 
 Those then whom we make use of to work in our plantations of 
 sugar, are Negroes, black-slaves altogether, who are transported 
 thither. 
 
 Coramantien, a country of blacks so called, was one of those 
 places in which they found the most advantageous trading for 
 these slaves ; for that nation is very warlike and brave. The 
 king of Coramantien was of himself a man an hundred and odd 
 years old, and had no son, though he had many beautiful black 
 wives : for most certainly there are beauties that can charm of that 
 colour. In his younger years he had had many gallant men to 
 his sons, thirteen of whom died in battle, conquering where they 
 fell ; and he had only left him for his successor, one grandchild, 
 son to one of these dead victors, who, as soon as he could bear a 
 bow in his hand, and a quiver at his back, was sent into the field, 
 to be trained up by one of the oldest Generals to war; where, 
 from his natural inclination to arms, and the occasions given 
 him, with the good conduct of the old General, he became, at 
 the age of seventeen, one of the most expert Captains, that ever 
 saw the field of Mars : so that he was adored as the wonder of 
 all that world, and the darling of the soldiers. Besides, he was 
 adorned with a native beauty, so transcending all those of his 
 gloomy race, that he struck an awe and reverence, even into 
 those that knew not his quality ; as he did into me, who beheld 
 him with surprise and wonder, when afterwards he arrived in our 
 world. He had scarce arrived at his seventeenth year, when. 
 
OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 163 
 
 fighting by his side, tlie General was killed with an arrow in his 
 eye, which the prince Oroonoko (for so was this gallant Moor 
 called) very narrowly avoided ; nor had he, if the General who 
 saw the arrow shot, and perceiving it aimed at the Prince, had 
 not bowed his head between, on purpose to receive it in his own 
 body, rather than it should touch that of the Prince, and so 
 saved him. 
 
 It was then, afflicted as Oroonoko was, that he was proclaimed 
 General in the old man's place : and then it was, at the finishing 
 of that war, which had continued for two years, that the Prince 
 came to Court, where he had hardly been a month together, 
 from the time of his fifth year to that of seventeen : and it was 
 amazing to imagine where it was he learned so much humanity ; 
 or to give his accomplishments a juster name, where it was he 
 got that real greatness of soul, those refined notions of true 
 honour, that absolute generosity, and that softness that was 
 capable of the highest passions of love and gallantry, whose 
 objects were almost continually fighting men, or those mangled 
 or dead, who heard no sounds but those of war and groans. 
 Some part of it we may attribute to the care of a Frenchman of 
 wit and learning, who finding it turn to very good account to be 
 a sort of royal tutor to this young black, and perceiving him very 
 ready, apt, and quick of apprehension, took a great pleasure to 
 teach him morals, language and science ; and was for it extremely 
 beloved and valued by him. Another reason was, he loved when 
 he came from war, to see all the English gentlemen that traded 
 thither ; and did not only learn their language, but that of the 
 Spaniard also, with whom he traded afterwards for slaves. 
 
 I have often seen and conversed with this great man, and been 
 a witness to many of his mighty actions, and do assure my reader, 
 the most illustrious Courts could not have produced a braver man, 
 both for greatness of courage and mind, a judgment more solid, 
 a wit more quick, and a conversation more sweet and diverting. 
 He knew almost as much as if he had read much : he- had heard 
 of and admired the Romans : he had heard of the late Civil Wars 
 in England, and the deplorable death of our great Monarch ; 
 and would discourse of it with all the sense of abhorrence of the 
 injustice imaginable. He had an extreme good and graceful 
 
i64 MRS. APHRA BEHN 
 
 mien, and all the civility of a well-bred great man. He had 
 nothing of barbarity in his nature, but in all points addressed 
 himself as if his education had been in some European Court. 
 
 This great and just character of Oroonoko gave me an extreme 
 curiosity to see him, especially when I knew he spoke French and 
 English, and that I could talk with him. But though I had heard 
 so much of him, I was as greatly surprised when I saw him, as if 
 I had heard nothing of him ; so beyond all report I found him. 
 He came into the room, and addressed himself to me and some 
 other women, with the best grace in the world. He was pretty 
 tall, but of a shape the most exact that can be fancied : the most 
 famous statuary could not form the figure of a man more ad- 
 mirably turned from head to foot. His face was not of that 
 brown rusty black which most of that nation are, but a perfect 
 ebony, or polished jet. His eyes were the most awful that could 
 be seen, and very piercing ; the white of them being like snow, 
 as were his teeth. His nose rising and Roman, instead of African 
 and fiat : his mouth the finest shaped that could be seen ; far 
 from those great turned lips, which are so natural to the rest of 
 the Negroes. The whole proportion and air of his face was so 
 nobly and exactly formed, that, bating his color, there could be 
 nothing in nature more beautiful, agreeable and handsome. 
 There was no one grace wanting, that bears the standard of 
 true beauty. His hair came down to his shoulders, by the aids 
 of art, which was by pulling it out with a quill, and keeping it 
 combed ; of which he took particular care. Nor did the per- 
 fections of his mind come short of those of his person; for his 
 discourse was admirable upon almost any subject : and whoever 
 had heard him speak, would have been convinced of their errors, 
 that all fine wit is confined to white men, especially to those of 
 Christendom ; and would have confessed that Oroonoko was as 
 capable even of reigning well, and of governing as wisely, had as 
 great a soul, as politic maxims, and was as sensible of power, as 
 any Prince civilized in the most refined schools of humanity and 
 learning, or the most illustrious courts. 
 
 This Prince, such as I have described him, whose soul and 
 body were so admirably adorned, was (while yet he was in the 
 Court of his grandfather, as I have said) as capable of love, as 
 
OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 165 
 
 it was possible for a brave and gallant man to be ; and in saying 
 that, I have named the highest degree of love : for sure great 
 souls are most capable of that passion. 
 
 I have already said that the old General was killed by the shot 
 of an arrow, by the side of this Prince, in battle ; and that 
 Oroonoko was made General. This old dead hero had one only 
 daughter left of his race, a beauty, that to describe her truly, one 
 need say only, she was female to the noble male ; the beautiful 
 black Venus to our young Mars ; as charming in person as he, 
 and of delicate virtues. I have seen a hundred white men sigh- 
 ing after her, and making a thousand vows at her feet, all in 
 vain and unsuccessful. And she was indeed too great for any but 
 a prince of her own nation to adore. 
 
 Oroonoko coming from the wars (which were now ended) 
 after he had made his Court to his grandfather, he thought in 
 honour he ought to make a visit to Imoinda, the daughter of 
 his foster-father, the dead General, and to make some excuses to 
 her because his preservation was the occasion of her father's 
 death ; and to present her with those slaves that had been taken 
 in this last battle, as the trophies of her father's victories. When 
 he came, attended by all the young soldiers of any merit, he was 
 infinitely surprised at the beauty of this fair Queen of Night, 
 whose face and person were so exceeding all that he had ever be- 
 held, that lovely modesty with which she received him, that soft- 
 ness in her looks and sighs, upon the melancholy occasion of this 
 honour that was done by so great a man as Oroonoko, and a 
 Prince of whom she had heard such admirable things ; the awf ul- 
 ness with which she received him, and the sweetness of her words 
 and behavior while he stayed, gained a perfect conquest over his 
 fierce heart, and made him feel, the victor could be subdued. So 
 that having made his first compliments, and presented her a 
 hundred and fifty slaves in fetters, he told her with his eyes, that 
 he was not insensible of her charms ; while Imoinda who wished 
 for nothing more than so glorious a conquest, was pleased to 
 believe, she understood that silent language of new-born love ; 
 and, from that moment, put on all her additions to beauty. 
 
 The Prince returned to Court with quite another humour than 
 before ; and though he did not speak much of the fair Imoinda, 
 
i66 MRS. APHRA BEHN 
 
 he had the pleasure to hear all his followers speak of nothing but 
 the charms of that maid, insomuch, that, even in the presence of 
 the old King, they were extolling her, and heightening, if possible, 
 the beauties they had found in her: so that nothing else was 
 talked of, no other sound was heard in every corner where there 
 were whisperers, but Imoinda ! Imoinda ! 
 
 It will be imagined Oroonoko stayed not long before he made 
 his second visit ; nor, considering his quality, not much longer 
 before he told her he adored her. I have often heard him say, 
 that he admired by what strange inspiration he came to talk 
 things so soft, and so passionate, who never knew love, nor was 
 used to the conversation of women ; but (to use his own words) 
 he said, most happily, some new, and till then, unknown power 
 instructed his heart and tongue in the language of love ; and at 
 the same time, in favour of him, inspired Imoinda with a sense of 
 his passion. She was touched with what he said, and returned 
 it all in such answers as went to his very heart, with a pleasure 
 unknown before. Nor did he use those obligations ill, that love 
 had done him, but turned all his happy moments to the best 
 advantage ; and as he knew no vice, his flame aimed at nothing 
 but honour, if such a distinction may be made in love ; and es- 
 pecially in that country, where men take to themselves as many 
 as they can maintain ; and where the only crime and sin against 
 a woman, is, to turn her off, to abandon her to want, shame and 
 misery ; such ill morals are only practiced in Christian coun- 
 tries, where they prefer the bare name of religion ; and, without 
 religion or morahty think that sufficient. But Oroonoko was 
 none of these professors ; but as he had right notions of honour, 
 so he made her such propositions as were not only and barely 
 such ; but, contrary to the custom of his country, he made her 
 vows she should be the only woman he would possess while he 
 lived ; that no age or wrinkles should incline him to change : for 
 her soul would be always fine and always young ; and he should 
 have an eternal idea in his mind of the charms she now bore; 
 and should look into his heart for that idea, when he could find it 
 no longer in her face. 
 
 And after a thousand assurances of his lasting flame, and her 
 eternal empire over him, she condescended to receive him for 
 
OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 167 
 
 her husband ; or rather, receive him as the greatest honour the 
 gods could do her. 
 
 [Oroo7ioko and Imoinda are later captured separately by slave-traders and 
 sold in the West Indies where they are reunited. They are known there as 
 CcBsar and Clcmene.] 
 
 From that happy day Caesar took Clemene for his wife, to the 
 general joy of all people ; and there was as much magnificence as 
 the country could afford at the celebration of this wedding : and 
 in a very short time after she conceived with child, which made 
 Caesar even adore her, knowing he was the last of his great race. 
 This new accident made him more impatient of liberty, and he 
 was every day treating with Trefry for his and Clemene's liberty, 
 and offered either gold, or a vast quantity of slaves, which should 
 be paid before they let him go, provided he could have any 
 security that he should go when his ransom was paid. They fed 
 him from day to day with promises, and delayed him till the 
 Lord-Governour should come ; so that he began to suspect them 
 of falsehood, and that they would delay him till the time of his 
 wife's delivery, and make a slave of the child too ; for all the 
 breed is theirs to whom the parents belong. This thought made 
 him very uneasy, and his sullenness gave them some jealousies 
 of him ; so that I was obhged, by some persons who feared a 
 mutiny (which is very fatal sometimes in those colonies that 
 abound so with slaves, that they exceed the whites in vast 
 numbers) , to discourse with Caesar, and to give him all the satis- 
 faction I possibly could. They knew he and Clemene were 
 scarce an hour in a day from my lodgings ; that they ate with me, 
 and that I obliged them in all things I was capable. I enter- 
 tained them with the lives of the Romans, and great men, which 
 charmed him to my company ; and her, with teaching her all 
 the pretty works I was mistress of, and telling her stories of nuns, 
 and endeavouring to bring her to the knowledge of the true 
 God. But of all the discourses, Caesar liked that the worst, and 
 would never be reconciled to our notion of the trinity, of which 
 he ever made a jest ; it was a riddle he said would turn his brain 
 to conceive, and one could not make him understand what faith 
 was. . . . Before I parted that day with him, I got with much 
 
i68 MRS. APHRA BEHN 
 
 ado, a promise from him to rest yet a little longer with patience, 
 and wait the coming of the Lord-Governour, who was every day 
 expected on our shore. . . . 
 
 My stay was to be short in that country ; because my father 
 died at sea, and never arrived to possess the honour designed him, 
 (which was Lieutenant-General of six-and-thirty islands, besides 
 the continent of Surinam) nor the advantages that he hoped to 
 reap by them: so that though we were obliged to continue on 
 our voyage, we did not intend to stay upon the place. Though, 
 in a word, I must say thus much of it, that certainly had his 
 late Majesty, of sacred memory, but seen and known what a 
 vast and charming world he had been master of in that con- 
 tinent, he would never have parted so easily with it to the Dutch. 
 It is a continent, whose vast extent was never yet known, and 
 may contain more noble earth than all the universe beside ; for, 
 they say, it reaches from east to west one way as far as China, 
 another to Peru. It affords all things both for beauty and use ; 
 it is there eternal spring, always the very months of April, May, 
 and June ; the shades are perpetual, the trees bearing at once 
 all degrees of leaves, and fruit, from blooming buds to ripe 
 autumn : groves of oranges, lemons, citrons, figs, nutmegs, and 
 noble aromatics, continually bearing their fragrances, the trees 
 appearing all like nosegays, adorned with flowers of different 
 kinds ; some are all white, some purple, some scarlet, some blue, 
 some yellow ; bearing at the same time ripe fruit, and blooming 
 young, or producing every day new. The very wood of all these 
 trees has an intrinsic value, above common timber ; for they are, 
 when cut, of different colours, glorious to behold, and bear a 
 price considerable, to inlay withal. Besides this, they yield rich 
 balms, and gums ; so that we make our candles of such an aro- 
 matic substance as does not only give a suflficient light, but as they 
 burn, they cast their perfumes all about. Cedar is the common 
 firing,'and all the houses are built with it. The very meat we eat, 
 when set on the table, if it be native, I mean of the country, per- 
 fumes the whole room ; especially a Uttle beast called an Arma- 
 dillo, a thing which I can liken to nothing so well as a rhinoceros ; 
 it is all in white armour, so jointed, that it moves as well in it, as 
 if it had nothing on. This beast is about the bigness of a pig of 
 
OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 169 
 
 six weeks old. But it were endless to give an account of all the 
 divers wonderful and strange things that country affords, and 
 which he took a great delight to go in search of ; though those 
 adventures are oftentimes fatal, and at least dangerous. But 
 while we had Caesar in our company on these designs, we feared 
 no harm, nor suffered any. 
 
 As soon as I came into the country, the best house in it was 
 presented me, called St. John's Hill. It stood on a vast rock of 
 white marble, at the foot of which the river ran a vast depth 
 down, and not to be descended on that side ; the Httle waves 
 still dashing and washing the foot of this rock, made the softest 
 murmurings and purhngs in the world ; and the opposite bank 
 was adorned with such vast quantities of different flowers eter- 
 nally blowing, and every day and hour new, fenced behind them 
 with lofty trees, of a thousand rare forms and colours, that the 
 prospect was the most ravishing that fancy can create. On the 
 edge of this white rock, towards the river, was a walk, or grove, 
 of orange and lemon trees, about half the length of the Mall here, 
 whose flowery and fruit-bearing branches met at the top, and 
 hindered the sun, whose rays are very fierce there, from entering 
 a beam into the grove ; and the cool air that came from the river 
 made it not only fit to entertain people in, at all the hottest 
 hours of the day, but refreshed the sweet blossoms, and made it 
 always sweet and charming ; and sure, the whole globe of the 
 world cannot show so delightful a place as this grove was : not all 
 the gardens of boasted Italy can produce a shade to outvie this, 
 which nature has joined with art to render so exceeding fine ; and 
 it is a marvel to see how such vast trees, big as EngHsh oaks, 
 could take footing on so soHd a rock, and in so little earth as 
 covered that rock. But all things by nature there are rare, 
 deHghtful, and wonderful. But to our sports. 
 
 Sometimes we would go surprising, and in search of young 
 tigers in their dens, watching when the old ones went forth to 
 forage for prey : and oftentimes we have been in great danger, 
 and have fled apace for our Hves, when surprised by the dams. 
 But once, above all other times, we went on this design, and 
 Caesar was with us ; who had no sooner stolen a young tiger 
 from her nest, but going off, we encountered the dam, bearing a 
 
lyo MRS. APHRA BEHN 
 
 buttock of a cow, which she had torn off with her mighty paw, 
 and going with it towards her den. We had only four women, 
 Caesar and an EngHsh gentleman, brother to Harry Martin the 
 great Ohverian ; we found there was no escaping this enraged 
 and ravenous beast. However, we women fled as fast as we 
 could from it ; but our heels had not saved our lives, if Csesar 
 had not laid down her cub, when he found the tiger quit her 
 prey to make the more speed toward him; and taking Mr. 
 Martin's sword, desired him to stand aside, or follow the ladies. 
 He obeyed him ; and Csesar met this monstrous beast of mighty 
 size, and vast limbs, who came with open jaws upon him, and 
 fixing his awful stern eyes full upon those of the beast, and putting 
 himself into a very steady and good aiming posture of defence, 
 ran his sword quite through his breast, down to his very heart, 
 home to the hilt of the sword. The dying beast stretched forth 
 her paw, and going to grasp his thigh, surprised with death in 
 that very moment, did him no other harm than fixing her long 
 nails in his flesh very deep, feebly wounding him, but could not 
 grasp the flesh to tear off any. When he had done this, he 
 halloaed us to return ; which, after some assurance of his victory, 
 we did, and found him lugging out the sword from the bosom of 
 the tiger, who was laid in her blood on the ground. He took up 
 the cub, and with an unconcern that had nothing of the joy or 
 gladness of victory, he came and laid the whelp at my feet. We 
 all -extremely wondered at his daring, and at the bigness of the 
 beast, which was about the height of a heifer, but of mighty 
 great and strong Umb. 
 
 • [Becoming convinced of the faithlessness of the white men, Ccesar leads an 
 uprising of the slaves. The fugitives are overtaken, and Ccesar, out of con- 
 sideration for Imoinda, surrenders. The white men immediately violate their 
 promises of clemency, and proceed to torture Ccesar. " The Royal Slave" meets 
 his fate heroically.] 
 
 And turning to the men that had bound him, he said, "My 
 friends, am I to die, or be whipt?" And they cried, "Whipt ! 
 no, you shall not escape so well." And then he rephed, smihng, 
 "A blessing on thee" ; and assured them they need not tie him, 
 for he would stand fixed like a rock, and endure death so as 
 
OROONOKO: OR, THE ROYAL SLAVE 171 
 
 should encourage them to die: "But if you whip me," said he, 
 "be sure you tie me fast." 
 
 He had learned to take tobacco ; and when he was assured he 
 should die, he desired they would give him a pipe in his mouth, 
 ready lighted ; which they did. And the executioner came, and 
 first cut off his members, and threw them into the fire, after 
 that, with an ill favoured knife, they cut off his ears and his 
 nose, and burned them ; he still smoked on as if nothing had 
 touched him ; then they hacked off one of his arms, and still he 
 bore up and held his pipe ; but at the cutting off of the other arm, 
 his head sunk, and his pipe dropped, and he gave up the ghost, 
 without a groan, or a reproach. My mother and sister were by 
 him all the while, but not suffered to save him ; so rude and wild 
 were the rabble and so inhuman were the justices who stood by to 
 see the execution, who after paid dear enough for their insolence. 
 They cut Caesar into quarters, and sent them to several of the 
 chief plantations : one quarter was sent to Colonel Martin ; who 
 refused it, and swore he had rather see the quarters of Banister, 
 and the Governour himself, than those of Caesar on his planta- 
 tions ; and that he could govern his negroes, without terrifying 
 and grieving them with frightful spectacles of a mangled king. 
 
 Thus died this great man, worthy of a better fate, and a more 
 sublime wit than mine to write his praise. Yet, I hope the 
 reputation of my pen is considerable enough to make his glorious 
 name to survive to all ages, with that of the brave, the beautiful, 
 and the constant Imoinda. 
 
THE LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND PIRACIES OF THE 
 FAMOUS CAPTAIN SINGLETON 
 
 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 As it is usual for great persons, whose lives have been remark- 
 able, and whose actions deserve recording to posterity, to insist 
 much upon their originals, give full accounts of their families, 
 and the histories of their ancestors, so, that I may be methodical, 
 I shall do the same, though I can look but a very little way into 
 my pedigree, as you will see presently. 
 
 If I may believe the woman whom I was taught to call mother, 
 I was a Httle boy, of about two years old, very well dressed, had 
 a nursery-maid to attend me, who took me out on a fine summer's 
 evening into the fields toward IsHngton, as she pretended, to give 
 the child some air ; a little girl being with her, of twelve or four- 
 teen years old, that lived in the neighbourhood. The maid, 
 whether by appointment or otherwise, meets with a fellow, her 
 sweetheart, as I suppose ; he carries her into a public-house, to 
 give her a pot and a cake ; and while they were toying in the house 
 the girl plays about, with me in her hand, in the garden and at 
 the door, sometimes in sight, sometimes out of sight, thinking 
 no harm. 
 
 At this juncture comes by one of those sort of people who, it 
 seems, made it their business to spirit away little children. This 
 was a hellish trade in those days, and chiefly practised where 
 they found little children very well dressed, or for bigger children, 
 to sell them to the plantations. 
 
 The woman, pretending to take me up in her arms and kiss me, 
 and play with me, draws the girl a good way from the house, till 
 at last she makes a fine story to the girl, and bids her go back 
 to the maid, and tell her where she was with the child ; that a 
 gentlewoman had taken a fancy to the child, and was kissing of 
 it, but she should not be frighted, or to that purpose ; for they 
 
 172 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 173 
 
 were but just there ; and so, while the girl went, she carries me 
 quite away. 
 
 From this time, it seems, I was disposed of to a beggar woman 
 that wanted a pretty little child to set out her case ; and after 
 that, to a gipsy, under whose government I continued till I was 
 about six years old. And this woman, though I was continually 
 dragged about with her from one part of the country to another, 
 yet never let me want for anything ; and I called her mother ; 
 though she told me at last she was not my mother, but that she 
 bought me for twelve shillings of another woman, who told her 
 how she came by me, and told her that my name was Bob Single- 
 ton, not Robert, but plain Bob ; for it seems they never knew 
 by what name I was christened. 
 
 It is in vain to reflect here, what a terrible fright the careless 
 hussy was in that lost me ; what treatment she received from 
 my justly enraged father and mother, and the horror these must 
 be in at the thoughts of their child being thus carried away ; for 
 as I never knew anything of the matter, but just what I have 
 related, nor who my father and mother were, so it would make 
 but a needless digression to talk of it here. 
 
 My good gipsy mother, for some of her worthy actions no 
 doubt, happened in process of time to be hanged ; and as this fell 
 out something too soon for me to be perfected in the strolling 
 trade, the parish where I was left, which for my hfe I can't re- 
 member, took some care of me, to be sure ; for the first thing I 
 can remember of myself afterward, was, that I went to a parish 
 school, and the minister of the parish used to talk to me to be a 
 good boy ; and that, though I was but a poor boy, if I minded my 
 book, and served God, I might make a good man. 
 
 I believe I was frequently removed from one town to another, 
 perhaps as the parishes disputed my supposed mother's last 
 settleriient. Whether I was so shifted by passes, or otherwise, 
 I know not ; but the town where I last was kept, whatever its 
 name was, must be not far off from the seaside ; for a master of a 
 ship who took a fancy to me, was the first that brought me to a 
 place not far from Southampton, which I afterwards knew to be 
 Bussleton ; and there I attended the carpenters, and such people 
 as were employed in building a ship for him ; and when it was 
 
174 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 done, though I was not above twelve years old, he carried me to 
 sea with him on a voyage to Newfoundland. 
 
 I lived well enough, and pleased my master so well that he 
 called me his own boy ; and I would have called him father, but 
 he would not allow it, for he had children of his own. I went 
 three or four voyages with him, and grew a great sturdy boy, 
 when, coming home again from the banks of Newfoundland, we 
 were taken by an Algerine rover, or man-of-war ; which, if my 
 account stands right, was about the year 1695, for you may be 
 sure I kept no journal. 
 
 I was not much concerned at the disaster, though I saw my 
 master, after having been wounded by a splinter in the head 
 during the engagement, very barbarously used by the Turks ; I 
 say, I was not much concerned, till, upon some unlucky thing I 
 said, which, as I remember, was about abusing my master, they 
 took me and beat me most unmercifully with a fiat stick on the 
 soles of my feet, so that I could neither go or stand for several 
 days together. 
 
 But my good fortune was my friend upon this occasion ; for, 
 as they were sailing away with our ship in tow as a prize, steering 
 for the Straits, and in sight of the bay of Cadiz, the Turkish rover 
 was attacked by two great Portuguese men-of-war, and taken 
 and carried into Lisbon. 
 
 [Singleton, during his captivity at the hands of the Portuguese, falls among 
 evil companions and deteriorates into an ill-principled and adventurous char- 
 acter. While on a voyage to the East he becomes leader in a mutiny, which 
 attempt results in the mutineers^ being furnished with provision and arms, 
 and being set upon an island to shift for themselves. Still led by Singleton, 
 they contrive to build a craft which, after a long and uncertain journey, lands 
 them upon the continent of Africa.] 
 
 We were now landed upon the continent of Africa, the most 
 desolate, desert, and inhospitable country in the world, even 
 Greenland and Nova Zembla itself not excepted, with this dif- 
 ference only, that even the worst part of it we found inhabited, 
 though, taking the nature and quality of some of the inhabitants, 
 it might have been much better to us if there had been none. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 175 
 
 And, to add to the exclamation I am making on the nature of 
 the place, it was here that we took one of the rashest, and wildest, 
 and most desperate resolutions that ever was taken by man, or 
 any number of men, in the world ; this was, to travel overland 
 through the heart of the country, from the coast of Mozambique, 
 on the east ocean, to the coast of Angola or Guinea, on the west- 
 ern or Atlantic Ocean, a continent of land of at least 1800 miles, 
 in which journey we had excessive heats to support, unpassable 
 deserts to go over, no carriages, camels, or beasts of any kind to 
 carry our baggage, innumerable numbers of wild and ravenous 
 beasts to encounter with, such as hons, leopards, tigers, Kzards, 
 and elephants ; we had the equinoctial line to pass under, and, 
 consequently, were in the very centre of the torrid zone ; we had 
 nations of savages to encounter with, barbarous and brutish to 
 the last degree ; hunger and thirst to struggle with, and, in one 
 word, terrors enough to have daunted the stoutest hearts that 
 ever were placed in cases of flesh and blood. 
 
 Yet, fearless of all these, we resolved to adventure, and ac- 
 cordingly made such preparations for our journey as the place 
 we were in would allow us, and such as our Uttle experience of the 
 country seemed to dictate to us. 
 
 It had been some time already that we had been used to tread 
 barefooted upon the rocks, the gravel, the grass, and the sand 
 on the shore ; but as we found the worst thing for our feet was 
 the walking or traveUing on the dry burning sands, within the 
 country, so we provided ourselves with a sort of shoes, made of 
 the skins of wild beasts, with the hair inward, and being dried in 
 the sun, the outsides were thick and hard, and would last a great 
 while. In short, as I called them, so I think the term very proper 
 still, we made us gloves for our feet, and we found them very 
 convenient and very comfortable. 
 
 We conversed with some of the natives of the country, who 
 were friendly enough. What tongue they spoke I do not yet 
 pretend to know. We talked as far as we could make them 
 understand us, not only about our provisions, but also about our 
 undertaking, and asked them what country lay that way, point- 
 ing west with our hands. They told us but little to our purpose, 
 only we thought, by all their discourse, that there were people 
 
176 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 to be found, of one sort or other, everywhere ; that there were 
 many great rivers, many lions and tigers, elephants, and furious 
 wild cats (which in the end we found to be civet cats), and the 
 like. 
 
 When we asked them if any one had ever travelled that way, 
 they told us yes, some had gone to where the sun sleeps, meaning 
 to the west, but they could not tell us who they were. When we 
 asked for some to guide us, they shrunk up their shoulders as 
 Frenchmen do when they are afraid to undertake a thing. When 
 we asked them about the lions and wild creatures, they laughed, 
 and let us know that they would do us no hurt, and directed us 
 to a good way indeed to deal with them, and that was to make 
 some fire, which would always fright them away ; and so indeed 
 we found it. 
 
 Upon these encouragements we resolved upon our journey, and 
 many considerations put us upon it, which, had the thing itself 
 been practicable, we were not so much to blame for as it might 
 otherwise be supposed ; I will name some of them, not to make 
 the account too tedious. 
 
 We now set forward wholly by land, and without any expecta- 
 tion of more water-carriage. All our concern for more water 
 was to be sure to have a supply for our drinking ; and therefore 
 upon every hill that we came near we clambered up to the highest 
 part to see the country before us, and to make the best judg- 
 ment we could which way to go to keep the lowest grounds, and 
 as near some stream of water as we could. 
 
 The country held verdant, well grown with trees, and spread 
 with rivers and brooks, and tolerably well with inhabitants, 
 for about thirty days' march after our leaving the canoes, during 
 which time things went pretty well with us ; we did not tie our- 
 selves down when to march and when to halt, but ordered those 
 things as our convenience and the health and ease of our people, 
 as well our servants as ourselves, required. 
 
 About the middle of this march we came into a low and plain 
 country, in which we perceived a greater number of inhabitants 
 than in any other country we had gone through ; but that which 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 177 
 
 was worse for us, we found them a fierce, barbarous, treacherous 
 people, and who at first looked upon us as robbers, and gathered 
 themselves in numbers to attack us. 
 
 Our men were terrified at them at first, and began to discover 
 an unusual fear, and even our black prince seemed in a great 
 deal of confusion ; but I smiled at him, and showing him some 
 of our guns, I asked him if he thought that which killed the 
 spotted cat (for so they called the leopard in their language) could 
 not make a thousand of those naked creatures die at one blow ? 
 Then he laughed, and said, yes, he believed it would. "Well, 
 then," said I, "tell your men not to be afraid of these people, 
 for we shall soon give them a taste of what we can do if they 
 pretend to meddle with us." However, we considered we were 
 in the middle of a vast country, and we knew not what numbers 
 of people and nations we might be surrounded with, and, above 
 all, we knew not how much we might stand in need of the friend- 
 ship of these that we were now among, so that we ordered the 
 negroes to try all the methods they could to make them 
 friends. 
 
 Accordingly the two men who had gotten bows and arrows, 
 and two more to whom we gave the prince's two fine lances, went 
 foremost, with five more, having long poles in their hands ; and 
 after them ten of our men advanced toward the negro town that 
 was next to us, and we all stood ready to succour them if there 
 should be occasion. 
 
 When they came pretty near their houses our negroes hallooed 
 in their screaming way, and called to them as loud as they could. 
 Upon their calling, some of the men came out and answered, and 
 immediately after the whole town, men, women, and children, 
 appeared ; our negroes, with their long poles, went forward a 
 little, and stuck them all in the ground, and left them, which in 
 their country was a signal of peace, but the other did not under- 
 stand the meaning of that. Then the two men with bows laid 
 down their bows and arrows, went forward unarmed, and made 
 signs of peace to them, which at last the other began to under- 
 stand ; so two of their men laid down their bows and arrows, 
 and came towards them. Our men made all the signs of friend- 
 ship to them that they could think of, putting their hands up to 
 
1 78 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 their mouths as a sign that they wanted provisions to eat ; and 
 the other pretended to be pleased and friendly, and went back to 
 their fellows and talked with them a while, and they came for- 
 ward again, and made signs that they would bring some provisions 
 to them before the sun set; and so our men came back again 
 very well satisfied for that time. 
 
 But an hour before sunset our men went to them again, just 
 in the same posture as before, and they came according to their 
 appointment, and brought deer's flesh, roots, and the same kind 
 of corn, like rice, which I mentioned above ; and our negroes, 
 being furnished with such toys as our cutler had contrived, gave 
 them some of them, which they seemed infinitely pleased with, 
 and promised to bring more provisions the next day. 
 
 Accordingly the next day they came again, but our men per- 
 ceived they were more in number by a great many than before. 
 However, having sent out ten men with firearms to stand ready, 
 and our whole army being in view also, we were not much sur- 
 prised ; nor was the treachery of the enemy so cunningly ordered 
 as in other cases, for they might have surrounded our negroes, 
 which were but nine, under a show of peace ; but when they saw 
 our men advance almost as far as the place where they were the 
 day before, the rogues snatched up their bows and arrows and 
 came running upon our men like so many furies, at which our 
 ten men called to the negroes to come back to them, which they 
 did with speed enough at the first word, and stood all behind our 
 men. As they fled, the other advanced, and let fly near a 
 hundred of their arrows at them, by which two of our negroes 
 were wounded, and one we thought had been killed. When 
 they came to the five poles that our men had stuck in the ground, 
 they stood still awhile, and gathering about the poles, looked at 
 them, and handled them, as wondering what they meant. We 
 then, who were drawn up behind all, sent one of our number to 
 our ten men to bid them fire among them while they stood so 
 thick, and to put some small shot into their guns besides the 
 ordinary charge, and to tell them that we would be up with them 
 immediately. 
 
 Accordingly they made ready ; but by the time they were 
 ready to fire, the black army had left their wandering about the 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 179 
 
 poles, and began to stir as if they would come on, though seeing 
 more men stand at some distance behind our negroes, they could 
 not tell what to make of us ; but if they did not understand us 
 before, they understood us less afterwards, for as soon as ever 
 our men found them to begin to move forward they fired among 
 the thickest of them, being about the distance of 120 yards, as 
 near as we could guess. 
 
 It is impossible to express the fright, the screaming and yelling 
 of those wretches upon this first volley. We killed six of them, 
 and wounded eleven or twelve, I mean as we knew of ; for, as 
 they stood thick, and the small shot, as we called it, scattered 
 among them, we had reason to believe we wounded more that 
 stood farther off, for our small shot was made of bits of lead and 
 bits of iron, heads of nails, and such things as our diligent artificer, 
 the cutler, helped us to. 
 
 As to those that were killed and wounded, the other frighted 
 creatures were under the greatest amazement in the world, to 
 think what should hurt them, for they could see nothing but holes 
 made in their bodies they knew not how. Then the fire and 
 noise amazed all their women and children, and frighted them 
 out of their wits, so that they ran staring and howling about like 
 mad creatures. 
 
 However, all this did not make them fly, which was what we 
 wanted, nor did we find any of them die as it were with fear, as 
 at first ; so we resolved upon a second volley, and then to advance 
 as we did before. Whereupon our reserved men advancing, we 
 resolved to fire only three men at a time, and move forward like 
 an army firing in platoon ; so, being all in a line, we fired, first 
 three on the right, then three on the left, and so on ; and every 
 time we killed or wounded some of them, but still they did not 
 fly, and yet they were so frighted that they used none of their 
 bows and arrows, or of their lances ; and we thought their num- 
 bers increased upon our hands, particularly we thought so by 
 the noise. So I called to our men to halt, and bid them pour 
 in one whole volley and then shout, as we did in our first 
 fight, and so run in upon them and knock them down with our 
 muskets. 
 
 But they were too wise for that too, for as soon as we had fired 
 
i8o DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 a whole volley and shouted, they all ran away, men, women, and 
 children, so fast that in a few moments we could not see one 
 creature of them except some that were wounded and lame, who 
 lay wallowing and screaming here and there upon the ground as 
 they happened to fall. 
 
 Upon this we came up to the field of battle, where we found we 
 had killed thirty-seven of them, among which were three women, 
 and had wounded about sixty-four, among which were two women ; 
 by wounded I mean such as were so maimed as not to be able to 
 go away, and those our negroes killed afterwards in a cowardly 
 manner in cold blood, for which we were very angry, and 
 threatened to make them go to them if they did so again. 
 
 There was no great spoil to be got, for they were all stark 
 naked as they came into the world, men and women together, 
 some of them having feathers stuck in their hair, and others a 
 kind of bracelet about their necks, but nothing else ; but our 
 negroes got a booty here, which we were very glad of, and this 
 was the bows and arrows of the vanquished, of which they found 
 more than they knew what to do with, belonging to the killed 
 and wounded men ; these we ordered them to pick up, and they 
 were very useful to us afterwards. After the fight, and our 
 negroes had gotten bows and arrows, we sent them out in parties 
 to see what they could get, and they got some provisions ; but, 
 which was better than all the rest, they brought us four more 
 young bulls, or buffaloes, that had been brought up to labour and 
 to carry burthens. They knew them, it seems, by the burthens 
 they had carried having galled their backs, for they have no 
 saddles to cover them with in that country. 
 
 Those creatures not only eased our negroes, but gave us an 
 opportunity to carry more provisions ; and our negroes loaded 
 them very hard at this place with flesh and roots, such as we 
 wanted very much afterwards. 
 
 In this town we found a very little young leopard, about two 
 spans high ; it was exceeding tame, and purred like a cat when 
 we stroked it with our hands, being, as I suppose, bred up among 
 the negroes like a house-dog. It was our black prince, it seems, 
 who, making his tour among, the abandoned houses or huts, 
 found this creature there, and making much of him, and giving 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON i8i 
 
 a bit or two of flesh to him, the creature followed him like a dog ; 
 of which more hereafter. 
 
 Among the negroes that were killed in this battle there was 
 one who had a little thin bit or plate of gold, about as big as a 
 sixpence, which hung by a little bit of a twisted gut upon his 
 forehead, by which we supposed he was a man of some eminence 
 among them ; but that was not all, for this bit of gold put us upon 
 searching very narrowly if there was not more of it to be had 
 thereabouts, but we found none at all. 
 
 From this part of the country we went on for about fifteen 
 days, and then found ourselves obliged to march up a high ridge 
 of mountains, frightful to behold, and the first of the kind that 
 we met with ; and having no guide but our little pocket-compass, 
 we had no advantage of information as to which was the best or 
 the worst way, but was^ obliged to choose by what we saw, and 
 shift as well as we could. We met with several nations of wild 
 and naked people in the plain country before we came to those 
 hills, and we found them much more tractable and friendly than 
 those devils we had been forced to fight with ; and though we 
 could learn little from these people, yet we understood by the 
 signs they made that there was a vast desert beyond these hills, 
 and, as our negroes called them, much Hon, much spotted cat 
 (so they called the leopard) ; and they signed to us also that we 
 must carry water with us. At the last of these nations we fur- 
 nished ourselves with as much provisions as we could possibly 
 carry, not knowing what we had to suffer, or what length we had 
 to go ; and, to make o\ir way as familiar to us as possible, I pro- 
 posed that of the last inhabitants we could find we should make 
 some prisoners and carry them with us for guides over the desert, 
 and to assist us in carrying provision, and, perhaps, in getting it 
 too. The advice was too necessary to be slighted ; so finding, by 
 our dumb signs to the inhabitants, that there were some people 
 that dwelt at the foot of the mountains on the other side before 
 we came to the desert itself, we resolved to furnish ourselves with 
 guides by fair means or foul. 
 
 Here, by a moderate computation, we concluded ourselves 
 700 miles from the sea-coast where we began. Our black prince 
 
 ' were? See " Captain Singleton " in " Camelot Series," London, 1887, p. go. 
 
I82 
 
 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 was this day set free from the sling his arm hung in, our surgeon 
 having perfectly restored it, and he showed it to his own country- 
 men quite well, which made them greatly wonder. Also our two 
 negroes began to recover, and their wounds to heal apace, for 
 our surgeon was very skilful in managing their cure. 
 
 Having with infinite labour mounted these 'hills, and coming 
 to a view of the country beyond them, it was indeed enough to 
 astonish as stout a heart as ever was created. It was a vast 
 howling wilderness — not a tree, a river, or a green thing to be 
 seen; for, as far as the eye could look, nothing but a scalding 
 sand, which, as the wind blew, drove about in clouds enough to 
 overwhelm man and beast. Nor could we see any end of it 
 either before us, which was our way, or to the right hand or left ; 
 so that truly our men began to be discouraged, and talk of going 
 back again. Nor could we indeed think of venturing over such 
 a horrid place as that before us, in which we saw nothing but 
 present death. 
 
 I was as much affected at the sight as any of them ; but, for 
 all that, I could not bear the thoughts of going back again. I 
 told them we had marched 700 miles of our way, and it would be 
 worse than death to think of going back again ; and that, if they 
 thought the desert was not passable, I thought we should rather 
 change our course, and travel south till we came to the Cape of 
 Good Hope, or north to the country that lay along the Nile, 
 where, perhaps, we might find some way or other over to the 
 west sea ; for sure all Africa was not a desert. 
 
 Our gunner, who, as I said before, was our guide as to the 
 situation of places, told us that he could not tell what to say to 
 going for the Cape, for it was a monstrous length, being from the 
 place where we now were not less than 1500 miles ; and, by his 
 account, we were now come a third part of the way to the coast 
 of Angola, where we should meet the western ocean, and find 
 ways enough for our escape home. On the other hand, he assured 
 us, and showed us a map of it, that, if we went northward, the 
 western shore of Africa went out into the sea above 1000 miles 
 west, so that we should have so much and more land to travel 
 afterwards ; which land might, for aught we knew, be as wild, 
 barren, and desert as this. And therefore, upon the whole, he 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 183 
 
 proposed that we should attempt this desert, and perhaps we 
 should not find it so long as we feared ; and however, he pro- 
 posed that we should see how far our provisions would carry us, 
 and, in particular, our water ; and we should venture no further 
 than half so far as our water would last ; and if we found no end 
 of the desert, we might come safely back again. 
 
 This advice was so reasonable that we all approved of it ; and 
 accordingly we calculated that we were able to carry provisions 
 for forty-two days, but that we could not carry water for above 
 twenty days, though we were to suppose it to stink, too, before 
 that time expired. So that we concluded that, if we did not come 
 at some water in ten days' time, we would return ; but if we 
 found a supply of water, we could then travel twenty-one days ^ 
 and, if we saw no end of the wilderness in that time, we would 
 return also. . 
 
 With this regulation of our measures, we descended the moun- 
 tains, and it was the second day before we quite reached the 
 plain ; where, however, to make us amends, we found a fine Uttle 
 rivulet of very good water, abundance of deer, a sort of creature 
 hke a hare, but not so nimble, but whose flesh we found very 
 agreeable. But we were deceived in our intelligence, for we found 
 no people ; so we got no more prisoners to assist us in carrying 
 our baggage. 
 
 The infinite number of deer and other creatures which we saw 
 here, we found was occasioned by the neighbourhood of the 
 waste or desert, from whence they retired hither for food and 
 refreshment. We stored ourselves here with flesh and roots of 
 divers kinds, which our negroes understood better than we, and 
 which served us for bread ; and with as much water as (by the 
 allowance of a quart a day to a man for our negroes, and three 
 pints a day a man for ourselves, and three quarts a day each for 
 our buffaloes) would serve us twenty days ; and thus loaded for a 
 long miserable march, we set forwards, being all sound in health 
 and very cheerful, but not alike strong for so great a fatigue; 
 and, which was our grievance, were without a guide. 
 
 In the very first entrance of the waste we were exceedingly 
 discouraged, for we found the sand so deep, and it scalded our 
 feet so much with the heat, that after we had, as I may call it. 
 
1 84 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 waded rather than walked through it about seven or eight miles, 
 we were all heartily tired and faint ; even the very negroes laid 
 down and panted like creatures that had been pushed beyond 
 their strength. 
 
 Here we found the difference of lodging greatly injurious to us ; 
 for, as before, we always made us huts to sleep under, which 
 covered us from the night air, which is particularly unwholesome 
 in those hot countries. But we had here no shelter, no lodging, 
 after so hard a march ; for here were no trees, no, not a shrub 
 near us ; and, which was still more frightful, towards night we 
 began to hear the wolves howl, the Hons bellow, and a great 
 many wild asses braying, and other ugly noises which we did not 
 understand. 
 
 Upon this we reflected upon our indiscretion, that we had not, 
 at least, brought poles or stakes in our hands, with which we 
 might have, as it were, palisadoed ourselves in for the night, and 
 so we might have slept secure, whatever other inconveniences we 
 suffered. However, we found a way at last to relieve ourselves 
 a little ; for first we set up the lances and bows we had, and en- 
 deavoured to bring the tops of them as near to one another as 
 we could, and so hung our coats on the top of them, which made 
 us a kind of sorry tent. The leopard's skin, and a few other skins 
 we had put together, made us a tolerable covering, and thus we 
 laid down to sleep, and slept very heartily too, for the first night ; 
 setting, however, a good watch, being two of our own men with 
 their fuzes, whom we relieved in an hour at first, and two hours 
 afterwards. And it was very well we did this, for they found the 
 wilderness swarmed with raging creatures of all kinds, some of 
 which came directly up the very enclosure of our tent. But our 
 sentinels were ordered not to alarm us with firing in the night, 
 but to flash in the pan at them, which they did, and found it 
 effectual, for the creatures went off always as soon as they saw 
 it, perhaps with some noise or howling, and pursued such other 
 game as they were upon. 
 
 If we were tired with the day's travel, we were all as much tired 
 with the night's lodging. But our black prince told us in the 
 morning he would give us some counsel, and indeed it was very 
 good counsel. He told us we should be all killed if we went on 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 185 
 
 this journey, and through this desert, without some covering for 
 us at night ; so he advised us to march back again to a little 
 river-side where we lay the night before, and stay there till we 
 could make us houses, as he called them, to carry with us to 
 lodge in every night. As he began a Uttle to understand our 
 speech, and we very well to understand his signs, we easily knew 
 what he meant, and that we should there make mats (for we 
 remembered that we saw a great deal of matting or bass there, 
 that the natives make mats of) — I say, that we should make 
 large mats there for covering our huts or tents to lodge in at night. 
 We all approved this advice, and immediately resolved to go 
 back that one day's journey, resolving, though we carried less 
 provisions, we would carry mats with us to cover us in the night. 
 Some of the nimblest of us got back to the river with more ease 
 than we had travelled it the day before ; but, as we were not in 
 haste, the rest made a halt, encamped another night, and came 
 to us the next day. 
 
 In our return of this day's journey, our men that made two 
 
 days of it met with a very surprising thing, that gave them some 
 
 reason to be careful how they parted company again. The case 
 
 was this : — The second day in the morning, before they had gone 
 
 half a mile, looking behind them they saw a vast cloud of sand 
 
 or dust rise in the air, as we see sometimes in the roads in 
 
 summer when it is very dusty and a large drove of cattle are 
 
 coming, only very much greater ; and they could easily perceive 
 
 that it came after them ; and it came on faster as they went from 
 
 it. The cloud of sand was so great that they could not see what it 
 
 was that raised it, and concluded that it was some army of 
 
 enemies that pursued them ; but then considering that they came 
 
 from the vast uninhabited wilderness, they knew it was im- 
 
 j possible any nation or people that way should have inteUigence 
 
 of them or the way of their march ; and therefore, if it was an 
 
 I army, it must be of such as they were, travelling that way by 
 
 1 accident. On the other hand, as they knew that there were no 
 
 I horses in the country, and that they came on so fast, they con- 
 
 1 eluded that it must be some vast collection of wild beasts, perhaps 
 
 1 making to the hill country for food or water, and that they 
 
 I should be all devoured or trampled under foot by their multitude. 
 
1 86 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 Upon this thought, they very prudently observed which way 
 the cloud seemed to point, and they turned a little out of their 
 way to the north, supposing it might pass by them. When they 
 were about a quarter of a mile, they halted to see what it might 
 be. One of the negroes, a nimbler fellow then the rest, went 
 back a httle, and came in a few minutes running as fast as the 
 heavy sands would allow, and by signs gave them to know that 
 it was a great herd, or drove, or whatever it might be called, of 
 vast monstrous elephants. 
 
 As it was a sight our men had never seen, they were desirous to 
 see it, and yet a little uneasy at the danger too ; for though an 
 elephant is a heavy unwieldy creature, yet in the deep sand, which 
 is nothing at all to them, they marched at a great rate, and would 
 soon have tired our people, if they had had far to go, and had 
 been pursued by them. 
 
 Our gunner was with them, and had a great mind to have gone 
 close up to one of the outermost of them, and to have clapped his 
 piece to his ear, and to have fired into him, because he had been 
 told no shot would penetrate them ; but they all dissuaded him, 
 lest upon the noise they should all turn upon and pursue us ; 
 so he was reasoned out of it, and let them pass, which, in our 
 people's circumstances, was certainly the right way. 
 
 They were between twenty and thirty in number, but prodi- 
 gious great ones ; and though they often showed our men that 
 they saw them, yet they did not turn out of their way, or take any 
 other notice of them than, as we might say, just to look at them. 
 We that were before saw the cloud of dust they raised, but we had 
 thought it had been our own caravan, and so took no notice ; 
 but as they bent their course one point of the compass, or there- 
 abouts, to the southward of the east, and we went due east, 
 they passed by us at some little distance ; so that we did not 
 see them, or know anything of them, till evening, when our 
 men came to us and gave us this account of them. However, 
 this was a useful experiment for our future conduct in passing the 
 desert, as you shall hear in its place. 
 
 We were now upon our work, and our black prince was head 
 surveyor, for he was an excellent mat-maker himself, and all his 
 men understood it, so that they soon made us near a hundred 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 187 
 
 mats ; and as every man, I mean of the negroes, carried one, it 
 was no manner of load, and we did not carry an ounce of pro- 
 visions the less. The greatest burthen was to carry six long poles, 
 besides some shorter stakes ; but the negroes made an advantage 
 of that, for carrying them between two, they made the luggage 
 of provisions which they had to carry so much the lighter, binding 
 it upon two poles, and so made three couple of them. As soon 
 as we saw this, we made a little advantage of it too ; for having 
 three or four bags, called bottles (I mean skins to carry water), 
 more than the men could carry, we got them filled, and carried 
 them this way, which was a day's water and more, for our journey- 
 Having now ended our work, made our mats, and fully re- 
 cruited our stores of all things necessary, and having made us 
 abundance of small ropes of matting for ordinary use, as we might 
 have occasion, we set forward again, having interrupted our 
 journey eight days in all, upon this affair. To our great comfort, 
 the night before we set out there fell a very violent shower of 
 rain, the effects of which we found in the sand ; though the heat 
 of one day dried the surface as much as before, yet it was harder 
 at bottom, not so heavy, and was cooler to our feet, by which 
 means we marched, as we reckoned, about fourteen miles instead 
 of seven, and with much more ease. 
 
 When we came to encamp, we had all things ready, for we had 
 fitted our tent, and set it up for trial, where we made it ; so that, 
 in less than an hour, we had a large tent raised, with an inner and 
 outer apartment, and two entrances. In one we lay ourselves, 
 in the other our negroes, having light pleasant mats over us, 
 and others at the same time under us. Also we had a little 
 place without all for our buffaloes, for they deserved our care, 
 being very useful to us, besides carrying forage and water for 
 themselves. Their forage was a root, which our black prince 
 directed us to find, not much unlike a parsnip, very moist and 
 nourishing, of which there was plenty wherever we came, this 
 horrid desert excepted. 
 
 When we came the next morning to decamp, our negroes 
 took down the tent, and pulled up the stakes ; and all was in 
 motion in as little time as it was set up. In this posture we 
 marched eight days, and yet could see no end, no change of our 
 
i88 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 prospect, but all looking as wild and dismal as at the beginning. 
 If there was any alteration, it was that the sand was nowhere so 
 deep and heavy as it was the first three days. This we thought 
 might be because, for six months of the year the winds blowing 
 west (as for the other six they blow constantly east), the sand was 
 driven violently to the side of the desert where we set out, where 
 the mountains lying very high, the easterly monsoons, when they 
 blew, had not the same power to drive it back again ; and this 
 was confirmed by our finding the like depth of sand on the 
 farthest extent of the desert to the west. 
 
 It was the ninth day of our travel in this wilderness, when we 
 came to the view of a great lake of water ; and you may be sure 
 this was a particular satisfaction to us, because we had not water 
 left for above two or three days more, at our shortest allowance ; 
 I mean allowing water for our return, if we had been driven to the 
 necessity of it. Our water had served us two days longer than 
 expected, our buffaloes having found, for two or three days, a 
 kind of herb like a broad flat thistle, though without any prickle, 
 spreading on the ground, and growing in the sand, which they 
 ate freely of, and which supplied them for drink as well as forage. 
 
 The next day, which was the tenth from our setting out, we 
 came to the edge of this lake, and, very happily for us, we came 
 to it at the south point of it, for to the north we could see no end 
 of it ; so we passed by it and travelled three days by the side of 
 it, which was a great comfort to us, because it lightened our bur- 
 then there being no need to carry water when we had it in view. 
 And yet, though here was so much water, we found but very 
 little alteration in the desert ; no trees, no grass or herbage, 
 except that thistle, as I called it, and two or three more plants, 
 which we did not understand, of which the desert began to be 
 pretty full. 
 
 But as we were refreshed with the neighbourhood of this lake 
 of water, so we were now gotten among a prodigious number of 
 ravenous inhabitants, the like whereof, it is most certain, the 
 eye of man never saw ; for as I firmly beheve that never man nor 
 body of men passed this desert since the flood, so I believe there 
 is not the like collection of fierce, ravenous, and devouring crea- 
 tures in the world ; I mean not in any particular place. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 189 
 
 For a day's journey before we came to this lake, and all the 
 three days we were passing by it, and for six or seven days' 
 march after it, the ground was scattered with elephants' teeth in 
 such a number as is incredible ; and as some of them have lain 
 there for some hundreds of years, so, seeing the substance of them 
 scarce ever decays, they may lie there, for aught I know, to the 
 end of time. The size of some of them is, it seems, to those to 
 whom I have reported it, as incredible as the number ; and I can 
 assure you there were several so heavy as the strongest man 
 among us could not lift. As to number, I question not but there 
 are enough to load a thousand sail of the biggest ships in the world, 
 by which I may be understood to mean that the quajitity is not 
 to be conceived of ; seeing that as they lasted in view for above 
 eighty miles' travelling, so they might continue as far to the right 
 hand, and to the left as far, and many times as far, for aught we 
 knew ; for it seems the number of elephants hereabouts is pro- 
 digiously great. In one place in particular we saw the head of an 
 elephant, with several teeth in it, but one of the biggest that ever 
 I saw ; the flesh was consumed, to be sure, many hundred years 
 before, and all the other bones ; but three of our strongest men 
 could not lift this skull and teeth ; the great tooth, I believe, 
 weighed at least three hundredweight ; and this was particularly 
 remarkable to me, that I observed the whole skull was as good 
 ivory as the teeth, and, I believe, altogether weighed at least 
 six hundredweight ; and though I do not know but, by the same 
 rule, all the bones of the elephant may be ivory, yet I think there 
 is this just objection against it from the example before me, that 
 then all the other bones of this elephant would have been there 
 as well as the head. 
 
 I proposed to our gunner, that, seeing we had travelled now 
 fourteen days without intermission, and that we had water here 
 for our refreshment, and no want of food yet, nor any fear of it, 
 we should rest our people a little, and see, at the same time, if 
 perhaps we might kill some creatures that were proper for food. 
 The gunner, who had more forecast of that kind than I had, 
 agreed to the proposal, and added, why might we not try to catch 
 some fish out of the lake ? The first thing we had before us was 
 to try if we could make any hooks, and this indeed put our 
 
I go 
 
 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 artificer to his trumps ; however, with some labour and difficulty, 
 he did it, and we catched fresh fish of several kinds. How they 
 came there, none but He that made the lake and all the world 
 knows ; for, to be sure, no human hands ever put any in there, 
 or pulled any out before. 
 
 We not only catched enough for our present refreshment, but 
 we dried several large fishes, of kinds which I cannot describe, 
 in the sun, by which we lengthened out our provision con- 
 siderably; for the heat of the sun dried them so effectually 
 without salt that they were perfectly cured, dry, and hard, in 
 one day's time. 
 
 We rested ourselves here five days ; during which time we had 
 abundance of pleasant adventures with the wild creatures, too 
 many to relate. One of them was very particular, which was a 
 chase between a she-lion, or lioness, and a large deer ; and though 
 the deer is naturally a very nimble creature, and she flew by us 
 like the wind, having, perhaps, about 300 yards the start of the 
 lion, yet we found the lion, by her strength, and the goodness of 
 her lungs, got ground of her. They passed by us within about a 
 quarter of a mile, and we had a view of them a great way, when, 
 having given them over, we were surprised, about an hour after, 
 to see them come thundering back again on the other side of us, 
 and then the lion was within thirty or forty yards of her ; and 
 both straining to the extremity of their speed, when the deer, 
 coming to the lake, plunged into the water, and swam for her 
 life, as she had before run for it. 
 
 The lioness plunged in after her, and swam a little way, but 
 came back again ; and when she was got upon the land she set up 
 the most hideous roar that ever I heard in my Hfe, as if done in 
 the rage of having lost her prey. 
 
 We walked out morning and evening constantly ; the middle 
 of the day we refreshed ourselves under our tent. But one morn- 
 ing early we saw another chase, which more nearly concerned us 
 than the other ; for our black prince, walking by the side of the 
 lake, was set upon by a vast, great crocodile, which came out of 
 the lake upon him ; and though he was very light of foot, yet 
 it was as much as he could do to get away. He fled amain to us, 
 and the truth is, we did not know what to do, for we were told 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 19 r 
 
 no bullet would enter her ; and we found it so at first, for though 
 three of our men fired at her, yet she did not mind them ; but 
 my friend the gunner, a venturous fellow, of a bold heart, and great 
 presence of mind, went up so near as to thrust the muzzle of his 
 piece into her mouth, and fired, but let his piece fall, and ran for 
 it the very moment he had fired it. The creature raged a great 
 while, and spent its fury upon the gun, making marks upon the 
 very iron with its teeth, but after some time fainted and died. 
 
 Our negroes spread the banks of the lake all this while for game, 
 and at length killed us three deer, one of them very large, the 
 other two very small. There was water-fowl also in the lake, 
 but we never came near enough to them to shoot any ; and as 
 for the desert, we saw no fowls anywhere in it but at the lake. 
 
 We likewise killed two or three civet cats ; but their flesh is 
 the worst of carrion. We saw abundance of elephants at a dis- 
 tance, and observed they always go in very good company, that 
 is to say, abundance of them together, and always extended in a 
 fair line of battle ; and this, they say, is the way they defend 
 themselves from their enemies ; for if lions or tigers, wolves or 
 any creatures, attack them, they being drawn in a line, sometimes 
 reaching five or six miles in length, whatever comes in their way 
 is sure to be trod under foot, or beaten in pieces with their trunks, 
 or lifted up in the air with their trunks ; so that if a hundred lions 
 or tigers were coming along, if they meet a line of elephants, they 
 will always fly back till they see room to pass by the right hand 
 or the left ; and if they did not, it would be impossible for one of 
 them to escape ; for the elephant, though a heavy creature, is 
 yet so dexterous and nimble with his trunk, that he will not fail 
 to lift up the heaviest Hon, or any other wild creature, and throw 
 him up in the air quite over his back, and then trample him to 
 death with his feet. We saw several lines of battle thus ; we 
 saw one so long that indeed there was no end of it to be seen, and 
 I believe there might be 2000 elephants in row or line. They 
 are not beasts of prey, but live upon the herbage of the field, as 
 an ox does ; and it is said, that though they are so great a crea- 
 ture, yet that a smaller quantity of forage supplies one of them 
 than will suffice a horse. 
 
 The numbers of this kind of creature that are in those parts 
 
192 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 are inconceivable, as may be gathered from the prodigious quan- 
 tity of teeth which, as I said, we saw in this vast desert ; and in- 
 deed we saw a hundred of them to one of any other kind. 
 
 One evening we were very much surprised. We were most of 
 us laid down on our mats to sleep, when our watch came running 
 in among us, being frighted with the sudden roaring of some lions 
 just by them, which, it seems, they had not seen, the night being 
 dark, till they were just upon them. There was, as it proved, an 
 old lion and his whole family, for there was the lioness and three 
 young lions, besides the old king, who was a monstrous great one. 
 One of the young ones — who were good, large, well-grown ones 
 too — leaped up upon one of our negroes, who. stood sentinel, 
 before he saw him, at which he was heartily frighted, cried out, 
 and ran into the tent. Our other man, who had a gun, had not 
 presence of mind at first to shoot him, but struck him with the 
 butt-end of his piece, which made him whine a little, and then 
 growl at him fearfully ; but the fellow retired, and, we being all 
 alarmed, three of our men snatched up their guns, ran to the 
 tent door, where they saw the great old lion by the fire of his 
 eyes, and first fired at him, but, we supposed, missed him, or at 
 least did not kill him ; for they went all off, but raised a most 
 hideous roar, which, as if they had called for help, brought down 
 a prodigious number of lions, and other furious creatures, we know 
 not what, about them, for we could not see them ; but there was 
 a noise, and yelling and howling, and all sorts of such wilderness 
 music on every side of us, as if all the beasts of the desert were 
 assembled to devour us. 
 
 We asked our black prince what we should do with them. 
 "Me go," says he, "and fright them all." So he snatches up two 
 or three of the worst of our mats, and getting one of our men to 
 strike some fire, he hangs the mat up at the end of a pole, and 
 set it on fire, and it blazed abroad a good while ; at which the 
 creatures all moved off, for we heard them roar, and make their 
 bellowing noise at a great distance. "Well," says our gunner, 
 "if that will do, we need not burn our mats, which are our beds 
 to lay under us, and our tilting to cover us. Let me alone," says 
 he. So he comes back into our tent, and falls to making some 
 artificial fireworks and the like ; and he gave our sentinels some 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 193 
 
 to be ready at hand upon occasion, and particularly he placed a 
 great piece of wild-fire upon the same pole that the mat had been 
 tied to, and set it on fire, and that burnt there so long that all 
 the wild creatures left us for that time. 
 
 However, we began to be weary of such company ; and, to be 
 rid of them, we set forward again two days sooner than we in- 
 tended. We found now, that though the desert did not end, nor 
 could we see any appearance of it, yet that the earth was pretty 
 full of green stuff of one sort or another, so that our cattle had no 
 want ; and secondly, that there were several little rivers which 
 ran into the lake, and so long as the country continued low, we 
 found water sufficient, which eased us very much in our carriage, 
 and we went on still sixteen days more without yet coming to 
 any appearance of better soil. After this we found the country 
 rise a little, and by that we perceived that the water would 
 fail us ; so, for fear of the worst, we filled our bladder-bottles 
 with water. We found the country rising gradually thus for 
 three days continually, when, on the sudden, we perceived that, 
 though we had mounted up insensibly, yet that we were on the 
 top of a very high ridge of hills, though not such as at first. 
 
 When we came to look down on the other side of the hills, we 
 saw, to the great joy of all our hearts, that the desert was at an 
 end ; that the country was clothed with green, abundance of 
 trees, and a large river ; and we made no doubt but that we 
 should find people and cattle also ; and here, by our gunner's 
 account, who kept our computations, we had marched about 
 400 miles over this dismal place of horror, having been four-and- 
 thirty days a-doing of it, and consequently were come about 
 1 100 miles of our journey. 
 
 [Singleton, with his companions, finally reaches the west coast of Africa, 
 whence he embarks for England. Here he remains until his money is gone, 
 when he joins a pirate crew and starts out upon new adventure.] 
 
 ******* 
 
 We cruised near two years in those seas, chiefly upon the 
 Spaniards; not that we made any difficulty of taking English 
 ships, or Dutch, or French, if they came in our way ; and par- 
 ticularly. Captain Wilmot attacked a New England ship bound 
 
194 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 from the Madeiras to Jamaica, and another bound from New 
 York to Barbados, with provisions ; which last was a very 
 happy supply to us. But the reason why we meddled as little 
 with English vessels as we could, was, first, because, if they were 
 ships of any force, we were sure of more resistance from them ; 
 and, secondly, because we found the English ships had less booty 
 when taken, for the Spaniards generally had money on board, 
 and that was what we best knew what to do with. Captain 
 Wilmot was, indeed, more particularly cruel when he took any 
 English vessel, that they might not too soon have advice of him 
 in England ; and so the men-of-war have orders to look out for 
 him. But this part I bury in silence for the present. 
 
 We increased our stock in these two years considerably, having 
 taken 60,000 pieces of eight in one vessel, and 100,000 in another ; 
 and being thus first grown rich, we resolved to be strong too, for 
 we had taken a brigantine built at Virginia, an excellent sea-boat, 
 and a good sailer, and able to carry twelve guns ; and a large 
 Spanish frigate-built ship, that sailed incomparably well also, 
 and which afterwards, by the help of good carpenters, we fitted 
 up to carry twenty-eight guns. And now we wanted more hands, 
 so we put away for the Bay of Campeachy, not doubting we 
 should ship as many men there as we pleased ; and so we did. 
 
 Here we sold the sloop that I was in ; and Captain Wilmot 
 keeping his own ship, I took the command of the Spanish frigate 
 as captain, and my comrade Harris as eldest lieutenant, and a 
 bold enterprising fellow he was, as any the world afforded. One 
 culverdine was put into the brigantine, so that we were now 
 three stout ships, well manned, and victualled for twelve months ; 
 for we had taken two or three sloops from New England and New 
 York, laden with flour, peas, and barrelled beef and pork, going 
 for Jamaica and Barbados ; and for more beef we went on shore 
 on the island of Cuba, where we killed as many black cattle as 
 we pleased, though we had very little salt to cure them. 
 
 Out of all the prizes we took here we took their powder and 
 bullet, their small-arms and cutlasses; and as for their men, 
 we always took the surgeon and the carpenter, as persons who 
 were of particular use to us upon many occasions ; nor were they 
 always unwilling to go with us, though for their own security, in 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 195 
 
 case of accidents, they might easily pretend they were carried 
 away by force ; of which I shall give a pleasant account in the 
 course of my other expeditions. 
 
 We had one very merry fellow here, a Quaker, whose name was 
 William Walters, whom we took out of a sloop bound from Penn- 
 sylvania to Barbados. He was a surgeon, and they called him 
 doctor ; but he was not employed in the sloop as a surgeon, but 
 was going to Barbados to get a berth, as the sailors call it. How- 
 ever, he had all his surgeon's chests on board, and we made him 
 go with us, and take all his implements with him. He was a 
 comic fellow indeed, a man of very good solid sense, and an ex- 
 cellent surgeon ; but, what was worth all, very good-humoured 
 and pleasant in his conversation, and a bold, stout, brave fellow 
 too, as any we had among us. 
 
 I found William, as I thought, not very averse to go along 
 with us, and yet resolved to do it so that it might be apparent he 
 was taken away by force, and to this purpose he comes to me. 
 "Friend," says he, "thou sayest I must go with thee, and it is 
 not in my power to resist thee if I would ; but I desire thou wilt 
 obhge the master of the sloop which I am on board to certify 
 under his hand, that I was taken away by force and against my 
 will." And this he said with so much satisfaction in his face, 
 that I could not but underdstand him. "Ay, ay," says I, 
 "whether it be against your will or no, I'll make him and all the 
 men give you a certificate of it, or I'll take them all along with us, 
 and keep them till they da." So I drew up a certificate myself, 
 wherein I wrote that he was taken away by main force, as a 
 prisoner, by a pirate ship ; that they carried away his chest and 
 instruments first, and then bound his hands behind him and 
 forced him into their boat ; and this was signed by the master 
 and all his men. 
 
 Accordingly I fell a-swearing at him, and called to my men to 
 tie his hands behind him, and so we put him into our boat and 
 carried him away. When I had him on board, I called him to me. 
 "Now, friend," says I, "I have brought you away by force, it is 
 true, but I am not of the opinion I have brought you away so 
 much again your will as they imagine. Come," says I, "you 
 will be a useful man to us, and you shall have very good usage 
 
196 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 among us." So I unbound his hands, and first ordered all things 
 that belonged to him to be restored to him, and our captain gave 
 him a dram. 
 
 "Thou hast dealt friendly by me," says he, "and I will be 
 plain with thee, whether I came willingly to thee or not. I shall 
 make myself as useful to thee as I can, but thou knowest it is not 
 my business to meddle when thou art to fight." "No, no," says 
 the captain, "but you may meddle a little when we share the 
 money." "Those things are useful to furnish a surgeon's chest," 
 says William, and smiled, "but I shall be moderate." 
 
 In short, William was a most agreeable companion ; but he had 
 the better of us in this part, that if we were taken we were sure 
 to be hanged, and he was sure to escape ; and he knew it well 
 enough. But, in short, he was a sprightly fellow, and fitter to be 
 captain than any of us. I shall have often an occasion to speak of 
 him in the rest of the story. 
 
 Our cruising so long in these seas began now to be so well 
 known, that not in England only, but in France and Spain, 
 accounts had been made public of our adventures, and many 
 stories told how we murdered the people in cold blood, tying 
 them back to back, and throwing them into the sea ; one half of 
 which, however, was not true, though more was done than is fit 
 to speak of here. 
 
 The consequence of this, however, was, that several English 
 men-of-war were sent to the West Indies, and were particularly 
 instructed to cruise in the Bay of Mexico, and the Gulf of Florida, 
 and among the Bahama islands, if possible, to attack us. We 
 were not so ignorant of things as not to expect this, after so long 
 a stay in that part of the world ; but the first certain account we 
 had of them was at Honduras, when a vessel coming in from 
 Jamaica told us that two English men-of-war were coming directly 
 from Jamaica thither in quest of us. We were indeed as it were 
 embayed, and could not have made the least shift to have got off, 
 if they had come directly to us ; but, as it happened, somebody 
 had informed them that we were in the Bay of Campeachy, and 
 they went directly thither, by which we were not only free of them, 
 but were so much to the windward of them, that they could not 
 make any attempt upon us, though they had known we were there. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 197 
 
 We took this advantage, and stood away for Carthagena, and 
 from thence with great difficulty beat it up at a distance from 
 under the shore for St. Martha, till we came to the Dutch island 
 of Curagoa, and from thence to the island of Tobago, which, as 
 before, was our rendezvous ; which, being a deserted, unin- 
 habited island, we at the .same time made use of for a retreat. 
 Here the captain of the brigantine died, and Captain Harris, at 
 that time my lieutenant, took the command of the brigantine. 
 
 Here we came to a resolution to go away to the coast of Brazil, 
 and from thence to the Cape of Good Hope, and so for the East 
 Indies ; but Captain Harris, as I have said, being now captain of 
 the brigantine, alleged that his ship was too small for so long a 
 voyage, but that, if Captain Wilmot would consent, he would 
 take the hazard of another cruise, and he would follow us in the 
 first ship he could take. So we appointed our rendezvous to be 
 at Madagascar, which was done by my recommendation of the 
 place, and the plenty of provisions to be had there. 
 
 Accordingly, he went away from us in an evil hour ; for, instead 
 of taking a ship to follow us, he was taken, as I heard afterwards, 
 by an English man-of-war, and being laid in irons, died of mere 
 grief and anger before he came to England. His lieutenant, I 
 have heard, was afterwards executed in England for a pirate ; 
 and this was the end of the man who first brought me into this 
 unhappy trade. 
 
 We parted from Tobago three days after, bending our course 
 for the coast of Brazil, but had not been at sea above twenty- 
 four hours, when we were separated by a terrible storm, which 
 held three days, with very little abatement or intermission. In 
 this juncture Captain Wihnot happened, unluckily, to be on 
 board my ship, to his great mortification ; for we not only lost 
 sight of his ship, but never saw her more till we came to Madagas- 
 car, where she was cast away. In short, after having in this 
 tempest lost our fore-topmast, we were forced to put back to the 
 isle of Tobago for shelter, and to repair our damage, which 
 brought us all very near our destruction. 
 
 We were no sooner on shore here, and all very busy looking 
 out for a piece of timber for a topmast, but we perceived standing 
 in for the shore an English man-of-war of thirty-six guns. It was 
 
198 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 a great surprise to us indeed, because we were disabled so much ; 
 but, to our great good fortune, we lay pretty snug and close 
 among the high rocks, and the man-of-war did not see us, but 
 stood off again upon his cruise. So we only observed which 
 way she went, and at night, leaving our work, resolved to stand 
 off to sea, steering the contrary way from that which we observed 
 she went ; and this, we found, had the desired success, for we saw 
 him no more. We had gotten an old mizzen-topmast on board, 
 which made us a jury fore-topmast for the present ; and so we 
 stood away for the isle of Trinidad, where, though there were 
 Spaniards on shore, yet we landed some men with our boat, and 
 cut a very good piece of fir to make us a new topmast, which we 
 got fitted up effectually ; and also we got some cattle here to eke 
 out our provisions ; and calling a council of war among ourselves, 
 we resolved to quit those seas for the present, and steer away for 
 the coast of Brazil. 
 
 The first thing we attempted here was only getting fresh water, 
 but we learnt that there lay the Portuguese fleet at the bay of 
 All Saints, bound for Lisbon, ready to sail, and only waited for a 
 fair wind. This made us lie by, wishing to see them put to sea, 
 and, accordingly as they were with or without convoy, to attack 
 or avoid them. 
 
 It sprung up a fresh gale in the evening at S.W. by W., which, 
 being fair for the Portugal fleet, and the weather pleasant and 
 agreeable, we heard the signal given to unmoor, and running in 
 under the island of Si — — , we hauled our mainsail and foresail 
 up in the brails, lowered the topsails upon the cap, and clewed 
 them up, that we might lie as snug as we could, expecting their 
 coming out, and the next morning saw the whole fleet come out 
 accordingly, but not at all to our satisfaction, for they consisted 
 of twenty-six sail, and most of them ships of force, as well as 
 burthen, both merchantmen and men-of-war; so, seeing there 
 was no meddling, we lay still where we were also, till the fleet 
 was out of sight, and then stood off and on, in hopes of meeting 
 with further purchase. 
 
 It was not long before we saw a sail, and immediately gave her 
 chase ; but she proved an excellent sailer, and, standing out to 
 sea, we saw plainly she trusted to her heels — that is to say, to 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 199 
 
 her sails. However, as we were a clean ship, we gained upon 
 her, though slowly, and had we had a day before us, we should 
 certainly have come up with her; but it grew dark apace, and 
 in that case we knew we should lose sight of her. 
 
 Our merry Quaker, perceiving us to crowd still after her in 
 the dark, wherein we could not see which way she went, came 
 very dryly to me. "Friend Singleton," says he, "dost thee 
 know what we are a-doing ? " Says I, "Yes ; why, we are chasing 
 yon ship, are we not?" "And how dost thou know that?" 
 says he, very gravely still. "Nay, that's true," says I again; 
 "we cannot be sure." "Yes, friend," says he, "I think we may 
 be sure that we are running away from her, not chasing her. I 
 am afraid," adds he, "thou art turned Quaker, and hast resolved 
 not to use the hand of power, or art a coward, and art flying from 
 thy enemy." 
 
 "What do you mean?" says I (I think I swore at him). 
 "What do you sneer at now ? You have always one dry rub or 
 another to give us." 
 
 "Nay," says he, "it is plain enough the ship stood off to sea 
 due east, on purpose to lose us, and thou mayest be sure her 
 business does not lie that way ; for what should she do at the 
 coast of Africa in this latitude, which should be as far south as 
 Congo or Angola ? But, as soon as it is dark, that we would 
 lose sight of her, she will tack and stand away west again for the 
 Brazil coast and for the bay, where thou knowest she was going 
 before ; and are we not, then, running away from her ? I am 
 greatly in hopes, friend," says the dry, gibing creature, "thou 
 wilt turn Quaker, for I see thou art not for fighting." 
 
 "Very well, William," says I ; "then I shall make an excellent 
 pirate." However, William was in the right, and I apprehended 
 what he meant immediately; and Captain Wilmot, who lay 
 very sick in his cabin, overhearing us, understood him as well as 
 I, and called out to me that William was right, and it was our 
 best way to change our course, and stand away for the bay, 
 where it was ten to one but we should snap her in the morning. 
 
 Accordingly we went about-ship, got our larboard tacks on 
 board, set the top-gallant sails, and crowded for the bay of All 
 Saints, where we came to an anchor early in the morning, just 
 
200 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 out of gunshot of the forts ; we furled our sails with rope-yarns, 
 that we might haul home the sheets without going up to loose 
 them, and, lowering our main and fore-yards, looked just as if 
 we had lain there a good while. 
 
 In two hours afterwards we saw our game standing in for the 
 bay with all the sail she could make, and she came innocently 
 into our very mouths, for we lay still till we saw her almost within 
 gunshot, when, our foremost gears being stretched fore and aft, 
 we first ran up our yards, and then hauled home the topsail 
 sheets, the rope-yarns that furled them giving way of them- 
 selves ; the sails were set in a few minutes ; at the same time 
 slipping our cable, we came upon her before she could get under 
 way upon the other tack. They were so surprised that they made 
 little or no resistance, but struck after the first broadside. 
 
 We were considering what to do with her, when WiUiam came 
 to me. ''Hark thee, friend," says he, "thou hast made a fine 
 piece of work of it now, hast thou not, to borrow thy neighbour's 
 ship here just at thy neighbour's door, and never ask him leave ? 
 Now, dost thou not think there are some men-of-war in the port ? 
 Thou hast given them the alarm sufficiently; thou wilt have 
 them upon thy back before night, depend upon it, to ask thee 
 wherefore thou didst so." 
 
 "Truly, William," said I, "for aught I know, that may be 
 true ; what, then, shall we do next ?" Says he, "Thou hast but 
 two things to do : either to go in and take all the rest, or else get 
 thee gone before they come out and take thee ; for I see they 
 are hoisting a topmast to yon great ship, in order to put to sea 
 immediately, and they won't be long before they come to talk 
 with thee, and what wilt thou say to them when they ask thee 
 why thou borrowedst their ship without leave ?" 
 
 As William said, so it was. We could see by our glasses they 
 were all in a hurry, manning and fitting some sloops they had 
 there, and a large man-of-war, and it was plain they would soon 
 be with us. But we were not at a loss what to do ; we found the 
 ship we had taken was laden with nothing considerable for our 
 purpose, except some cocoa, some sugar, and twenty barrels of 
 flour ; the rest of her cargo was hides ; so we took out all we 
 thought fit for our turn, and, among the rest, all her ammunition, 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 201 
 
 great shot, and small-amis, and turned her off. We also took a 
 cable and three anchors she had, which were for our purpose, 
 and some of her sails. She had enough left just to carry her into 
 port, and that was all. 
 
 Having done this, we stood on upon the Brazil coast, south- 
 ward, till we came to the mouth of the river Janeiro. But as we 
 had two days the wind blowing hard at S.E. and S.S.E., we were 
 obliged to come to an anchor under a little island, and wait for a 
 wind. In this time the Portuguese had, it seems, given notice 
 over land to the governor there, that a pirate was upon the coast ; 
 so that, when we came in view of the port, we saw two men-of- 
 war riding just without the bar, whereof one, we found, was 
 getting under sail with all possible speed, having slipped her 
 cable on purpose to speak with us ; the other was not so forward, 
 but was preparing to follow. In less than an hour they stood 
 both fair after us, with all the sail they could make. 
 
 Had not the night come on, William's words had been made 
 good ; they would certainly have asked us the question what we 
 did there, for we found the foremost ship gained upon us, espe- 
 cially upon one tack, for we plied away from them to windward ; 
 but in the dark losing sight of them, we resolved to change our 
 course and stand away directly for sea, not doubting that we 
 should lose them in the night. 
 
 Whether the Portuguese commander guessed we would do so 
 or no, I know not ; but in the morning, when the daylight ap- 
 peared, instead of having lost him, we found him in chase of us 
 [about a league astern ; only, to our great good fortune, we could 
 I see but one of the two. However, this one was a great ship, 
 'carried six-and-forty guns, and an admirable sailer, as appeared 
 jby her outsailing us ; for our ship was an excellent sailer too, as 
 !l have said before. 
 
 I When I found this, I easily saw there was no remedy, but we 
 must engage ; and as we knew we could expect no quarter from 
 'those scoundrels the Portuguese, a nation I had an original 
 j aversion to, I let Captain Wilmot know how it was. The captain, 
 'sick as he was, jumped up in the cabin, and would be led out 
 lupon the deck (for he was very weak) to see how it was. "Well," 
 Isays he, "we'll fight them !" 
 
202 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 Our men were all in good heart before, but to see the captain 
 so brisk, who had lain ill of a calenture ten or eleven days, gave 
 them double courage, and they went all hands to work to make 
 a clear ship and be ready. William, the Quaker, comes to me 
 with a kind of a smile. "Friend," says he, "what does yon 
 ship follow us for?" "Why," says I, "to fight us, you may be 
 sure." "Well," says he, "and will he come up with us, dost 
 thou think?" "Yes," said I, "you see she will." "Why, then, 
 friend," says the dry wretch, "why dost thou run from her still, 
 when thou seest she will overtake thee ? Will it be better for us 
 to be overtaken farther off than here?" "Much as one for 
 that," says I; "why, what would you have us do?" "Do!" 
 says he ; "let us not give the poor man more trouble than needs 
 must ; let us stay for him and hear what he has to say to us." 
 "He will talk to us in powder and ball," said I. "Very well, 
 then," says he, "if that be his country language, we must talk to 
 him in the same, must we not ? or else how shall he understand 
 us?" "Very well, William," says I, "we understand you." 
 And the captain, as ill as he was, called to me, "William's right 
 again," says he; "as good here as a league farther." So he 
 gives a word of command, "Haul up the main-sail ; we'll shorten 
 sail for him." 
 
 Accordingly we shortened sail, and as we expected her upon 
 our lee-side, we being then upon our starboard tack, brought 
 eighteen of our guns to the larboard side, resolving to give him a 
 broadside that should warm him. It was about half-an-hour 
 before he came up with us, all which time we luffed up, that we 
 might keep the wind of him, by which he was obliged to run up 
 under our lee, as we designed him ; when we got him upon our 
 quarter, we edged down, and received the fire of five or six of his 
 guns. . By this time you may be sure all our hands were at their 
 quarters, so we clapped our helm hard a-weather, let go the lee- 
 braces of the maintop sail, and laid it a-back, and so our ship fell 
 athwart the Portuguese ship's hawse ; then we immediately 
 poured in our broadside, raking them fore and aft, and killed 
 them a great many men. 
 
 The Portuguese, we could see, were in the utmost confusion ; 
 and not being aware of our design, their ship having fresh way. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 203 
 
 ran their bowsprit into the fore part of our main shrouds, as 
 that they could not easily get clear of us, and so we lay locked 
 after that manner. The enemy could not bring above five or 
 six guns, besides their small-arms, to bear upon us, while we 
 played our whole broadside upon him. 
 
 In the middle of the heat of this fight, as I was very busy 
 upon the quarter-deck, the captain calls to me, for he never 
 stirred from us, "What the devil is friend WilHam a-doing 
 yonder ?" says the captain ; "has he any business upon deck ?" 
 I stepped forward, and there was friend William, with two or 
 three stout fellows, lashing the ship's bowsprit fast to our main- 
 mast, for fear they should get away from us ; and every now and 
 then he pulled a bottle out of his pocket, and gave the men a 
 dram to encourage them. The shot flew about his ears as thick as 
 may be supposed in such an action, where the Portuguese, to give 
 them their due, fought very briskly, beheving at first they were 
 sure of their game, and trusting to their superiority ; but there 
 was William, as composed, and in as perfect tranquillity as to 
 danger, as if he had been over a bowl of punch, only very busy 
 securing the matter, that a ship of forty-six guns should not run 
 away from a ship of eight-and-twenty. 
 
 This work was too hot to hold long ; our men behaved bravely : 
 our gunner, a gallant man, shouted below, pouring in his shot 
 at such a rate, that the Portuguese began to slacken their fire ; 
 we had dismounted several of their guns by firing in at their fore- 
 castle, and raking them, as I said, fore and aft. Presently comes 
 William up to me. "Friend," says he, very calmly, "what dost 
 thou mean ? Why dost thou not visit thy neighbour in the ship, 
 the door being open for thee ? " I understood him immediately, 
 for our guns had so torn their hull, that we had beat two port- 
 holes into one, and the bulk-head of their steerage was split 
 to pieces, so that they could not retire to their close quarters ; 
 so I gave the word immediately to board them. Our second 
 lieutenant, with about thirty men, entered in an instant over the 
 forecastle, followed by some more with the boatswain, and 
 cutting in pieces about twenty-five men that they found upon the 
 deck, and then throwing some grenadoes into the steerage, they 
 entered there also ; upon which the Portuguese cried quarter 
 
204 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 presently, and we mastered the ship, contrary indeed to our own 
 expectation ; for we would have compounded with them if 
 they would have sheered off : but laying them athwart the hawse 
 at first, and following our fire furiously, without giving them 
 any time to get clear of us and work their ship ; by this means, 
 though they had six-and-forty guns, they were not able to fight 
 above five or six, as I said above, for we beat them immediately 
 from their guns in the forecastle, and killed them abundance of 
 men between decks, so that when we entered they had hardly 
 found men enough to fight us hand to hand upon their deck. 
 
 The surprise of joy to hear the Portuguese cry quarter, and 
 see their ancient struck, was so great to our captain, who, as I 
 have said, was reduced very weak with a high fever, that it gave 
 him new life. Nature conquered the distemper, and the fever 
 abated that very night ; so that in two or three days he was 
 sensibly better, his strength began to come, and he was able to 
 give his orders effectually in everything that was material, and 
 in about ten days was entirely well and about the ship. 
 
 In the meantime I took possession of the Portuguese man-of- 
 war ; and Captain Wilmot made me, or rather I made myself, 
 captain of her for the present. About thirty of their seamen 
 took service with us, some of which were French, some Genoese ; 
 and we set the rest on shore the next day on a little island on the 
 coast of Brazil, except some wounded men, who were not in a 
 condition to be removed, and whom we were bound to keep on 
 board ; but we had an occasion afterwards to dispose of them at 
 the Cape, where, at their own request, we set them on shore. 
 
 Captain Wilmot, as soon as the ship was taken, and the prison- 
 ers stowed, was for standing in for the river Janeiro again, not 
 doubting but we should meet with the other man-of-war, who, 
 not having been able to find us, and having lost the company of 
 her comrade, would certainly be returned, and might be surprised 
 by the ship we had taken, if we carried Portuguese colours ; 
 and our men were all for it. 
 
 But our friend William gave us better counsel, for he came to 
 me, "Friend," says he, ''I understand the captain is for saihng 
 back to the Rio Janeiro, in hopes to meet with the other ship 
 that was in chase of thee yesterday. Is it true, dost thou intend 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 205 
 
 it?" "Why, yes," says I, "William, pray why not?" "Nay," 
 says he, "thou mayest do so if thou wilt." "Well, I know that 
 too, WilHam," said I, "but the captain is a man will be ruled by 
 reason; what have you to say to it?" "Why," says William 
 gravely, "I only ask what is thy business, and the business of 
 all the people thou hast with thee? Is it not to get money?" 
 "Yes, Wilham, it is so, in our honest way." "And wouldest 
 thou," says he, "rather have money without fighting, or fighting 
 without money ? I mean which wouldest thou have by choice, sup- 
 pose it to be left to thee ? " " O William," says I, " the first of the 
 two, to be sure." "Why, then," says he, "what great gain hast 
 thou made of the prize thou hast taken now, though it has cost 
 the lives of thirteen of thy men, besides some hurt ? It is true 
 thou hast got the ship and some prisoners ; but thou wouldest 
 have had twice the booty in a merchant-ship, with not one quarter 
 of the fighting ; and how dost thou know either what force or 
 what number of men may be in the other ship, and what loss 
 thou mayest suffer, and what gain it shall be to thee if thou take 
 her ? I think, indeed, thou mayest much better let her alone." 
 "Why, William, it is true," said I, "and I'll go tell the captain 
 what your opinion is, and bring you word what he says." Ac- 
 cordingly in I went to the captain and told him William's reasons ; 
 and the captain was of his mind, that our business was indeed 
 fighting when we could not help it, but that our main affair was 
 money, and that with as few blows as we could. So that ad- 
 venture was laid aside, and we stood along shore again south 
 for the river De la Plata, expecting some purchase thereabouts ; 
 especially we had our eyes upon some of the Spanish ships from 
 Buenos Ayres, which are generally very rich in silver, and one 
 such prize would have done our business. We plied about here, 
 
 in the latitude of south, for near a month, and nothing 
 
 offered ; and here we began to consult what we should do next, 
 for we had come to no resolution yet. Indeed, my design was 
 always for the Cape de Bona Speranza, and so to the East 
 Indies. I had heard some flaming stories of Captain Avery, 
 and the fine things he had done in the Indies, which were doubled 
 and doubled, even ten thousand fold ; and from taking a great 
 prize in the Bay of Bengal, where he took a lady, said to be the 
 
2o6 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 Great Mogul's daughter, with a great quantity of jewels about 
 her, we had a story told us, that he took a Mogul ship, so the 
 fooHsh sailors called it, laden with diamonds. 
 
 I would fain have had friend WilHam's advice whither we 
 should go, but he always put it off with some quaking quibble 
 or other. In short, he did not care for directing us neither ; 
 whether he made a piece of conscience of' it, or whether he did 
 not care to venture having it come against him afterwards or no, 
 this I know not ; but we concluded at last without him. 
 
 We were, however, pretty long in resolving, and hankered 
 about the Rio de la Plata a long tinie. At last we spied a sail 
 to windward, and it was such a sail as I believe had not been seen 
 in that part of the world a great while. It wanted not that we 
 should give it chase, for it stood directly towards us, as well as 
 they that steered could make it ; and even that was more acci- 
 dent of weather than anything else, for if the wind had chopped 
 about anywhere they must have gone with it. I leave any man 
 that is a sailor, or understands anything of a ship, to judge what 
 a figure this ship made when we first saw her, and what we could 
 imagine was the matter with her. Her maintop-mast was come 
 by the board about six foot above the cap, and fell forward, the 
 head of the topgallant-mast hanging in the fore-shrouds by the 
 stay; at the same time the parrel of the rrdzzen-topsail-yard by 
 some accident giving way, the mizzen-topsail-braces (the standing 
 part of which being fast to the main-topsail shrouds) brought 
 the mizzen-topsail, yard and all, down with it, which spread over 
 part of the quarter-deck like an awning ; the fore-topsail was 
 hoisted up two-thirds of the mast, but the sheets were flown ; 
 the fore-yard was lowered down upon the forecastle, the sail 
 loose, and part of it hanging overboard. In this manner she 
 came down upon us with the wind quartering. In a word, the 
 figure the whole ship made was the most confounding to men 
 that understood the sea that ever was seen. She had no boat, 
 neither had she any colours out. 
 
 When we came near to her, we fired a gun to bring her to. 
 She took no notice of it, nor of us, but came on just as she did 
 before. We fired again, but it was all one. At length we came 
 within pistol-shot of one another, but nobody answered nor 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 207 
 
 appeared ; so we began to think that it was a ship gone ashore 
 somewhere in distress, and the men having forsaken her, the 
 high tide had floated her off to sea. Coming nearer to her, we 
 ran up alongside of her so close that we could hear a noise within 
 her, and see the motion of several people through her ports. 
 
 Upon this we manned out two boats full of men, and very well 
 armed, and ordered them to board her at the same minute, as 
 near as they could, and to enter one at her fore-chains on 
 the one side, and the other amidships on the other side. As 
 soon as they came to the ship's side, a surprising multitude 
 of black sailors, such as they were, appeared upon deck, and, 
 in short, terrified our men so much that the boat which was 
 to enter her men in the waist stood off again, and durst not 
 board her ; and the men that entered out of the other boat, 
 finding the first boat, as they, thought, beaten off, and see- 
 ing the ship full of men, jumped all back again into their boat, 
 and put off, not knowing what the matter was. Upon this we 
 prepared to pour in a broadside upon her ; but our friend WilHam 
 set us to rights again here ; for it seems he guessed how it was 
 sooner than we did, and coming up to me (for it was our ship 
 that came up with her), ''Friend," says he, "I am of opinion 
 that thou art wrong in this matter, and thy men have been 
 wrong also in their conduct. I'll tell thee how thou shalt take 
 this ship, without making use of those things called guns." 
 "How can that be, Wilham?" said I. "Why," said he, "thou 
 mayest take her with thy helm ; thou seest they keep no steerage, 
 and thou seest the condition they are in ; board her with thy 
 ship upon her lee quarter, and so enter her from the ship. I am 
 persuaded thou wilt take her without fighting, for there is some 
 mischief has befallen the ship, which we know nothing of." 
 
 In a word, it being a smooth sea, and little wind, I took his 
 advice, and laid her aboard. Immediately our men entered the 
 ship, where we found a large ship, with upwards of 600 negroes, 
 men and women, boys and girls, and not one Christian or white 
 man on board. 
 
 I was struck with horror at the sight ; for immediately I 
 concluded, as was partly the case, that these black devils had got 
 loose, had murdered all the white men, and thrown them into 
 
2o8 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 the sea ; and I had no sooner told my mind to the men, but the 
 thought so enraged them that I had much ado to keep my men 
 from cutting them all in pieces. But WilHam, with many per- 
 suasions, prevailed upon them, by telhng them that it was nothing 
 but what, if they were in the negroes' condition, they would do if 
 they could ; and that the negroes had really the highest injustice 
 done them, to be sold for slaves without their consent ; and that 
 the law of nature dictated it to them ; that they ought not to 
 kill them, and that it would be wilful murder to do it. 
 
 This prevailed with them, and cooled their first heat ; so they 
 only knocked down twenty or thirty of them, and the rest ran all 
 down between decks to their first places, believing, as we fancied, 
 that we were their first masters come again. 
 
 It was a most unaccountable difficulty we had next ; for we 
 could not make them understand one word we said, nor could we 
 understand one word ourselves that they said. We endeavoured 
 by signs to ask them whence they came ; but they could make 
 nothing of it. We pointed to the great cabin, to the round-house, 
 to the cook-room, then to our faces, to ask if they had no white 
 men on board, and where they were gone ; but they could not 
 understand what we meant. On the other hand, they pointed 
 to our boat and to their ship, asking questions as well as they 
 could, and said a thousand things, and expressed themselves 
 with great earnestness ; but we could not understand a word 
 of it all, or know what they meant by any of their signs. 
 
 We knew very well they must have been taken on board the 
 ship as slaves, and that it must be by some European people too. 
 We could easily see that the ship was a Dutch-built ship, but very 
 much altered, having been built upon, and, as we supposed, in 
 France ; for we found two or three French books on board, 
 and afterwards we found clothes, linen, lace, some old shoes, 
 and several other things. We found among the provisions some 
 barrels of Irish beef, some Newfoundland fish, and several other 
 evidences that there had been Christians on board, but saw no 
 remains of them. We found not a sword, gun, pistol, or weapon 
 of any kind, except some cutlasses ; and the negroes had hid 
 them below where they lay. We asked them what was become of 
 all the small-arms, pointing to our own and to the places where 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 209 
 
 those belonging to the ship had hung. One of the negroes under- 
 stood me presently, and beckoned to me to come upon the deck, 
 where, taking my fuzee, which I never let go out of my hand for 
 some time after we had mastered the ship — I say, offering to 
 take hold of it, he made the proper motion of throwing it into 
 the sea ; by which I understood, as I did afterwards, that they had 
 thrown all the small-arms, powder, shot, swords, &c., into the 
 sea, beheving, as I supposed, those things would kill them, 
 though the men were gone. 
 
 After we understood this we made no question but that the 
 ship's crew, having been surprised by these desperate rogues, 
 had gone the same way, and had been thrown overboard also. 
 We looked all over the ship to see if we could find any blood, 
 and we thought we did perceive some in several places ; but the 
 heat of the sun, melting the pitch and tar upon the decks, made 
 it impossible for us to discern it exactly, except in the round- 
 house, where we plainly saw that there had been much blood. 
 We found the scuttle open, by which we supposed that the captain 
 and those that were with him had made their retreat into the 
 great cabin, or those in the cabin had made their escape up into 
 the round-house. 
 
 But that which confirmed us most of all in what had hap- 
 pened was that, upon further inquiry, we found that there were 
 seven or eight of the negroes very much wounded, two or three 
 of them with shot, whereof one had his leg broken and lay in a 
 miserable condition, the flesh being mortified, and, as our friend 
 William said, in two days more he would have died. William 
 was a most dexterous surgeon, and he showed it in this cure ; 
 for though all the surgeons we had on board both our ships 
 (and we had no less than five that called themselves bred sur- 
 geons, besides two or three who were pretenders or assistants) — ■ 
 though all these gave their opinions that the negro's leg must be 
 cut off, and that his life could not be saved without it ; that the 
 mortification had touched the marrow in the bone, that the 
 tendons were mortified, and that he could never have the use of 
 his leg if it should be cured, William said nothing in general, 
 but that his opinion was otherwise, and that he desired the wound 
 might be searched, and that he would then tell them further. 
 
2IO DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 Accordingly he went to work with the leg; and, as he desired 
 that he might have some of the surgeons to assist him, we ap- 
 pointed him two of the ablest of them to help, and all of them to 
 look on, if they thought fit. 
 
 William went to work his own way, and some of them pre- 
 tended to find fault at first. However, he proceeded and searched 
 every part of the leg where he suspected the mortification had 
 touched it ; in a word, he cut off a great deal of mortified flesh, 
 in all which the poor fellow felt no pain. WiUiam proceeded 
 till he brought the vessels which he had cut to bleed, and the 
 man to cry out ; then he reduced the splinters of the bone, and, 
 calling for help, set it, as we call it, and bound it up, and laid the 
 man to rest, who found himself much easier than before. 
 
 At the first opening the surgeons began to triumph ; the morti- 
 fication seemed to spread, and a long red streak of blood appeared 
 from the wound upwards to the middle of the man's thigh, and the 
 surgeons told me the man would die in a few hours. I went to 
 look at it, and found Wilham himself under some surprise; 
 but when I asked him how long he thought the poor fellow could 
 live, he looked gravely at me, and said, "As long as thou canst; 
 I am not at all apprehensive of his fife," said he, "but I would 
 cure him, if I could, without making a cripple of him." I found 
 he was not just then upon the operation as to his leg, but was mix- 
 ing up something to give the poor creature, to repel, as I thought, 
 the spreading contagion, and to abate or prevent any feverish 
 temper that might happen in the blood ; after which he went to 
 work again, and opened the leg in two places above the wound, 
 cutting out a great deal of mortified flesh, which it seemed was 
 occasioned by the bandage, which had pressed the parts too 
 much ; and withal, the blood being at the time in a more than 
 common disposition to mortify, might assist to spread it. 
 
 Well, our friend William conquered all this, cleared the spread- 
 ing mortification, and the red streak went off again, the flesh 
 began to heal, and matter to run ; and in a few days the man's 
 spirits began to recover, his pulse beat regular, he had no fever, 
 and gathered strength daily ; and, in a word, he was a perfect 
 sound man in about ten weeks, and we kept him amongst us, 
 and made him an able seaman. But to return to the ship : we 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 211 
 
 never could come at a certain information about it, till some of 
 the negroes which we kept on board, and whom we taught to 
 speak English, gave the account of it afterwards, and this maimed 
 man in particular. 
 
 We inquired, by all the signs and motions we could imagine, 
 what was become of the people, and yet we could get nothing from 
 them. Our lieutenant was for torturing some of them to make 
 them confess, but William opposed that vehemently ; and when 
 he heard it was under consideration he came tome. "Friend," 
 says he, "I make a request to thee not to put any of these poor 
 wretches to torment." "Why, William," said I, "why not? 
 You see they will not give any account of what is become of the 
 white men." "Nay," ^ays William, "do not say so ; I suppose 
 they have given thee a full account of every particular of it." 
 "How so ? " says I ; "pray what are we the wiser for all their jab- 
 bering?" "Nay," says William, "that may be thy fault, for 
 aught I know ; thou wilt not punish the poor men because they 
 cannot speak English ; and perhaps they never heard a word of 
 English before. Now, I may very well suppose that they have 
 given thee a large account of everything ; for thou seest with what 
 earnestness, and how long, some of them have talked to thee ; 
 and if thou canst not understand their language, nor they thine, 
 how can they help that ? At the best, thou dost but suppose 
 that they have not told thee the whole truth of the story ; and, 
 on the contrary, I suppose they have ; and how wilt thou decide 
 the question, whether thou art right or whether I am right ? 
 Besides, what can they say to thee when thou askest them a 
 question upon the torture, and at the same time they do not 
 understand the question, and thou dost riot know whether they 
 say ay or no ?" 
 
 It is no compliment to my moderation to say I was con- 
 vinced by these reasons ; and yet we had all much ado to keep 
 our second lieutenant from murdering some of them, to make 
 them tell. What if they had told ? He did not understand one 
 word of it ; but he would not be persuaded but that the negroes 
 must needs understand him when he asked them whether the 
 ship had any boat or no, like ours, and what was become of it. 
 
 But there was no remedy but to wait till we made these people 
 
212 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 understand English, and to adjourn the story till that time. 
 The case was thus : where they were taken on board the ship, 
 that we could never understand, because they never knew the 
 English names which we give to those coasts, or what nation 
 they were who belonged to the ship, because they knew not one 
 tongue from another; but thus far the negro I examined, who 
 was the same whose leg William had cured, told us, that they 
 did not speak the same language as we spoke, nor the same our 
 Portuguese spoke; so that in all probabiUty they must be 
 French or Dutch. 
 
 Then he told us that the white men used them barbarously ; 
 that they beat them unmercifully ; that one of the negro men had 
 a wife and two negro children, one a daughter, about sixteen 
 years old ; that a white man abused the negro man's wife, and 
 afterward his daughter, which, as he said, made all the negro 
 men mad ; and that the woman's husband was in a great rage ; 
 at which the white man was so provoked that he threatened to 
 kill him ; but, in the night, the negro man, being loose, got a great 
 club, by which he made us understand he meant a handspike, 
 and that when the same Frenchman (if it was a Frenchman) 
 came among them again, he began again to abuse the negro 
 man's wife, at which the negro, taking up the handspike, knocked 
 his brains out at one blow ; and then taking the key from him 
 with which he usually unlocked the handcuffs which the negroes 
 were fettered with, he set about a hundred of them at liberty, 
 who, getting up upon the deck by the same scuttle that the white 
 men came down, and taking the man's cutlass who was killed, 
 and laying hold of what came next them, they fell upon the men 
 that were upon the deck, and killed them all, and afterwards 
 those they found upon the forecastle ; that the captain and his 
 other men, who were in the cabin and the round-house, defended 
 themselves with great courage, and shot out at the loopholes 
 at them, by which he and several other men were wounded, 
 and some killed; but that they broke into the round-house 
 after a long dispute, where they killed two of the white men, 
 but owned that the two white men killed eleven of their men 
 before they could break in ; and then the rest, having got down 
 the scuttle into the great cabin, wounded three more of them. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 213 
 
 That, after this, the gunner of the ship having secured himself 
 in the gun-room, one of his men hauled up the long-boat close 
 under the stern, and putting into her all the arms and ammunition 
 they could come at, got all into the boat, and afterwards took 
 in the captain, and those that were with him, out of the great 
 cabin. When they were all thus embarked, they resolved to 
 lay the ship aboard again, and try to recover it. That they 
 boarded the ship in a desperate manner, and killed at first all 
 that stood in their way ; but the negroes being by this time all 
 loose, and having gotten some arms, though they understood 
 nothing of powder and bullet, or guns, yet the men could 
 never master them. However, they lay under the ship's bow, 
 and got out all the men they had left in the cook-room, who had 
 maintained themselves there, notwithstanding all the negroes 
 could do, and with their small-arms killed between thirty and 
 forty of the negroes, but were at last forced to leave them. 
 
 They could give me no account whereabouts this was, whether 
 near the coast of Africa, or far off, or how long it was before the 
 ship fell into our hands ; only, in general, it was a great while 
 ago, as they called it; and, by all we could learn, it was within 
 two or three days after they had set sail from the coast. They 
 told us that they had killed about thirty of the white men, 
 having knocked them on the head with crows and handspikes, 
 and such things as they could get ; and one strong negro killed 
 three of them with an iron crow, after he was shot twice through 
 the body ; and that he was afterwards shot through the head by 
 the captain himself at the door of the round-house, which he 
 had split open with the crow ; and this we supposed was the 
 occasion of the great quantity of blood which we saw at the 
 round-house door. 
 
 The same negro told us that they threw all the powder and shot 
 they could find into the sea, and they would have thrown the 
 great guns into the sea if they could have lifted them. Being 
 asked how they came to have their sails in such a condition, 
 his answer was, "They no understand; they no know what the 
 sails do ;" that was, they did not so much as know that it was 
 the sails that made the ship go, or understand what they meant, 
 or what to do with them. When we asked him whither they 
 
214 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 were going, he said they did not know, but believed they should 
 go home to their own country again. I asked him, in particular, 
 what he thought we were when we first came up with them ? He 
 said they were terribly frighted, believing we were the same 
 white men that had gone away in their boats, and were come 
 again in a great ship, with the two boats with them, and ex- 
 pected they would kill them all. 
 
 This was the account we got out of them, after we had taught 
 them to speak English, and to understand the names and use 
 of the things belonging to the ship which they had occasion to 
 speak of ; and we observed that the fellows were too innocent to 
 dissemble in their relation, and that they all agreed in the partic- 
 ulars, and were always in the same story, which confirmed very 
 much the truth of what they said. 
 
 Having taken this ship, our next difficulty was, what to do with 
 the negroes. The Portuguese in the Brazils would have bought 
 them all of us, and been glad of the purchase, if we had not 
 showed ourselves enemies there, and been known for pirates; 
 but, as it was, we durst not go ashore anywhere thereabouts, or 
 treat with any of the planters, because we should raise the whole 
 country upon us ; and, if there were any such things as men-of- 
 war in any of their ports, we should be as sure to be attacked 
 by them, and by all the force they had by land or sea. 
 
 Nor could we think of any better success if we went northward 
 to our own plantations. One while we determined to carry 
 them all away to Buenos Ayres, and sell them there to the Span- 
 iards ; but they were really too many for them to make use of ; 
 and to carry them round to the South Seas, which was the only 
 remedy that was left, was so far that we should be no way able 
 to subsist them for so long a voyage. 
 
 At last, our old, never-failing friend, WiUiam, helped us out 
 again, as he had often done at a dead lift. His proposal was this, 
 that he should go as master of the ship, and about twenty men, 
 such as we could best trust, and attempt to trade privately, 
 upon the coast of Brazil, with the planters, not at the principal 
 ports, because that would not be admitted. 
 
 We all agreed to this, and appointed to go away ourselves 
 towards the Rio de la Plata, where we had thought of going be- 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 215 
 
 fore, and to wait for him, not there, but at Port St Pedro, as 
 the Spaniards call it, lying at the mouth of the river which they 
 call Rio Grande, and where the Spaniards had a small fort and a 
 few people, but we believe there was nobody in it. 
 
 Here we took up our station, cruising off and on, to see if we 
 could meet any ships going to or coming from the Buenos Ayres 
 or the Rio de la Plata ; but we met with nothing worth notice. 
 However, we employed ourselves in things necessary for our going 
 off to sea ; for we filled all our water-casks, and got some fish for 
 our present use, to spare as much as possible our ship's stores. 
 
 William, in the meantime, went away to the north, and made 
 the land about the Cape de St Thomas ; and betwixt that and 
 the isles De Tuberon he found means to trade with the planters 
 for all his negroes, as well the women as the men, and at a very 
 good price too ; for William, who spoke Portuguese pretty well, 
 told them a fair story enough, that the ship was in scarcity of 
 provisions, that they were driven a great way out of their way, 
 and indeed, as we say, out of their knowledge, and that they must 
 go up to the northward as far as Jamaica, or sell there upon the 
 coast. This was a very plausible tale, and was easily beHeved ; 
 and, if you observe the manner of the negroes' sailing, and what 
 happened in their voyage, was every word of it true. 
 
 By this method, and being true to one another, William passed 
 for what he was — I mean, for a very honest fellow ; and by the 
 assistance of one planter, who sent to some of his neighbour 
 planters, and managed the trade among themselves, he got a 
 quick market; for in less than five weeks William sold all his 
 negroes, and at last sold the ship itself, and shipped himself and 
 his twenty men, with two negro boys whom he had left, in a sloop, 
 one of those which the planters used to send on board for the 
 negroes. With this sloop Captain WiUiam, as we then called 
 him, came away, and found us at Port St Pedro, in the latitude of 
 32 degrees 30 minutes south. 
 
 Nothing was more surprising to us than to see a sloop come 
 along the coast, carrying Portuguese colours, and come in directly 
 to us, after we were assured he had discovered both our ships. 
 We fired a gun, upon her nearer approach, to bring her to an 
 anchor, but immediately she fired five guns by way of salute, and 
 
2i6 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 spread her English ancient. Then we began to guess it was 
 friend Wilham, but wondered what was the meaning of his being 
 in a sloop, whereas we sent him away in a ship of near 300 tons ; 
 but he soon let us into the whole history of his management, 
 with which we had a great deal of reason to be very well satisfied. 
 As soon as he had brought the sloop to an anchor, he came aboard 
 of my ship, and there he gave us an account how he began to 
 trade by the help of a Portuguese planter, who lived near the 
 seaside ; how he went on shore and went up to the first house he 
 could see, and asked the man of the house to sell him some hogs, 
 pretending at first he only stood in upon the coast to take in 
 fresh water and buy some provisions ; and the man not only 
 sold him seven fat hogs, but invited him in, and gave him, and 
 five men he had with him, a very good dinner ; and he invited 
 the planter on board his ship, and, in return for his kindness, 
 gave him a negro girl for his wife. 
 
 This so obliged the planter that the next morning he sent him 
 on board, in a great luggage-boat, a cow and two sheep, with a 
 chest of sweetmeats and some sugar, and a great bag of tobacco, 
 and invited Captain WilHam on shore again ; that, after this, 
 they grew from one kindness to another ; that they began to talk 
 about trading fo¥ some negroes ; and Wilham, pretending it was 
 to do him service, consented to sell him thirty negroes for his 
 private use in his plantation, for which he gave Wilham ready 
 money in gold, at the rate of five-and-thirty moidores per head ; 
 but the planter was obliged to use great caution in the bringing 
 them on shore ; for which purpose he made William weigh and 
 stand out to sea, and put in again, about fifty miles farther north, 
 where at a little creek he took the negroes on shore at another 
 plantation, being a friend's of his, whom, it seems, he could trust. 
 
 This remove brought William into a further intimacy, not only 
 with the first planter, but also with his friends, who desired 
 to have some of the negroes also ; so that, from one to another, 
 they bought so many, till one overgrown planter took 100 negroes, 
 which was all William had left, and sharing them with another 
 planter, that other planter chaffered with WilHam for ship and 
 all, giving him in exchange a very clean, large, well-built sloop of 
 near sixty tons, very well furnished, carrying six guns ; but we 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 217 
 
 made her afterwards carry twelve guns. William had 300 
 moidores of gold, besides the sloop, in payment for the ship ; 
 and with this money he stored the sloop as full as she could hold 
 with provisions, especially bread, some pork, and about sixty 
 hogs aHve ; among the rest, William got eighty barrels of good 
 gunpowder, which was very much for our purpose ; and all the 
 provisions which were in the French ship he took out also. 
 
 This was a very agreeable account to us, especially when we 
 saw that William had received in gold coined, or by weight, 
 and some Spanish silver, 60,000 pieces of eight, besides a new 
 sloop, and a vast quantity of provisions. 
 
 This might be called, indeed, the only trading voyage we had 
 made ; and now we were really very rich, and it came now 
 naturally before us to consider whither we should go next. Our 
 proper dehvery port, as we ought to have called it, was at Mada- 
 gascar, in the Bay of Mangahelly ; but William took me by 
 myself into the cabin of the sloop one day, and told me he wanted 
 to talk seriously with me a little ; so we shut ourselves in, and 
 William began with me. 
 
 "Wilt thou give me leave," says William, " to talk plainly with 
 thee upon thy present circumstances, and thy future prospect of 
 living ? and wilt thou promise, on thy word, to take nothing ill of 
 me?" 
 
 "With all my heart," said I. "William, I have always found 
 your advice good, and your designs have not only been well laid, 
 but your counsel has been very lucky to us ; and, therefore, say 
 what you will, I promise you I will not take it ill." 
 
 "But that is not all my demand," says WilHam ; "if thou dost 
 not like what I am going to propose to thee, thou shalt promise 
 me not to make it pubhc among the men." 
 
 "I will not, WilHam," says I, "upon my word ;" and swore to 
 him, too, very heartily. 
 
 "Why, then," says William, "I have but one thing more to 
 article with thee about, and that is, that thou wilt consent that if 
 thou dost not approve of it for thyself, thou wilt yet consent 
 that I shall put so much of it in practice as relates to myself 
 
2i8 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 and my new comrade doctor, so that it be nothing to thy detri- 
 ment and loss." 
 
 "In anything," says I, "Wilham, but leaving me, I will; but 
 I cannot part with you upon any terms whatever." 
 
 "Well," says William, "I am not designing to part from thee, 
 unless it is thy own doing. But assure me in all these points, 
 and I will tell my mind freely." 
 
 So I promised him everything he desired of me in the solemnest 
 manner possible, and so seriously and frankly withal, that William 
 made no scruple to open his mind to me. 
 
 "Why, then, in the first place," says William, "shall I ask thee 
 if thou dost not think thou and all thy men are rich enough, and 
 have really gotten as much wealth together (by whatsoever way 
 it has been gotten, that is not the question) as we all know what 
 to do with?" 
 
 "Why, truly, William," said I, "thou art pretty right; I 
 think we have had pretty good luck." 
 
 "Well, then," says William, "I would ask whether, if thou 
 hast gotten enough, thou hast any thought of leaving off this 
 trade ; for most people leave off trading when they are satisfied 
 of getting, and are rich enough ; for nobody trades for the sake 
 of trading ; much less do men rob for the sake of thieving." 
 
 "Well, William," says I, "now I perceive what it is thou art 
 driving at. I warrant you," says I, "you begin to hanker after 
 home." 
 
 "Why, truly," says William, "thou hast said it, and so I hope 
 thou dost too. It is natural for most men that are abroad to 
 desire to come home again at last, especially when they are 
 grown rich, and when they are (as thou ownest thyself to be) 
 rich enough, and so rich as they know not what to do with more if 
 they had it." 
 
 "Well, William," said I, "but now you think you have laid 
 your preliminary at first so home that I should have nothing 
 to say ; that is, that when I had got money enough, it w^ould be 
 natural to think of going home. But you have not explained 
 what you mean by home, and there you and I shall differ. Why, 
 man, I am at home ; here is my habitation ; I never had any 
 other in my lifetime; I was a kind of charity school boy; so 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 219 
 
 that I can have no desire of going anywhere for being rich or 
 poor, for I have nowhere to go." 
 
 "Why," says William, looking a Httle confused, "art not 
 thou an Englishman ? " 
 
 "Yes," says I, "I think so: you see I speak English; but I 
 came out of England a child, and never was in it but once since I 
 was a man; and then I was cheated and imposed upon, and 
 used so ill that I care not if I never see it more." 
 
 "Why, hast thou no relations or friends there?" says he; 
 "no acquaintance — none that thou hast any kindness or any 
 remains of respect for?" 
 
 "Not I, William," said I ; "no more than 1 have in the court 
 of the Great Mogul." 
 
 "Nor any kindness for the country where thou wast born?" 
 says William. 
 
 "Not I, any more than for the island of Madagascar, nor so 
 much neither ; for that has been a fortunate island to me more 
 than once, as thou knowest, WiUiam," said I. 
 
 William was quite stunned at my discourse, and held his peace ; 
 and I said to him, " Go on, William ; what hast thou to say 
 farther ? for I hear you have some project in your head," says I ; 
 "come, let's have it out." 
 
 "Nay," says William, "thou hast put me to silence, and all I 
 had to say is overthrown ; all my projects are come to nothing, 
 and gone." 
 
 "Well, but, William," said I, "let me hear what they were; 
 for though it is so that what I have to aim at does not look your 
 way, and though I have no relation, no friend, no acquaintance 
 in England, yet I do not say I like this roving, cruising hfe so 
 well as never to give it over. Let me hear if thou canst propose to 
 me anything beyond it." 
 
 "Certainly, friend," says William, very gravely, "there is 
 something beyond it;" and lifting up his hands, he seemed very 
 much affected, and I thought I saw tears stand in his eyes; 
 but I, that was too hardened a wretch to be moved with these 
 things, laughed at him. "What !" says I, "you mean death, I 
 warrant you : don't you ? That is beyond this trade. Why, 
 when it comes, it comes ; then we are all provided for," 
 
220 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 "Ay," says William, " that is true ; but it would be better that 
 some things were thought on before that came." 
 
 "Thought on !" says I; "what signifies thinking of it? To 
 think of death is to die, and to be always thinking of it is to be 
 all one's life long a-dying. It is time enough to think of it when 
 it comes." 
 
 You will easily believe I was well qualified for a pirate that 
 could talk thus. But let me leave it upon record, for the remark 
 of other hardened rogues like myself, — my conscience gave me a 
 pang that I never felt before when I said, "What signifies thinking 
 of it ? " and told me I should one day think of these words with a 
 sad heart ; but the time of my reflection was not yet come ; so 
 I went on. 
 
 Says William very seriously, "I must tell thee, friend, I am 
 sorry to hear thee talk so. They that never think of dying, 
 often die without thinking of it." 
 
 I carried on the jesting way a while farther, and said, "Prithee, 
 do not talk of dying ; how do we know we shall ever die ? " and 
 began to laugh. 
 
 "I need not answer thee to that," says William ; "it is not my 
 place to reprove thee, who art commander over me here ; but 
 I would rather thou wouldst talk otherwise of death ; it is a 
 coarse thing." 
 
 " Say anything to me, William," said I ; "I will take it kindly." 
 I began now to be very much moved at his discourse. 
 
 Says WilHam (tears running down his face), "It is because men 
 live as if they were never to die, that so many die before they 
 know how to live. But it was not death that I meant when I 
 said that there was something to be thought of beyond this way 
 of hving." 
 
 "Why, WilUam," said I, "what was that?" 
 
 "It was repentance," says he. 
 
 "Why," says I, "did you ever know a pirate repent?" 
 
 At this he startled a httle, and returned, "At the gallows I 
 have [known ^] one before, and I hope thou wilt be the second." 
 
 "Well, William," says I, "I thank you ; and I am not so sense- 
 
 ^ In earlier editions this word is not bracketed. Cf. Defoe's Works, London, 1840, 
 vol. Ill ; London, H. G. Bohn, 1854, vol. I, etc. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 221 
 
 less of these things, perhaps, as I make myself seem to be. But 
 come, let me hear your proposal." 
 
 "My proposal," says William, "is for thy good as well as my 
 own. We may put an end to this kind of life, and repent; 
 and I think the fairest occasion offers for both, at this very time, 
 that ever did, or ever will, or, indeed, can happen again." 
 
 "Look you, William," says I ; "let me have your proposal for 
 putting an end to our present way of living first, for that is the 
 case before us, and you and I will talk of the other afterwards. 
 I am not so insensible," said I, "as you may think me to be. 
 But let us get out of this hellish condition we are in first." 
 
 "Nay," says William, "thou art in the right there; we must 
 never talk of repenting while we continue pirates." 
 
 "Well," says I, "William, that's what I meant ; for if we must 
 not reform, as well as be sorry for what is done, I have no notion 
 what repentance means ; indeed, at best I know little of the 
 matter ; but the nature of the thing seems to tell me that the first 
 step we have to take is to break off this wretched course ; and 
 I'll begin there with you, with all my heart." 
 
 I could see by his countenance that William was thoroughly 
 pleased with the offer ; and if he had tears in his eyes before, he 
 had more now ; but it was from quite a different passion ; for 
 he was so swallowed up with joy he could not speak. 
 
 "Come, WilHam," says I, "thou showest me plain enough 
 thou hast an honest meaning ; dost thou think it practicable for 
 us to put an end to our unhappy way of living here, and get off ? " 
 
 "Yes," says he, "I think it very practicable for me; whether 
 it is for thee or no, that will depend upon thyself." 
 
 "Well," says I, "I give you my word, that as I have com- 
 manded you all along, from the time I first took you on board, 
 so you shall command me from this hour, and everything you 
 direct me I'll do." 
 
 "Wilt thou leave it all to me ? Dost thou say this freely ? " 
 
 "Yes, William," said I, "freely; and I'll perform it faith- 
 fully." 
 
 "Why, then," says William, "my scheme is this : We are now 
 at the mouth of the Gulf of Persia ; we have sold so much of our 
 cargo here at Surat, that we have money enough ; send me away 
 
222 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 for Bassorah with the sloop, laden with the China goods we have 
 on board, which will make another good cargo, and I'll warrant 
 thee I'll find means, among the EngUsh and Dutch merchants 
 there, to lodge a quantity of goods and money also as a merchant, 
 so as we will be able to have recourse to it again upon any oc- 
 casion, and when I come home we will contrive the rest ; and, 
 in the meantime, do you bring the ship's crew to take a resolution 
 to go to Madagascar as soon as I return." 
 
 I told him I thought he need not go so far as Bassorah, but 
 might run into Gombroon, or to Ormuz, and pretend the same 
 business. 
 
 "No," says he, "I cannot act with the same freedom there, 
 because the Company's factories are there, and I may be laid 
 hold of there on pretence of interloping." 
 
 "Well, but," said I, "you may go to Ormuz, then; for I am 
 loth to part with you so long as to go to the bottom of the Persian 
 Gulf." He returned, that I should leave it to him to do as he 
 should see cause. 
 
 We had taken a large sum of money at Surat, so that we had 
 near a hundred thousand pounds in money at our command, but 
 on board the great ship we had still a great deal more. 
 
 I ordered him publicly to keep the money on board which he 
 had, and to buy up with it a quantity of ammunition, if he could 
 get it, and so to furnish us for new exploits ; and, in the meantime, 
 I resolved to get a quantity of gold and some jewels, which I 
 had on board the great ship, and place them so that I might carry 
 them off without notice as soon as he came back ; and so, accord- 
 ing to William's directions, I left him to go the voyage, and I 
 went on board the great ship, in which we had indeed an immense 
 treasure. 
 
 We waited no less than two months for William's return, and 
 indeed I began to be very uneasy about William, sometimes 
 thinking he had abandoned me, and that he might have used the 
 same artifice to have engaged the other men to comply with him, 
 and so they were gone away together ; and it was but three days 
 before his return that I was just upon the point of resolving to go 
 away to Madagascar, and give him over ; but the old surgeon, 
 who mimicked the Quaker and passed for the master of the sloop 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 223 
 
 at Surat, persuaded me against that, for which good advice 
 and apparent faithfulness in what he had been trusted with, 
 I made him a party to my design, and he proved very honest. 
 
 At length William came back, to our inexpressible joy, and 
 brought a great many necessary things with him ; as, particu- 
 larly, he brought sixty barrels of powder, some iron shot, and 
 about thirty ton of lead ; also he brought a great deal of provi- 
 sions ; and, in a word, William gave me a public account of his 
 voyage, in the hearing of whoever happened to be -upon the 
 quarter-deck, that no suspicions might be found about us. 
 
 After all was done, William moved that he might go up again, 
 and that I would go with him ; named several things which we 
 had on board that he could not sell there ; and, particularly, told 
 us he had been obliged to leave several things there, the caravans 
 being not come in ; and that he had engaged to come back again 
 with goods. 
 
 This was what I wanted. The men were eager for his going, 
 and particularly because he told them they might load the sloop 
 back with rice and provisions ; but I seemed backward to going, 
 when the old surgeon stood up and persuaded me to go, and with 
 many arguments pressed me to it ; as, particularly, if I did not 
 go, there would be no order, and several of the men might drop 
 away, and perhaps betray all the rest ; and that they should not 
 think it safe for the sloop to go again if I did not go ; and to urge 
 me to it, he offered himself to go with me. 
 
 Upon these considerations I seemed to be overpersuaded to 
 go, and all the company seemed to be better satisfied when I 
 had consented ; and, accordingly, we took all the powder, lead, 
 and iron out of the sloop into the great ship, and all the other 
 things that were for the ship's use, and put in some bales of 
 spices and casks or frails of cloves, in all about seven ton, and 
 some other goods, among the bales of which I had conveyed all 
 my private treasure, which, I assure you, was of no small value, 
 and away I went. 
 
 At going off I called a council of all the officers in the ship to 
 consider in what place they should wait for me, and how long, 
 and we appointed the ship to stay eight-and-twenty days at a 
 little island on the Arabian side of the Gulf, and that, if the sloop 
 
2 24 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 did not come in that time, they should sail to another island to 
 the west of that place, and wait there fifteen days more, and that 
 then, if the sloop did not come, they should conclude some 
 accident must have happened, and the rendezvous should be at 
 Madagascar. 
 
 Being thus resolved, we left the ship, which both William and 
 I, and the surgeon, never intended to see any more. We steered 
 directly for the Gulf, and through to Bassorah, or Balsara. This 
 city of Balsara lies at some distance from the place where our 
 sloop lay, and the river not being very safe, and we but ill ac- 
 quainted with it, having but an ordinary pilot, we went on shore 
 at a village where some merchants hve, and which is very popu- 
 lous, for the sake of small vessels riding there. 
 
 Here we stayed and traded three or four days, landing all our 
 bales and spices, and indeed the whole cargo that was of any 
 considerable value, which we chose to do rather than go up 
 immediately to Balsara till the project we had laid was put in 
 execution. 
 
 After we had bought several goods, and were preparing to buy 
 several others, the boat being on shore with twelve men, myself, 
 William, the surgeon, and one fourth man, whom we had singled 
 out, we contrived to send a Turk just at the dusk of the evening 
 with a letter to the boatswain, and giving the fellow a charge 
 to run with all possible speed, we stood at a small distance to 
 observe the event. The contents of the letter were thus written 
 by the old doctor : — 
 
 "Boatswain Thomas, — We are all betrayed. For God's 
 sake make off with the boat, and get on board, or you are all lost. 
 The captain, Wilham the Quaker, and George the reformade 
 are seized and carried away : I am escaped and hid, but cannot 
 stir out ; if I do I am a dead man. As soon as you are on board 
 cut or slip, and make sail for your lives. Adieu. — R.S." 
 
 We stood undiscovered, as above, it being the dusk of the 
 evening, and saw the Turk deliver the letter, and in three minutes 
 we saw all the men hurry into the boat and put off, and no sooner 
 were they on board than they took the hint, as we supposed, for 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 225 
 
 the next morning they were out of sight, and we never heard 
 tale or tidings of them since. 
 
 We were now in a good place, and in very good circumstances, 
 for we passed for merchants of Persia. 
 
 It is not material to record here what a mass of ill-gotten 
 wealth we had got together : it will be more to the purpose to 
 tell you that I began to be sensible of the crime of getting of 
 it in such a manner as I had done ; that I had very little satisfac- 
 tion in the possession of it ; and, as I told William, I had no ex- 
 pectation of keeping it, nor much desire ; but, as I said to him 
 one day walking out into the fields near the town of Bassorah, 
 so I depended upon it that it would be the case, which you will 
 hear presently. 
 
 We were perfectly secured at Bassorah, by having frightened 
 away the rogues, our comrades ; and we had nothing to do but to 
 consider how to convert our treasure into things proper to make 
 us look like merchants, as we were now to be, and not like 
 freebooters, as we really had been. 
 
 We happened very opportunely here upon a Dutchman, who 
 had travelled from Bengal to Agra, the capital city of the Great 
 Mogul, and from thence was come to the coast of Malabar by 
 land, and got shipping, somehow or other, up the Gulf ; and we 
 found his design was to go up the great river to Bagdad or Baby- 
 lon, and so, by the caravan, to Aleppo and Scanderoon. As 
 William spoke Dutch, and was of an agreeable, insinuating be- 
 haviour, he soon got acquainted with this Dutchman, and dis- 
 covering our circumstances to one another, we found he had con- 
 siderable effects with him ; and that he had traded long in that 
 country, and was making homeward to his own country ; and that 
 he had servants with him ; one an Armenian, whom he had taught 
 to speak Dutch, and who had something of his own, but had a 
 mind to travel into Europe ; and the other a Dutch sailor, whom 
 he had picked up by his fancy, and reposed a great trust in him, 
 and a very honest fellow he was. 
 
 This Dutchman was very glad of an acquaintance, because he 
 soon found that we directed our thoughts to Europe also ; and 
 as he found we were encumbered with goods only (for we let him 
 know nothing of our money) , he readily offered us his assistance 
 
226 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 to dispose of as many of them as the place we were in would put off, 
 and his advice what to do with the rest. 
 
 While this was doing, William and I consulted what to do 
 with ourselves and what we had ; and first, we resolved we would 
 never talk seriously of our measures but in the open fields, where 
 we were sure nobody could hear ; so every evening, when the sun 
 began to decline and the air to be moderate we walked out, 
 sometimes this way, sometimes that, to consult of our affairs. 
 
 I should have observed that we had new clothed ourselves here, 
 after the Persian manner, with long vests of silk, a gown or robe of 
 English crimson cloth, very fine and handsome, and had let 
 our beards grow so after the Persian manner that we passed for 
 Persian merchants, in view only, though, by the way, we could 
 not understand or speak one word of the language of Persia, or 
 indeed of any other but English and Dutch ; and of the latter 
 I understand very little. 
 
 However, the Dutchman supplied all this for us ; and as we had 
 resolved to keep ourselves as retired as we could, though there 
 were several English merchants upon the place, yet we never 
 acquainted ourselves with one of them, or exchanged a word with 
 them ; by which means we prevented their inquiry of us now, or 
 their giving any intelligence of us, if any news of our landing 
 here should happen to come, which, it was easy for us to know, 
 was possible enough, if any of our comrades fell into bad hands, 
 or by many accidents which we could not foresee. 
 
 It was during my being here, for here we stayed near two 
 months, that I grew very thoughtful about my circumstances; 
 not as to the danger, neither indeed were we in any, but were 
 entirely concealed and unsuspected ; but I really began to have 
 other thoughts 'of myself, and of the world, than ever I had 
 before. 
 
 William had struck so deep into my unthinking temper with 
 hinting to me that there was something beyond all this ; that 
 the present time was the time of enjoyment, but that the time of 
 account approached; that the work that remained was gentler 
 than the labour past, viz., repentance, and that it was high time 
 to think of it ; — I say these, and such thoughts as these, en- 
 grossed my hours, and, in a word, I grew very sad. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 227 
 
 As to the wealth I had, which was immensely great, it was all 
 like dirt under my feet ; I had no value for it, no peace in the 
 possession of it, no great concern about me for the leaving of it. 
 
 William had perceived my thoughts to be troubled and my 
 mind heavy and oppressed for some time ; and one evening, in 
 one of our cool walks, I began with him about the leaving our 
 effects. William was a wise and wary man, and indeed all the 
 prudentials of my conduct had for a long time been owing to 
 his advice, and so now all the methods for preserving our effects, 
 and even ourselves, lay upon him ; and he had been telling me of 
 some of the measures he had been taking for our making home- 
 ward, and for the security of our wealth, when I took him very 
 short. "Why, William," says I, "dost thou think we shall ever be 
 able to reach Europe with all this cargo that we have about us ? " 
 "Ay," says William, "without doubt, as well as other mer- 
 chants with theirs, as long as it is not publicly known what quan- 
 tity or of what value our cargo consists." 
 
 "Why, William," says I, smiling, "do you think that if there is 
 a God above, as you have so long been telling me there is, and 
 that we must give an account to Him, — I say, do you think, if 
 He be a righteous Judge, He will let us escape thus with the 
 plunder, as we may call it, of so many innocent people, nay, I 
 might say nations, and not call us to an account for it before we 
 can get to Europe, where we pretend to enjoy it ?" 
 
 WiUiam appeared struck and surprised at the question, and 
 made no answer for a great while ; and I repeated the question, 
 adding that it was not to be expected. 
 
 After a little pause, says WiUiam, "Thou hast started a very 
 weighty question, and I can make no positive answer to it ; but 
 I will state it thus : first, it is true that, if we consider the justice 
 of God, we have no reason to expect any protection ; but as 
 the ordinary ways of Providence are out of the common road of 
 human affairs, so we may hope for mercy still upon our repent- 
 ance, and we know not how good He may be to us ; so we are to 
 act as if we rather depended upon the last, I mean the merciful 
 part, than claimed the first, which must produce nothing but 
 judgment and vengeance." 
 
 "But hark ye, William," says I, "the nature of repentance, as 
 
2 28 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 you have hinted once to me, included reformation; and we 
 can never reform ; how, then, can we repent ? " 
 
 "Why can we never reform?" says WiUiam. 
 
 "Because," said I, "we cannot restore what we have taken 
 away by rapine and spoil." 
 
 "It is true," says William, "we never can do that, for we can 
 never come to the knowledge of the owners." 
 
 "But what, then, must be done with our wealth," said I, " the 
 effects of plunder and rapine ? If we keep it, we continue to be 
 robbers and thieves ; and if we quit it we cannot do justice with 
 it, for we cannot restore it to the right owners." 
 
 "Nay," says WilUam, "the answer to it is short. To quit 
 what we have, and do it here, is to throw it away to those who 
 have no claim to it, and to divest ourselves of it, but 
 to do no right with it ; whereas we ought to keep it carefully 
 together, with a resolution to do what right with it we are able ; 
 and who knows what opportunity Providence may put into our 
 hands to do justice, at least, to some of those we have injured ? 
 So we ought, at least, to leave it to Him and go on. As it is, 
 without doubt our present business is to go to some place of 
 safety, where we may wait His will." 
 
 This resolution of WilHam was very satisfying to me indeed, as, 
 the truth is, all he said, and at all times, was solid and good ; 
 and had not Wilham thus, as it were, quieted my mind, I think, 
 verily, I was so alarmed at the just reason I had to expect ven- 
 geance from Heaven upon me for my ill-gotten wealth, that I 
 should have run away from it as the devil's goods, that I had 
 nothing to do with, that did not belong to me, and that I had no 
 right to keep, and was in certain danger of being destroyed for. 
 
 However, Wilham settled my mind to more prudent steps than 
 these, and I concluded that I ought, however, to proceed to a 
 place of safety, and leave the event to God Almighty's mercy. 
 But this I must leave upon record, that I had from this time no 
 joy of the wealth I had got. I looked upon it all as stolen, and 
 so indeed the greatest part of it was. I looked upon it as a hoard 
 of other men's goods, which I had robbed the innocent owners of, 
 and which I ought, in a word, to be hanged for here, and damned 
 for hereafter. And now, indeed, I began sincerely to hate myself 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 229 
 
 for a dog ; a wretch that had been a thief and a murderer ; a 
 wretch that was in a condition which nobody was ever in ; for 
 I had robbed, and though I had the wealth by me, yet it was im- 
 possible I should ever make any restitution ; and upon this ac- 
 count it ran in my head that I could never repent, for that re- 
 pentance could not be sincere without restitution, and therefore 
 must of necessity be damned. There was no room for me to 
 escape. I went about with my heart full of these thoughts, 
 httle better than a distracted fellow ; in short, running headlong 
 into the dreadfullest despair, and premeditating nothing but how 
 to rid myself out of the world ; and, indeed, the devil, if such 
 things are of the devil's immediate doing, followed his work very 
 close with me, and nothing lay upon my mind for several days 
 but to shoot myself into the head with my pistol. 
 
 I was all this while in a vagrant life, among infidels, Turks, 
 pagans, and such sort of people. I had no minister, no Christian 
 to converse with but poor Wilham. He was rny ghostly father 
 or confessor, and he was all the comfort I had. As for my 
 knowledge of religion, you have heard my history. You may 
 suppose I had not much ; and as for the Word of God, I do not 
 remember that I ever read a chapter in the Bible in my lifetime. 
 I was little Bob at Bussleton, and went to school to learn my 
 Testament. 
 
 However, it pleased God to make William the Quaker every- 
 thing to me. Upon this occasion, I took him out one evening, as 
 usual, and hurried him away into the fields with me, in more 
 haste than ordinary ; and there, in short, I told him the per- 
 plexity of my mind, and under what terrible temptations of the 
 devil I had been ; that I must shoot myself, for I could not sup- 
 port the weight and terror that was upon me. 
 
 "Shoot yourself !" says William ; "why, what will that do for 
 you?" 
 
 "Why," says I, " it will put an end to a miserable Hfe." 
 
 "Well," says Wilham, "are you satisfied the next will be 
 better?" 
 
 " No, no," says I ; " much worse, to be sure." 
 
 "Why, then," says he, "shooting yourself is the devil's mo- 
 tion, no doubt ; for it is the devil of a reason, that, because 
 
230 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 thou art in an ill case, therefore thou must put thyself into a 
 worse." 
 
 This shocked my reason indeed. "Well, but," says I, "there 
 is no bearing the miserable condition I am in." 
 
 " Very well," says William ; " but it seems there is some bearing 
 a worse condition ; and so you will shoot yourself, that you may 
 be past remedy ?" 
 
 "I am past remedy already," says I. 
 
 "How do you know that ?" says he. 
 
 "I am satisfied of it," said I. 
 
 "Well," says he, "but you are not sure ; so you will shoot your- 
 self to make it certain ; for though on this side death you can- 
 not be sure you will be damned at all, yet the moment you step 
 on the other side of time you are sure of it ; for when it is done, 
 it is not to be said then that you will be, but that you are 
 damned." 
 
 "Well, but," says Wilfiam, as if he had been between jest and 
 earnest, "pray, what didst thou dream of last night?" 
 
 "Why," said I, "I had frightful dreams all night; and, par- 
 ticularly, I dreamed that the devil came for me, and asked me 
 what my name was ; and I told him. Then he asked me what 
 trade I was. ' Trade ? ' says I ; ' I am a thief, a rogue, by my call- 
 ing : I am a pirate and a murderer, and ought to be hanged.' 
 'Ay, ay,' says the devil, 'so you do; and you are the man I 
 looked for, and therefore come along with me.' At which I 
 was most horribly frighted, and cried out so that it waked me ; 
 and I have been in horrible agony ever since." 
 
 "Very well," says William; "come, give me the pistol thou 
 talkedst of just now." 
 
 "Why," says I, "what will you do with it ? " 
 
 "Do with it !" says William. "Why, thou needest not shoot 
 thyself ; I shall be obliged to do it for thee. Why, thou wilt 
 destroy us all." 
 
 "What do you mean, William ?" said I. 
 
 "Mean!" said he; "nay, what didst thou mean, to cry out 
 aloud in thy sleep, 'I am a thief, a pirate, a murderer, and ought 
 to be hanged'? Why, thou wilt ruin us all. 'Twas well the 
 Dutchman did not understand English. In short, I must shoot 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 231 
 
 thee, to save my own life. Come, come," says he, "give me 
 thy pistol." 
 
 I confess this terrified me again another way, and I began to 
 be sensible that, if anybody had been near me to understand 
 English, I had been undone. The thought of shooting myself 
 forsook me from that time; and I turned to William, "You 
 disorder me extremely, William," said I ; "why, I am never safe, 
 nor is it safe to keep me company. What shall I do ? I shall 
 betray you all." 
 
 "Come, come, friend Bob," says he, "I'll put an end to it all, 
 if you will take my advice." 
 
 "How's that?" said I. 
 
 "Why, only," says he, "that the next time thou talkest with 
 the devil, thou wilt talk a little softlier, or we shall be all undone, 
 and you too." 
 
 This frighted me, I must confess, and allayed a great deal of 
 the trouble of mind I was in. But William, after he had done 
 jesting with me, entered upon a very long and serious discourse 
 with me about the nature of my circumstances, and about 
 repentance ; that it ought to be attended, indeed, with a deep 
 abhorrence of the crime that I had to charge myself with ; but 
 that to despair of God's mercy was no part of repentance, but 
 putting myself into the condition of the devil ; indeed, that I must 
 apply myself with a sincere, humble confession of my crime, to 
 ask pardon of God, whom I had offended, and cast myself upon 
 His mercy, resolving to be willing to make restitution, if ever it 
 should please God to put it in my power, even to the utmost of 
 what I had in the world. And this, he told me, was the method 
 which he had resolved upon himself ; and in this, he told me, he 
 had found comfort. 
 
 I had a great deal of satisfaction in William's discourse, and it 
 quieted me very much ; but William was very anxious ever after 
 about my talking in my sleep, and took care to lie with me always 
 himself, and to keep me from lodging in any house where so much 
 as a word of EngUsh was understood. 
 
 However, there was not the like occasion afterward ; for I was 
 much more composed in my mind, and resolved for the future to 
 live a quite different life from what I had done. As to the wealth 
 
232 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 I had, I looked upon it as nothing ; I resolved to set it apart to 
 any such opportunity of doing justice as God should put into my 
 hand ; and the miraculous opportunity I had afterward of apply- 
 ing some parts of it to preserve a ruined family, whom I had 
 plundered, may be worth reading, if I have room for it in this 
 account. 
 
 With these resolutions I began to be restored to some degree of 
 quiet in my mind ; and having, after almost three months' stay 
 at Bassorah, disposed of some goods, but having a great quantity 
 left, we hired boats according to the Dutchman's direction, and 
 went up to Bagdad, or Babylon, on the river Tigris, or rather 
 Euphrates. We had a very considerable cargo of goods with us, 
 and therefore made a great figure there, and were received with 
 respect. We had, in particular, two-and-forty bales of Indian 
 stuffs of sundry sorts, silks, muslins, and fine chintz ; we had 
 fifteen bales of very fine China silks, and seventy packs or bales 
 of spices, particularly cloves and nutmegs, with other goods. 
 We were bid money here for our cloves, but the Dutchman ad- 
 vised us not to part with them, and told us we should get a better 
 price at Aleppo, or in the Levant ; so we prepared for the caravan. 
 
 We concealed our having any gold or pearls as much as we 
 could, and therefore sold three or four bales of China silks and 
 Indian calicoes, to raise money to buy camels and to pay the 
 customs which are taken at several places, and for our provisions 
 over the deserts. 
 
 I travelled this journey, careless to the last degree of my goods 
 or wealth, believing that, as I came by it all by rapine and vio- 
 lence, God would direct that it should be taken from me again in 
 the same manner ; and, indeed, I think I might say I was very 
 willing it should be so. But, as I had a merciful Protector 
 above me, so I had a most faithful steward, counsellor, partner, or 
 whatever I might call him, who was my guide, my pilot, my 
 governor, my everything, and took care both of me and of all we 
 had ; and though he had never been in any of these parts of the 
 world, yet he took the care of all upon him ; and in about nine- 
 and-fifty days we arrived from Bassorah, at the mouth of the 
 river Tigris or Euphrates, through the desert, and through 
 Aleppo to Alexandria, or, as we call it, Scanderoon, in the Levant. 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 233 
 
 Here William and I, and the other two, our faithful comrades, 
 debated what we should do ; and here WilUam and I resolved to 
 separate from the other two, they resolving to go with the Dutch- 
 man into Holland, by the means of some Dutch ship which lay 
 then in the road. William and I told them we resolved to go and 
 settle in the Morea, which then belonged to the Venetians. 
 
 It is true we acted wisely in it not to let them know whither 
 we went, seeing we had resolved to separate ; but we took our 
 old doctor's directions how to write to him in Holland, and in 
 England, that we might have intelligence from him on occasion, 
 and promised to give him an account how to write to us, which 
 we afterwards did, as may in time be made out. 
 
 We stayed here some time after they were gone, till at length, 
 not being thoroughly resolved whither to go till then, a Venetian 
 ship touched at Cyprus, and put in at Scanderoon to look for 
 freight home. We took the hint, and bargaining for our passage, 
 and the freight of our goods, we embarked for Venice, where, in 
 two-and-twenty days, we arrived safe, with all our treasure, 
 and with such a cargo, take our goods and our money and our 
 jewels together, as, I believed, was never brought into the city 
 by two single men, since the state of Venice had a being. 
 
 We kept ourselves here incognito for a great while, passing for 
 two Armenian merchants still, as we had done before ; and by 
 this time we had gotten so much of the Persian and Armenian 
 jargon, which they talked at Bassorah and Bagdad, and every- 
 where that we came in the country, as was sufficient to make us 
 able to talk to one another, so as not to be understood by anybody, 
 though sometimes hardly by ourselves. 
 
 Here we converted all our effects into money, settled our abode 
 as for a considerable time, and Wilham and I, maintaining 
 an inviolable friendship and fidelity to one another, lived like 
 two brothers ; we neither had or sought any separate interest ; 
 we conversed seriously and gravely, and upon the subject of our 
 repentance continually ; we never changed, that is to say, so 
 as to leave off our Armenian garbs; and we were called, at 
 Venice, the two Grecians. 
 
 I had been two or three times going to give a detail of our 
 wealth, but it will appear incredible, and we had the greatest 
 
234 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 difficulty in the world how to conceal it, being justly apprehensive 
 lest we might be assassinated in that country for our treasure. 
 At length William told me he began to think now that he must 
 never see England any more, and that indeed he did not much 
 concern himself about it; but seeing we had gained so great 
 wealth, and he had some poor relations in England, if I was wilhng, 
 he would write to know if they were living, and to know what 
 condition they were in, and if he found such of them were alive as 
 he had some thoughts about, he would, with my consent, send 
 them something to better their condition. 
 
 I consented most willingly ; and accordingly WilUam wrote 
 to a sister and an uncle, and in about five weeks' time received 
 an answer from them both, directed to himself, under cover of a 
 hard Armenian name that he had given himself, viz., Signore 
 Constantine Alexion of Ispahan, at Venice. 
 
 It was a very moving letter he received from his sister, who, 
 after the most passionate expressions of joy to hear he was alive, 
 seeing she had long ago had an account that he was murdered 
 by the pirates in the West Indies, entreats him to let her know 
 what circumstances he was in ; tells him she was not in any capa- 
 city to do anything considerable for him, but that he should be 
 welcome to her with all her heart ; that she was left a widow, 
 with four children, but kept a little shop in the Minories, by which 
 she made shift to maintain her family ; and that she had sent 
 him five pounds, lest he should want money, in a strange country, 
 to bring him home. 
 
 I could see the letter brought tears out of his eyes as he read 
 it ; and, indeed, when he showed it to me, and the little bill for 
 five pounds, upon an English merchant in Venice, it brought 
 tears out of my eyes too. 
 
 After we had been both affected sufficiently with the tenderness 
 and kindness of this letter, he turns to me ; says he, "What shall I 
 do for this poor woman?" I mused a while; at last says I, 
 " I will tell you what you shall do for her. She has sent you five 
 pounds, and she has four children, and herself, that is five; 
 such a sum, from a poor woman in her circumstances, is as much 
 as five thousand pounds is to us; you shall send her a bill of ex- 
 change for five thousand pounds Enghsh money, and bid her con- 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 235 
 
 ceal her surprise at it till she hears from you again ; but bid her 
 leave off her shop, and go and take a house somewhere in the 
 country, not far off from London, and stay there, in a moderate 
 figure, till she hears from you again." 
 
 "Now," says William, "I perceive by it that you have some 
 thoughts of venturing into England." 
 
 "Indeed, WilHam," said I, "you mistake me ; but it presently 
 occurred to me that you should venture, for what have you done 
 that you may not be seen there ? Why should I desire to keep 
 you from your relations, purely to keep me company ?" 
 
 William looked very affectionately upon me. "Nay," says 
 he, "we have embarked together so long, and come together so 
 far, I am resolved I will never part with thee as long as I Uve, 
 go where thou wilt, or stay where thou wilt ; and as for my sister," 
 said William, "I cannot send her such a sum of money, for whose 
 is all this money we have ? It is most of it thine." 
 
 "No, William," said I, "there is not a penny of it mine but 
 what is yours too, and I won't have anything but an equal share 
 with you, and therefore you shall send it to her ; if not, I will 
 send it." 
 
 "Why," says William, "it will make the poor woman dis- 
 tracted ; she will be so surprised she will go out of her wits." 
 
 "Well," said I, "William, you may do it prudently; send her 
 a bill backed of a hundred pounds, and bid her expect more in a 
 post or two, and that you will send her enough to live on without 
 keeping shop, and then send her more." 
 
 Accordingly William sent her a very kind letter, with a bill 
 upon a merchant in London for a hundred and sixty pounds, and 
 bid her comfort herself with the hope that he should be able in 
 a little time to send her more. About ten days after, he sent 
 her another bill of five hundred and forty pounds ; and a post 
 or two after, another for three hundred pounds, making in 
 all a thousand pounds ; and told her he would send her 
 sufficient to leave off her shop, and directed her to take a 
 house as above. 
 
 He waited then till he received an answer to all the three letters, 
 with an account that she had received the money, and, which I 
 did not expect, that she had not let any other acquaintance know 
 
236 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 that she had received a shilling from anybody, or so much as 
 that he was alive, and would not till she had heard again. 
 
 When he showed me this letter, "Well, William," said I, "this 
 woman is fit to be trusted with life or anything ; send her the 
 rest of the five thousand pounds, and I'll venture to England with 
 you, to this woman's house, whenever you will." 
 
 In a word, we sent her five thousand pounds in good bills ; and 
 she received them very punctually, and in a little time sent her 
 brother word that she had pretended to her uncle that she was 
 sickly and could not carry on the trade any longer, and that she 
 had taken a large house about four miles from London, under 
 pretence of letting lodgings for her livelihood ; and, in short, 
 intimated as if she understood that he intended to come over to 
 be incognito, assuring him he should be as retired as he pleased. 
 
 This was opening the very door for us that we thought had 
 been effectually shut for this life ; and, in a word, we resolved 
 to venture, but to keep ourselves entirely concealed, both as to 
 name and every other circumstance ; and accordingly William 
 sent his sister word how kindly he took her prudent steps, and 
 that she had guessed right that he desired to be retired, and that 
 he obliged her not to increase her figure, but live private, till she 
 might perhaps see him. 
 
 He was going to send the letter away. "Come, William," said 
 I, "you shan't send her an empty letter; tell her you have a 
 friend coming with you that must be as retired as yourself, and 
 I'll send her five thousand pounds more." 
 
 So, in short, we made this poor woman's family rich ; and yet, 
 when it came to the point, my heart failed me, and I durst not 
 venture ; and for William, he would not stir without me ; and 
 so we stayed about two years after this, considering what we 
 should do. 
 
 You may think, perhaps, that I was very prodigal of my ill- 
 gotten goods, thus to load a stranger with my bounty, and give 
 a gift like a prince to one that had been able to merit nothing of 
 me, or indeed know me ; but my condition ought to be considered 
 in this case ; though I had money to profusion, yet I was per- 
 fectly destitute of a friend in the world, to have the least obli- 
 gation or assistance from, or knew not either where to dispose 
 
LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN SINGLETON 237 
 
 or trust anything I had while I lived, or whom to give it to 
 if I died. 
 
 When I had reflected upon the manner of my getting of it, I 
 was sometimes for giving it all to charitable uses, as a debt due 
 to mankind, though I was no Roman Catholic, and not at all 
 of the opinion that it would purchase me any repose to my soul ; 
 but I thought, as it was got by a general plunder, and which I 
 could make no satisfaction for, it was due to the community, 
 and I ought to distribute it for the general good. But still I was 
 at a loss how, and where, and by whom to settle this charity, 
 not daring to go home to my own country, lest some of my com- 
 rades, strolled home, should see and detect me, and for the very 
 spoil of my money, or the purchase of his own pardon, betray and 
 expose me to an untimely end. 
 
 Being thus destitute, I say, of a friend, I pitched thus upon 
 William's sister; the kind step of hers to her brother, whom she 
 thought to be in distress, signifying a generous mind and a 
 charitable disposition ; and having resolved to make her the 
 object of my first bounty, I did not doubt but I should purchase 
 something of a refuge for myself, and a kind of a centre, to which 
 I should tend in my future actions ; for really a man that has a 
 subsistence, and no residence, no place that has a magnetic in- 
 fluence upon his affections, is in one of the most odd, uneasy 
 conditions in the world, nor is it in the power of all his money to 
 make it up to him. 
 
 It was, as I told you, two years and upwards that we remained 
 at Venice and thereabout, in the greatest hesitation imaginable, 
 irresolute and unfixed to the last degree. William's sister im- 
 portuned us daily to come to England, and wondered we should 
 not dare to trust her, whom we had to such a degree obliged to 
 be faithful ; and in a manner lamented her being suspected by us. 
 
 At last I began to incline; and I said to William, "Come, 
 brother William," said I (for ever since our discourse at Bassorah 
 I called him brother), "if you will agree to two or three things 
 with me, I'll go home to England with all my heart." 
 
 Says William, "Let me know what they are." 
 
 "Why, first," says I, "you shall not disclose yourself to any 
 of your relations in England but your sister — no, not one ; 
 
238 DANIEL DEFOE 
 
 secondly, we will not shave off our mustachios or beards" (for 
 we had all along worn our beards after the Grecian manner), 
 "nor leave off our long vests, that we may pass for Grecians 
 and foreigners ; thirdly, that we shall never speak English in 
 public before anybody, your sister excepted ; fourthly, that we 
 will always live together and pass for brothers." 
 
 William said he would agree to them all with all his heart, but 
 that the not speaking English would be the hardest, but he would 
 do his best for that too ; so, in a word, we agreed to go from Ven- 
 ice to Naples, where we converted a large sum of money into bales 
 of silk, left a large sum in a merchant's hands at Venice, and 
 another considerable sum at Naples, and took bills of exchange 
 for a great deal too ; and yet we came with such a cargo to Lon- 
 don as few American merchants had done for some years, for we 
 loaded in two ships seventy-three bales of thrown silk, besides 
 thirteen bales of wrought silks, from the duchy of Milan, shipped 
 at Genoa, with all which I arrived safely ; and some time after 
 I married my faithful protectress, William's sister, with whom I 
 am much more happy than I deserve. 
 
 And now, having so plainly told you that I am come to Eng- 
 land, after I have so boldly owned what life I have led abroad, it 
 is time to leave off, and say no more for the present, lest some 
 should be willing to inquire too nicely after your old friend 
 Captain Bob. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 
 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 VOL. I. LETTER I 
 
 Miss Anna Howe to Clarissa Harlowe 
 
 Ian. lo. 
 
 I AM extremely concerned, my dearest friend, for the disturb- 
 ances that have happened in your family. I know how it must 
 hurt you to become the subject of the public talk : and yet upon 
 an occasion so generally known, it is impossible but that whatever 
 relates to a young lady whose distinguished merits have made her 
 the public care, should engage everybody's attention. I long to 
 have the particulars from yourself ; and of the usage I am told 
 you receive upon an accident you could not help ; and in which, 
 as far as I can learn, the sufferer was the aggressor. 
 
 Mr. Diggs, the surgeon, whom I sent fpr at the first hearing of 
 the rencounter, to inquire, for your sake, how your brother was, 
 told me, that there was no danger from the wound, if there were 
 none from the fever ; which it seems had been increased by the 
 perturbation of his spirits. 
 
 Mr. Wyerley drank tea with us yesterday ; and though he is 
 far from being partial to Mr. Lovelace, as it may be well sup- 
 posed, yet both he and Mr. Symmes, blame your family for the 
 treatment they gave him when he went in person to inquire 
 after your brother's health, and to express his concern for what 
 had happened. 
 
 They say, that Mr. Lovelace could not avoid drawing his 
 sword : and that either your brother's unskilf ulness or passion left 
 him from the very first pass entirely in his power. 
 
 This, I am told, was what Mr. Lovelace said upon it ; retreating 
 as he spoke : "Have a care, Mr. Harlowe — your violence puts 
 you out of your defence. You give me too much advantage. 
 For your sister's sake, I will pass by every thing : — if — " 
 
 239 
 
240 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 But this the more provoked his rashness, to lay himself open 
 to the advantage of his adversary — who, after a slight wound 
 given him in the arm, took away his sword. 
 
 There are people who love not your brother, because of his 
 natural imperiousness and fierce and uncontrollable temper : 
 these say, that the young gentleman's passion was abated on 
 seeing his blood gush plentifully down his arm ; and that he 
 received the generous offices of his adversary (who helped him off 
 with his coat and waistcoat, and bound up his arm ; till the sur- 
 geon could come) with such patience, as was far from making a 
 visit afterwards from that adversary to inquire after his health, 
 appear either insulting or improper. 
 
 Be this as it may, every body pities you. So steady, so uni- 
 form in your conduct : so desirous, as you always said, of sliding 
 through life to the end of it unnoted ; and, as I may add, not wish- 
 ing to be observed even for your silent benevolence ; sufficiently 
 happy in the noble consciousness which attends it : rather useful 
 than glaring, your deserved motto ; though now to your regret 
 pushed into blaze, as I may say : and yet blamed at home for 
 the faults of others — how must such a virtue suffer on every 
 hand ! — Yet it must be allowed, that your present trial is but 
 proportioned to your prudence. 
 
 As all your friends without doors are apprehensive that some 
 other unhappy event may result from so violent a contention, in 
 which it seems the families on both sides are now engaged, I must 
 desire you to enable me, on the authority of your own informa- 
 tion, to do you occasional justice. 
 
 My mother, and all of us, like the rest of the world, talk of 
 nobody but you on this occasion, and of the consequences which 
 may follow from the resentments of a man of Mr. Lovelace's 
 spirit ; who, as he gives out, has been treated with high indignity 
 by your uncles. My mother will have it, that you cannot now, 
 with any decency, either see him, or correspond with him. She 
 is a good deal prepossessed by your uncle Antony ; who oc- 
 casionally calls upon us, as you know ; and on this rencounter, 
 has represented to her the crime which it would be in a sister to 
 encourage a man who is to wade into her favour (this was his 
 expression) through the blood of her brother. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 241 
 
 Write to me therefore, my dear, the whole of your story from 
 the time that Mr. Lovelace was first introduced into your family ; 
 and particularly an account of all that passed between him and 
 your sister ; about which there are different reports ; some people 
 scrupling not to insinuate that the younger sister has stolen a 
 lover from the elder : and pray write in so full a manner as may 
 satisfy those who know not so much of your affairs as I do. If 
 any thing unhappy should fall out from the violence of such 
 spirits as you have to deal with, your account of all things previ- 
 ous to it will be your best justification. 
 
 You see what you draw upon yourself by excelling all your sex. 
 Every individual of it who knows you, or has heard of you, seems 
 to think you answerable to her for your conduct in points so very 
 delicate and concerning. 
 
 Every eye, in short, is upon you with the expectation of an ex- 
 ample. I wish to heaven you were at liberty to pursue your own 
 methods : all would then, I dare say, be easy, and honourably 
 ended. But I dread your directors and directresses ; for your 
 mother, admirably well qualified as she is to lead, must submit to 
 be led. Your sister and brother will certainly put you out of 
 your course. 
 
 But this is a point you will not permit me to expatiate upon : 
 pardon me therefore, and I have done. — Yet, why should I 
 say, pardon me ? When your concerns are my concerns ? When 
 your honour is my honour ? When I love you, as never woman 
 loved another? And when you have allowed of that concern 
 and of that love ; and have for years, which in persons so young 
 may be called many, ranked in the first class of your friends. 
 Your ever grateful and affectionate, 
 
 Anna Howe. 
 
 Will you oblige me with a copy of the preamble to the clauses 
 in your grandfather's will in your favour ; and allow me to send 
 it to my aunt Harman ? — She is very desirous to see it. Yet 
 your character has so charmed her, that, though a stranger to 
 you personally, she assents to the preference given you in that 
 will, before she knows the testator's reasons for giving you that 
 preference. 
 
242 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 LETTER VII 
 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 [After her return from her}] 
 
 Harlowe Place, Feb. 20. 
 
 I BEG your excuse for not writing sooner ! Alas, my dear, I 
 have sad prospects before me ! My brother and sister have 
 succeeded in all their views. They have found out another 
 lover for me ; an hideous one ! — Yet he is encouraged by every 
 body. No wonder that I was ordered home so suddenly. It 
 was for fear, as I have been informed [an unworthy fear !] that 
 I should have entered into any concert with Mr. Lovelace, had 
 I known their motive for commanding me home ; apprehending, 
 'tis evident, that I should dislike the man they had to propose 
 to me. 
 
 And well might they apprehend so : — for who do you think 
 he is ? — No other than that Solmes! — • Could you have believed 
 it ? — And they are all determined too ; my mother with the 
 rest ! — Dear, dear excellence ! how could she be thus brought 
 over, when I am assured, that on his first being proposed she 
 was pleased to say. That had Mr. Solmes the Indies in possession, 
 and would endow me with them, she would not think him 
 deserving of her Clarissa ! 
 
 The reception I met with at my return, so different from what 
 I used to meet with on every little absence, (and now I had been 
 from them three weeks) convinced me that I was to suffer for 
 the happiness I had had in your company and conversation, for 
 that most agreeable period. I will give you an account of it. 
 
 My brother met me at the door, and gave me his hand when 
 I stepped out of the chariot. He bowed very low : "Pray, Miss, 
 favour me" — I thought it in good humour ; but found it after- 
 wards mock respect : and so he led me in great form, I prattling 
 all the way, inquiring of every body's health, (although I was so 
 soon to see them, and there was hardly time for answers) into 
 the great parlour ; where were my father, mother, my two uncles, 
 and sister. 
 
 ' Author's note. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 243 
 
 I was struck to the heart as soon as I entered, to see a solem- 
 nity. They all kept their seats. I ran to my father, and 
 kneeled : then to my mother : and met from both a cold salute : 
 from my father a blessing but half pronounced : my mother 
 indeed called me child ; but embraced me not with her usual 
 indulgent ardour. 
 
 After I had paid my duty to my uncles, and my compliments to 
 my sister, which she received with solemn and stiff form, I was 
 bid to sit down. But my heart was full : and I said it became 
 me to stand, if I could stand, upon a reception so awful and un- 
 usual. I was forced to turn my face from them, and pull out 
 my handkerchief. 
 
 My unbrotherly accuser hereupon stood forth, and charged 
 me with having received no less than five or six visits at Miss 
 Howe's from the man they had all so much reason to hate [that 
 was the expression ;] notwithstanding the commands I had had 
 to the contrary. And he bid me deny it, if I could. 
 
 I had never been used, I said, to deny the truth, nor would I 
 now. I owned I had in the three weeks past seen the person I 
 presumed he meant, oftener than five or six times. [Pray hear 
 me, brother, said I, for he was going to flame out.] But he 
 always asked for Mrs. or Miss Howe, when he came. 
 
 You see, my dear, I made not the pleas I might have made. 
 
 My brother seemed ready to give a loose to his passion : my 
 father put on the countenance which always portends a gathering 
 storm : my uncles mutteringly whispered : and my sister ag- 
 j gravatingly held up her hands. While I begged to be heard out ; 
 I — and my mother said, "Let the child,'^ that was her kind word, 
 I "be heard." 
 I ******* 
 
 And my uncle Antony, in his rougher manner, added, that 
 
 surely I would not give them reason to apprehend, that I thought 
 
 my grandfather's favour ^ to me had made me independent of 
 
 I them all. — If I did, he would tell me, the will could be set aside, 
 
 and should. 
 ] I did not know, I said, that I had given occasion for this harsh- 
 
 : 1 Her grandfather, as an inducement to her to make him frequent visits, had fitted up 
 
 a dairy house for her on his own estate. 
 
244 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 ness. I hoped I should always have a just sense of every one's 
 favour to me, superadded to the duty I owed as a daughter and a 
 niece : but that I was so much surprised at a reception so unusual 
 and unexpected, that I hoped my papa and mamma would give 
 me leave to retire, in order to recollect myself. 
 
 No one gainsaying, I made my silent compliments, and with- 
 drew ; — leaving my brother and sister, as I thought, pleased ; 
 and as if they wanted to congratulate each other on having 
 occasioned so severe a beginning to be made with me. 
 
 I went up to my chamber, and there with my faithful Hannah 
 deplored the determined face which the new proposal, it was 
 plain they had to make me, wore. 
 
 I had not recovered myself when I was sent for down to tea. 
 I begged by my maid to be excused attending ; but on the re- 
 peated command, went down with as much cheerfulness as I 
 could assume. 
 
 Mr. Solmes came in before we had done tea. My uncle Antony 
 presented him to me, as a gentleman he had a particular friend- 
 ship for. My uncle Harlowe in terms equally favourable for 
 him. My father said, Mr. Solmes is my friend, Clarissa Harlowe. 
 My mother looked at him, and looked at me, now and then, as 
 he sat near me, I thought with concern. — I at her, with eyes 
 appealing for pity. At him, when I could glance at him, with 
 disgust httle short of affrightment. While my brother and sister 
 Mr. Solmes'd him, and sir'd him up, at every word. So caressed, 
 in short, by all ; — yet such a wretch ! — But I will at present 
 only add, my humble thanks and duty to your honoured mother 
 (to whom I will particularly write, to express the grateful sense 
 I have of her goodness to me) ; and that I am 
 
 Your ever obliged 
 
 Cl. Harlowe. 
 
 LETTER VIII 
 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Feb. 24. 
 
 They drive on here at a furious rate. The man lives here, 
 I think. He courts them, and is more and more a favourite. 
 Such terms ! such settlements ! That's the cry. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 245 
 
 Hitherto, I seem to be delivered over to my brother, who pre- 
 tends as great love to me as ever. 
 
 My father and mother industriously avoid giving me oppor- 
 tunity of speaking to them alone. 
 
 I have already stood the shock of three of this man's particular 
 visits, besides my share in his more general ones ; and find it is 
 impossible I should ever endure him. He has but a very ordi- 
 nary share of understanding ; is very illiterate ; knows nothing but 
 the value of estates, and how to improve them, and what belongs 
 to land-jobbing and husbandry. Yet am I as one stupid, I think. 
 They have begun so cruelly with me, that I have not spirit enough 
 to assert my own negative. 
 
 Meantime it has been signified to me, that it will be acceptable 
 if I do not think of going to church next Sunday. 
 
 The same signification was made me for last Sunday ; and I 
 obeyed. They are apprehensive that Mr. Lovelace will be there 
 with design to come home with me. 
 
 Help me, dear Miss Howe, to a Httle of your charming spirit : 
 I never more wanted it. 
 
 Feb. 25, in the evening. 
 
 What my brother and sister have said against me I cannot 
 tell : — but I am in heavy disgrace with my father. 
 
 I was sent for down to tea. I went with a very cheerful 
 aspect : but had occasion soon to change it. 
 
 Such a solemnity in every body's countenance ! My mother's 
 eyes were fixed upon the tea-cups ; and when she looked up, it 
 was heavily, as if her eyelids had weights upon them ; and then 
 not to me. My father sat half-aside in his elbow-chair, that his 
 head might be turned from me, his hands clasped, and waving, 
 as it were, up and down ; his fingers, poor dear gentleman ! in 
 motion, as if angry to the very ends of them. My sister sat 
 swelling. My brother looked at me with scorn, having measured 
 me, as I may say, with his eyes as I entered, from head to foot. 
 My aunt was there, and looked upon me as if with kindness re- 
 
246 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 strained, bending coldly to my compliment to her as she sat ; 
 and then cast an eye first on my brother, then on my sister, as if 
 to give the reason [so I am willing to construe it] of her unusual 
 stiffness : — Bless me, my dear ! that they should choose to 
 intimidate rather than invite a mind, till now, not thought either 
 unpersuadable or ungenerous ! 
 
 I took my seat. Shall I make tea, madam, to my mother ? — 
 I always used, you know, my dear, to make tea. 
 
 No ! a very short sentence, in one very short word, was 
 the expressive answer. And she took the canister in her 
 own hand. 
 
 My brother bid the footman who attended leave the room ; I, 
 said he, will give the water. 
 
 My heart was in agitation, I did not know what to do with 
 myself. What is to follow ? thought I. 
 
 Just after the second dish, out stept my mother — A word 
 with you, sister Hervey ! taking her hand. Presently my sister 
 dropt away. Then my brother. And I was left alone with my 
 father. 
 
 He looked so very sternly, that my heart failed me as twice or 
 thrice I would have addressed myself to him : nothing but solemn 
 silence on all sides having passed before. 
 
 At last, I asked. If it were his pleasure that I should pour him 
 out another dish. 
 
 He answered me with the same angry monosyllable, which I 
 had received from my mother before ; and then arose, and walked 
 about the room. I arose too, with intent to throw myself at 
 his feet ; but was too much overawed by his sternness, even 
 to make such an expression of my duty to him as my heart over- 
 flowed with. 
 
 At last, as he supported himself, because of his gout, on the 
 back of a chair, I took a Httle more courage ; and approaching 
 him, besought him to acquaint me in what I had offended him. 
 
 He turned from me, and in a strong voice, Clarissa Harlowe, 
 said he, know that I will be obeyed. 
 
 God forbid, sir, that you should not ! — I have never yet op- 
 posed your will — 
 
 Nor I your whimsies, Clarissa Harlowe, interrupted he. — 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 247 
 
 Don't let me run the fate of all who shew indulgence to your sex ; 
 to be the more contradicted for mine to you. 
 
 My father, you know, my dear, has not (any more than my 
 brother) a kind opinion of our sex ; although there is not a more 
 condescending wife in the world than my mother. 
 
 I was going to make protestations of duty — No protestations, 
 girl ! No words ! I will not be prated to ! I will be obeyed ! 
 I have no child, I will have no child, but an obedient one. 
 
 Sir, you never had reason, I hope — 
 
 Tell me not what I never had, but what I have, and what I 
 shall have. 
 
 Good sir, be pleased to hear me — My brother and my sister, 
 I fear — 
 
 Your brother and sister shall not be spoken against, girl ! — 
 They have a just concern for the honour of my family. 
 
 And I hope, sir — 
 
 Hope nothing. — Tell me not of hopes, but of facts. I ask 
 nothing of you but what is in your power to comply with, and 
 what it is your duty to comply with. 
 
 Then, sir, I will comply with it — ■ But yet I hope from your 
 goodness — 
 
 No expostulations ! no huts, girl ! no qualifyings ! I will be 
 obeyed, I tell you ; and cheerfully too ! — or you are no child of 
 mine ! 
 
 I wept. 
 
 Let me beseech you, my dear and ever-honoured papa (and I 
 dropt down on my knees) that I may have only yours and my 
 mamma's will, and not my brother's, to obey. 
 
 I was going on ; but he was pleased to withdraw, leaving me 
 on the floor ; saying, that he would not hear me thus by subtilty 
 and cunning aiming, to distinguish away my duty ; repeating, 
 that he would be obeyed. 
 
 My heart is too full ! — so full, that it may endanger my duty, 
 were I to try to unburden it to you on this occasion : so I will lay 
 down my pen. — But can — Yet, positively, I will lay down my 
 pen ! 
 
248 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 LETTER XXXI 
 
 Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 Monday, March 13. 
 
 In vain dost thou ^ and thy compeers press me to go to town, 
 while I am in such an uncertainty as I am in at present with this 
 proud beauty. All the ground I have hitherto gained with her, 
 is entirely owing to her concern for the safety of people whom I 
 have reason to hate. 
 
 Write then, thou biddest me, if I will not come : that, indeed, I 
 can do ; and as well without a subject as with one. And what 
 follows shall be a proof of it. 
 
 The lady's malevolent brother has now, as I told thee at M. 
 Hall, introduced another man ; the most unpromising in his 
 person and qualities, the most formidable in his offers that has 
 yet appeared. 
 
 This man has by his proposals captivated every soul of the 
 Harlowes — Soul! did I say — ^ There is not a soul among them 
 but my charmer's : and she, withstanding them all, is actually 
 confined, and otherwise maltreated by a father the most gloomy 
 and positive ; at the instigation of a brother the most arrogant 
 and selfish — But thou knowest their characters ; and I will not 
 therefore sully my paper with them. 
 
 But is it not a confounded thing to be in love with one, who is 
 the daughter, the sister, the niece, of a family I must eternally 
 despise ? And, the devil of it, that love increasing with her — 
 what shall I call it ? — 'Tis not scorn : — 'tis not pride ; — 'tis 
 not the insolence of an adored beauty : — but 'tis to virtue, it 
 seems, that my difficulties are owing ; and I pay for not being 
 a sly sinner, an hypocrite ; for being regardless of my reputation ; 
 for permitting slander to open its mouth against me. But is it 
 necessary for such a one as I, who have been used to carry all 
 before me, upon my own terms — I, who never inspired a fear, 
 that had not a discernibly predominant mixture of love in it ; 
 to be an hypocrite ? 
 
 1 These gentlemen affected what they called the Roman style (to wit, the thee and the thou) 
 in their letters : and it was an agreed rule with them, to take in good part whatever freedoms 
 they treated each other with, if the passages were written in that style. [Author's note.] 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 249 
 
 Well, but it seems I must practise for this art, if I would suc- 
 ceed with this truly admirable creature ; but why practise for 
 it ? — Cannot I indeed reform ? — -I have but one vice ; — have 
 I, Jack ? — Thou knowest my heart, if any man living does. As 
 far as I know it myself, thou knowest it. But 'tis a cursed 
 deceiver ; for it has many and many a time imposed upon its 
 master — Master, did I say ? That am I not now ; nor have I 
 been from the moment I beheld this angel of a woman. Pre- 
 pared indeed as I was by her character before I saw her : for 
 what a mind must that be, which though not virtuous itself, 
 admires not virtue in another? — ^ My visit to Arabella, owing 
 to a mistake of the sisters, into which, as thou hast heard me say, 
 I was led by the blundering uncle ; who was to introduce me 
 (but lately come from abroad) to the divinity, as I thought ; but, 
 instead of her, carried me to a mere mortal. And much difficulty 
 had I, so fond and so forward my lady ! to get off without for- 
 feiting all with a family that I intended should give me a goddess. 
 
 I have boasted that I was once in love before : — and indeed I 
 thought I was. It was in my early manhood — -with that quality- 
 jilt, whose infidelity I have vowed to revenge upon as many of 
 the sex as shall come into my power. I believe, in different 
 chmes, I have already sacrificed an hecatomb to my Nemesis, 
 in pursuance of this vow. 
 
 But now am I indeed in love. I can think of nothing, of 
 nobody, but the divine Clarissa Harlowe — Harlowe? — How 
 that hated word sticks in my throat. 
 
 I Dost thou think, that if it were not from the hope, that this 
 
 j stupid family are all combined to do my work for me, I would 
 
 i bear their insults ? — Is it possible to imagine, that I would be 
 
 braved as I am braved, threatened as I am threatened, by those 
 
 who are afraid to see me ; and by this brutal brother too, to 
 
 ' whom I gave a life [a life, indeed, not worth my taking !] ; had 
 
 I I not a greater pride in knowing, that by means of his very spy 
 
 I upon me, I am playing him off as I please ; cooling or inflaming 
 
 j his violent passions as may best suit my purposes ; permitting 
 
 so much to be revealed of my life and actions, and intentions, 
 
250 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 as may give him such a confidence in his double-faced agent, as 
 shall enable me to dance his employer upon my own wires ? 
 
 And what my motive, dost thou ask ? No less than this, that 
 my beloved shall find no protection out of my family : for, if I 
 know hers, fly she must, or have the man she hates. This, 
 therefore, if I take my measures right, and my familiar fail me 
 not, will secure her mine in spite of them all ; in spite of her own 
 inflexible heart : mine, without condition ; without reformation 
 promises ; without the necessity of a siege of years, perhaps ; 
 and to be even then, after wearing the guise of merit-doubting 
 hypocrisy, at an uncertainty, upon a probation unapproved of 
 — Then shall I have all the rascals and rascalesses of the family 
 come creeping to me : I prescribing to me ; and bringing that 
 sordidly imperious brother to kneel at the footstool of my throne. 
 
 All my fear arises from the little hold I have in the heart of 
 this charming frost-piece : such a constant glow upon her lovely 
 features : eyes so sparkling : limbs so divinely turned : health 
 so florid : youth so blooming : air so animated — To have an 
 heart so impenetrable : and /, the hitherto successful Lovelace, 
 the addresser — How can it be ? 
 
 By this incoherent ramble thou wilt gather, that I am not 
 likely to come up in haste ; since I must endeavour first to obtain 
 some assurance from the beloved of my soul, that I shall not be 
 sacrificed to such a wretch as Solmes ! Woe be to the fair-one, 
 if ever she be driven into my power (for I despair of a voluntary 
 impulse in my favour) and I find a difficulty in obtaining this 
 security. 
 
 That her indifference to me is not owing to the superior liking 
 she has for any other, is what rivets my chains : but take care, 
 fair-one : take care, O thou most exalted of female minds, and 
 loveliest of persons, how thou debasest thyself by encouraging 
 such a competition as thy sordid relations have set on foot in 
 mere malice to me ! 
 
 Thus, Jack, as thou desirest, have I written. — Written upon 
 something ; upon nothing ; upon revenge, which I love ; upon 
 love, which I hate, heartily hate, because 'tis my master : and upon 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 251 
 
 the devil knows what besides : — for looking back, I am amazed 
 at the length of it. Thou mayest read it : / would not for a 
 king's ransom — But so as I do hut write, thou sayest thou wilt 
 be pleased. 
 
 Be pleased then. I command thee to be pleased : if not for the 
 writer's or written sake, for thy word's sake. And so in the 
 royal style (for am I not likely to be thy king and thy emperor 
 in the great affair before us ?) I bid thee very heartily Farewell. 
 
 LETTER LII 
 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Thursday night, March 23. 
 I SEND you the boasted confutation letter, just now put into 
 my hands — My brother and sister, my uncle Antony and Mr. 
 Solmes, are, I understand, exulting over the copy of it below, as 
 an unanswerable performance. 
 
 To Miss Clarissa Harlowe 
 
 Once again, my inflexible sister, I write to you. It is to let 
 you know, that the pretty piece of art you found out to make me 
 the vehicle of your whining pathetics to your father and mother, 
 has not had the expected effect. 
 
 I do assure you, that your behaviour has not been misrep- 
 resented — nor need it. Your mother, who is solicitous to take 
 all opportunities of putting the most favourable constructions 
 upon all you do, has been forced, as you well know, to give you 
 up, upon full trial : no need then of the expedient of pursuing your 
 needleworks in her sight. She cannot bear your whining pranks : 
 and it is for her sake, that you are not permitted to come into 
 her presence — nor will be, but upon her own terms. 
 
 You had like to have made a simpleton of your aunt Hervey 
 yesterday : she came down from you, pleading in your favour ; 
 but when she was asked, what concession she had brought you 
 to ? she looked about her, and knew not what to answer. So 
 your mother, when surprised into the beginning of your cunning 
 address to her and to your father, under my name (for I had 
 
252 
 
 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 begun to read it, little suspecting such an ingenious subterfuge) 
 and would then make me read it through, wrung her hands, Oh ! 
 her dear child, her dear child, must not be so compelled ! — But 
 when she was asked, whether she would be willing to have for 
 her son-in-law the man who bids defiance to her whole family ; 
 and who had like to have murdered her son? And what con- 
 cessions she had gained from her dear child to merit this tender- 
 ness? And that for one who had apparently deceived her in 
 assuring her that her heart was free? — Then could she look 
 about her, as her sister had done before : then was she again 
 brought to herself, and to a resolution to assert her authority 
 [Not to transfer it, witty presumer !] over the rebel who of late 
 has so ingratefully struggled to throw it off. 
 
 You seem, child, to have a high notion of the matrimonial 
 duty ; and I'll warrant, like the rest of your sex (one or two, 
 whom I have the honour to know, excepted) that you will go to 
 church to promise what you will never think of afterwards. 
 
 I have written a longer letter, than ever I designed to write to 
 you, after the insolent treatment and prohibition you have given 
 me : and, now I am commissioned to tell you, that your friends 
 are as weary of confining you, as you are of being confined. And 
 therefore you must prepare yourself to go in a very few days, as 
 you have been told before, to your uncle Antony's ; who, not- 
 withstanding your apprehensions, will draw up his bridge when 
 he pleases ; will see what company he pleases in his own house ; 
 nor will he demolish his chapel to cure you of your foolish late 
 commenced antipathy to a place of divine worship. — The more 
 foolish, as, if we intended to use force, we could have the cere- 
 mony pass in your chamber, as well as any where else. 
 
 Prejudice against Mr. Solmes has evidently blinded you, and 
 there is a charitable necessity to open your eyes : since no one but 
 you thinks the gentleman so contemptible in his person; nor, for 
 a plain country gentleman, who has too much solid sense to ap- 
 pear like a coxcomb, justly blameable in his manners — And as 
 to his temper, it is necessary you should speak upon fuller knowl- 
 edge, than at present it is plain you can have of him. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 253 
 
 Upon the whole, it will not be amiss, that you prepare for your 
 speedy removal, as well for the sake of your own conveniency, as 
 to shew your readiness, in one point, at least, to oblige your 
 friends ; one of whom you may, if you please to deserve it, reckon, 
 though hut a brother, 
 
 James Harlowe. 
 
 P.S. If you are disposed to see Mr. Solmes, and to make some 
 excuses to him for your past conduct, in order to be able to meet 
 him somewhere else with the less concern to yourself for your 
 freedoms with him ; he shall attend you where you please. 
 
 If you hsLve a mind to read the settlements, before they are 
 read to you for your signing, they shall be sent you up — Who 
 knows, but they will help you to some fresh objections ? — Your 
 heart is free, you know — It must — For, did you not tell your 
 mother it was ? And will the pious Clarissa fib to her mamma ? 
 
 I desire no reply. The case requires none. Yet I will ask 
 you, have you, miss, no more proposals to make ? 
 
 I was so vexed when I came to the end of this letter (the post- 
 script to which, perhaps, might be written after the others had 
 seen the letter) that I took up my pen, with an intent to write to 
 my uncle Harlowe about resuming my own estate, in pursuance 
 of your advice : but my heart failed me when I recollected, that 
 I had not one friend to stand by or support me in my claim ; and 
 that it would but the more incense them, without answering any 
 good end. O that my cousin were but come ! 
 
 Is it not a sad thing, beloved as I thought myself so lately by 
 every one, that now I have not one person in the world to plead 
 for me, to stand by me, or who would afford me refuge, were I 
 to be under the necessity of seeking for it ! 
 
 I don't know what to do, not I ! — God forgive me, but I am 
 very impatient ! I wish — but I don't know what to wish, 
 without a sin ! — Yet I wish it would please God to take me 
 to his mercy ! — I can meet with none here — What a world 
 is this ? 
 
 But it is time to lay down my pen, since my ink runs nothing 
 but gall. 
 
254 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 LETTER LXXXIII 
 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Friday, 4 o'clock. 
 
 I AM really ill. I was used to make the best of any little acci- 
 dents that befel me, for fear of making my then affectionate 
 friends uneasy : but now I shall make the worst of my indisposi- 
 tion, in hopes to obtain a suspension of the threatened evil of 
 Wednesday next. And if I do obtain it, will postpone my ap- 
 pointment with Mr. Lovelace.^ 
 
 Betty has told them that I am very much indisposed. But I 
 have no pity from any body. 
 
 I believe, I am become the object of every one's aversion, and 
 that they would all be glad I were dead. Indeed, I believe it. 
 "What ails the perverse creature?" cries one. — "Is she love- 
 sick?" another. 
 
 I was in the ivy summer-house, and came out shivering with 
 cold, as if aguishly affected. Betty observed this, and reported 
 it. — "O, no matter ! — Let her shiver on ! — ■ Cold cannot hurt 
 her. Obstinacy will defend her from harm. Perverseness is 
 a bracer to a love-sick girl, and more effectual than the cold bath 
 to make hardy, although the constitution be ever so tender." 
 
 This said by a cruel brother, and heard said by the dearer 
 friends of one, for whom, but a few months ago, every body was 
 apprehensive at the least blast of wind to which she exposed 
 herself ! 
 
 Betty, it must be owned, has an admirable memory on these 
 occasions. Nothing of this nature is lost by her repetition : 
 even the very air with which she repeats what she hears said, 
 renders it unnecessary to ask, who spoke this or that severe 
 thing. 
 
 Friday, 6 o'clock. 
 
 My aunt, who again stays aU night, has just left me. She 
 came to tell me the result of my friends' deliberations about me. 
 It is this : 
 
 ^ In a letter to Lovelace she had agreed to try to meet him in the garden, in order to 
 discuss the possibility of his aunts' aSording her protection. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 255 
 
 Next Wednesday morning they are all to be assembled : to 
 wit, my father, mother, my uncles, herself, and my uncle Hervey ; 
 my brother and sister of course : My good Mrs. Norton ^ is like- 
 wise to be admitted : and Dr. Lewen is to be at hand, to exhort 
 me, it seems, if there be occasion : but my aunt is not certain 
 whether he is to be among them, or to tarry till called in. 
 
 When this awful court is assembled, the poor prisoner is to be 
 brought in, supported by Mrs. Norton ; who is to be first tutored 
 to instruct me in the duty of a child ; which it seems I have for- 
 gotten. 
 
 Nor is the success at all doubted, my aunt says : since it is not 
 believed that I can be hardened enough to withstand the expos- 
 tulations of so venerable a judicature, although I have withstood 
 those of several of them separately. And still the less, as she 
 hints at extraordinary condescensions from my father. But what 
 condescensions, from even my father, can induce me to make such 
 a sacrifice as is expected from me ? 
 
 Yet my spirits will never bear up, I doubt, at such a tribunal 
 — my father presiding in it. 
 
 Indeed I expected, that my trials would not be at an end till 
 he had admitted me into his awful presence. 
 
 What is hoped from me, she says, is. That I will cheerfully, on 
 Tuesday night, if not before, sign the articles : and so turn the 
 succeeding day's solemn convention into a day of festivity. I 
 am to have the licence sent me up, however, and once more the 
 settlements, that I may see how much in earnest they are. 
 
 She further hinted, that my father himself would bring up the 
 settlements for me to sign. 
 
 O my dear ! what a trial will this be ! — How shall I be able 
 to refuse to my father the writing of my name ? — To my father, 
 from whose presence I have been so long banished ! — He com- 
 manding and entreating, perhaps, in a breath ! — How shall I be 
 able to refuse this to my father ! 
 
 1 Mrs. Norton had been Clarissa's nurse. 
 
256 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 LETTER LXXXV 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Sat. morn. 8 o'clock, (April 8.) 
 
 Whether you will blame me or not, I cannot tell, but I have 
 deposited a letter confirming my resolution to leave this house 
 on Monday next. I have not kept a copy of it. But this is the 
 substance : 
 
 I tell him, "That I have no way to avoid the determined reso- 
 lution of my friends in behalf of Mr. Sohnes, but by abandoning 
 this house by his assistance." 
 
 I have not pretended to make a merit with him on this score ; 
 for I plainly tell him, "That could I, without an unpardonable sin, 
 die when I would, I would sooner make death my choice, than 
 take a step, which all the world, if not my own heart, will condemn 
 me for taking." 
 
 I tell him, "That I shall not try to bring any other clothes with 
 me, than those I shall have on ; and those but my common wear- 
 ing-apparel ; lest I should be suspected. That I must expect to 
 be denied the possession of my estate. That, therefore, he will 
 have nothing to hope for from this step, that he had not before: 
 and that in every light I reserve to myself to accept or refuse his 
 address, as his behaviour and circumspection shall appear to me 
 to deserve.'' 
 
 I tell him, "That I think it best to go into a private lodging, in 
 the neighbourhood of Lady Betty Lawrence ; and not to her 
 ladyship's house ; that he shall instantly leave me, and (as he had 
 promised) not come near me, but by my leave. 
 
 "That if I find myself in danger of being discovered, and 
 carried back by violence, I will then throw myself directly into 
 the protection either of Lady Betty or Lady Sarah.^ 
 
 "That I must, however, plainly tell him, that if in this treaty 
 my friends insist upon my resolving against marrying him, I will 
 engage to comply with them; provided they will allow me to prom- 
 ise him, that I will never be the wife of any other man while he re- 
 mains single, or is living: that this is a compliment I am willing 
 
 ^ Relatives of Lovelace's, known to Clarissa only through his reports. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 257 
 
 to pay him in return for the trouble and pains he has taken, and 
 the usage he has met with, on my account. 
 
 O my dear Miss Howe ! — what a sad, sad thing is the neces- 
 sity, forced upon me, for all this preparation and contrivance ! 
 — But it is now too late ! — But how ? — Too late, did I say ? — 
 What a word is that! — what a dreadful thing, were I to repent, 
 to find it to be too late to remedy the apprehended evil ! 
 
 Saturday, 10 o'clock. 
 
 Mr. Solme's is here. He is to dine with his new relations, as 
 Betty tells me he already calls them. 
 
 He would have thrown himself in my way once more : but I 
 hurried up to my prison, in my return from my garden-walk, to 
 avoid him. 
 
 Let me have your prayers, my dear ; and your approbation, 
 or your censure, of the steps I have taken : for yet it may not be 
 quite too late to revoke the appointment. I am 
 
 Your most affectionate and faithful, 
 Cl. Harlowe. 
 
 LETTER LXXXVIII 
 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Sunday morning, April 9. 
 
 I resolve then, upon the whole, to stand this one trial of 
 Wednesday next — or, perhaps, I should rather say, of Tuesday 
 evening, if my father hold his purpose, of endeavouring, in person, 
 to make me read or hear read, and then sign, the settlements. — 
 That, that must be the greatest trial of all. 
 
 If I am compelled to sign them over-night — then (the lord 
 bless me !) must all I dread follow, as of course, on Wednesday. 
 If I can prevail upon them by my prayers [perhaps I shall fall 
 into fits ; for the very first appearance of my father, after having 
 
258 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 been so long banished his presence, will greatly affect me — if, 
 I say, I can prevail upon them by my prayers] to lay aside their 
 views ; or to suspend the day, if but for one week ; if 7iot, but for 
 two or three days ; still Wednesday will be a lighter day of trial. 
 They will surely give me time to consider, to argue with myself. 
 This will not be promising. As I have made no effort to get away, 
 they have no reason to suspect me ; so I may have an oppor- 
 tunity, in the last resort, to withdraw. Mrs. Norton is to be 
 with me : she, although she should be chidden for it, will in my 
 extremity plead for me. My aunt Hervey may, in such an ex- 
 tremity, join with her. Perhaps my mother may be brought 
 over. I will kneel to each, one by one, to make a friend. Some 
 of them have been afraid to see me, lest they should be moved 
 in my favour : does not this give me a reasonable hope that I 
 may move them ? My brother's counsel, heretofore given, to 
 turn me out of doors to my evil destiny, may again be repeated, 
 and may prevail. Then shall I be in no worse case than now, as to 
 the displeasure of my friends ; and thus far better, that it will not 
 be my fault that I seek another protection : which even then 
 ought to be my cousin Morden's rather than Mr. Lovelace's, 
 or any other person's. 
 
 My heart, in short, misgives me less, when I resolve this way, 
 than when I think of the other ; and in so strong and involuntary 
 a bias, the heart is, as I may say, conscience. And well cautions 
 the wise man: "Let the counsel of thine own heart stand; for 
 there is no man more faithful to thee than it : for a man's mind 
 is sometimes wont to tell him more than seven watchmen, that 
 sit above in a high tower." ^ 
 
 Forgive these indigested self-reasonings. I will close here : 
 and instantly set about a letter of revocation to Mr. Lovelace ; 
 take it as he will. It will only be another trial of temper to him. 
 To me of infinite importance. And has he not promised temper 
 and acquiescence, on the supposition of a change in my mind ? 
 
 1 Ecclus. xxxvii. 13, 14. [Author's note.] 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 259 
 
 LETTER LXXXIX 
 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Sunday morning, (April 9.) 
 
 Nine o'clock. 
 My cousin Dolly Hervey slid the inclosed letter into my hand, 
 as I passed by her coming out of the garden. 
 
 Dearest Madam, 
 
 I HAVE got intelligence from one who pretends to know every 
 thing, that you must be married on Wednesday morning to Mr. 
 Solmes. Perhaps, however, she says this only to vex me ; for 
 it is that saucy creature Betty Barnes. A licence is got as she 
 says : and so far she went as to tell me (bidding me say nothing ; 
 but she knew I would) that Mr. Brand is to marry you ; for Dr. 
 Lewen, I hear, refuses, unless your consent can be obtained ; and 
 they have heard that he does not approve of their proceedings 
 against you. Mr. Brand, I am told, is to have his fortune made 
 by uncle Harlowe and among them. 
 
 You will know better than I what to make of all these matters ; 
 for sometimes I think Betty tells me things as if I should not tell 
 you, and yet expects that I will.^ For there is great whispering 
 between Miss Harlowe and her ; and I have observed that when 
 their whispering is over, Betty comes and tells me something by 
 way of secret. She and all the world know how much I love you : 
 and so I would have them. It is an honour to me to love a young 
 lady who is, and ever was, an honour to all her family, let them 
 say what they will. 
 
 But from a more certain authority than Betty's I can assure 
 you (but I must beg of you to burn this letter) that you are to be 
 searched once more for letters, and for pen and ink; for they 
 know you write. Something they pretend to have come at from 
 
 1 It is easy for such of the readers as have been attentive to Mr. Lovelace's manner of 
 working, to suppose, from this hint of Miss Hervey's, that he had instructed his double-faced 
 agent to put his sweetheart Betty upon alarming Miss Hervey, in hopes she would alarm her 
 beloved cousin (as we see she does,) in order to keep her steady to her appointment with him. 
 [Author's note.] 
 
26o SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 one of Mr. Lovelace's servants, which they hope to make some- 
 thing of. I know not for certain what it is. He must be a very 
 vile and wicked man, who would boast of a lady's favour to him, 
 and reveal secrets. But Mr. Lovelace, I dare say, is too much 
 of a gentleman to be guilty of such ingratitude. 
 
 Then they have a notion, from that false Betty I believe, that 
 you intend to take something to make yourself sick ; and so they 
 will search for phials and powders, and such like. 
 
 If nothing shall be found that will increase their suspicions, 
 you are to be used more kindly by your papa when you appear 
 before them all than he of late has used you. 
 
 Yet, sick, or well, alas ! my dear cousin ! you must be married. 
 But your husband is to go home every night without you till 
 you are reconciled to him. And so illness can be no pretence 
 to save you. 
 
 They are sure you will make a good wife. So would not I, 
 unless I liked my husband. And Mr. Solmes is always telHng 
 them how he will purchase your love by rich presents. — A syco- 
 phant man ! — I wish he and Betty Barnes were to come together, 
 and he would beat her every day. 
 
 After what I have told you, I need not advise you to secure 
 eyery thing you would not have seen. 
 
 Once more let me beg that you will burn this letter : and pray, 
 dearest madam, do not take any thing that may prejudice your 
 health : for that will not do. I am 
 
 Your truly loving cousin, 
 
 D. H. 
 
 LETTER XCI 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 St. Alban's, Tuesday morn, past one. 
 
 MY DEAREST FRIEND ! 
 
 After what I had resolved upon, as by my former, what shall 
 
 1 write ? What can I ? With what consciousness, even by 
 letter, do I approach you ? — You will soon hear (if already you 
 have not heard from the mouth of common fame) that your 
 Clarissa Harlowe is gone off with a man ! 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 261 
 
 my dearest friend ! — But I must make the best of it. I 
 hope that will not be very bad ! Yet am I convinced, that I did 
 a rash and inexcusable thing in meeting him ; and all his tender- 
 ness, all his vows, cannot pacify my inward reproaches on that 
 account. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest friend ! — I beseech you to love me still — 
 but alas ! what will your mother say ? — What will mine ? — 
 
 1 cannot at present tell you how, or where, you can direct to 
 me. For very early shall I leave this place ; harassed and 
 fatigued to death. Once more adieu. Pity and pray for 
 
 Your 
 
 Cl. Harlowe. 
 
 LETTER XCII 
 
 Miss Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe 
 
 Tuesday, g o'clock. 
 
 I WRITE, because you enjoin me to do so. Love you still ! — 
 How can I help it, if I would ? You may believe how I stand 
 aghast, your letter communicating the first news — good God 
 of heaven and earth ! — But what shall I say ? — I am all 
 impatience for particulars. 
 
 Let me now repeat my former advice — if you are not married 
 by this time, be sure delay not the ceremony. Since things are 
 as they are, I wish it were thought that you were privately 
 married before you went away. 
 
 I send what you write for. If there be any thing else you want 
 that is in my power, command without reserve 
 Your ever affectionate 
 
 Anna Howe. 
 
 vol. ii. letter iii 
 
 Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 Tuesday, Wed. Apr. 11, 12. 
 You claim my promise, that I will be as particular as possible, 
 in all that passes between me and my goddess. 
 
262 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 I told thee my reasons for not going in search of a letter of 
 countermand. I was right ; for if I had, I should have found 
 such a one ; and had I received it, she would not have 
 met me. 
 
 The moment I heard the door unbolt, I was sure of her. But 
 when that was followed with the presence of my charmer, flash- 
 ing upon me all at once in a flood of brightness, sweetly dressed, 
 though all unprepared for a journey, I trod air, and hardly 
 thought myself a mortal. 
 
 Expect therefore a faint sketch of her admirable person with 
 her dress. 
 
 Her wax-like flesh (for after all, flesh and blood I think she is) 
 by its delicacy and firmness, answers for the soundness of her 
 health. Thou hast often heard me launch out in praise of her 
 complexion. I never in my life beheld a skin so illustriously fair. 
 The lily and the driven snow it is nonsense to talk of : her lawn 
 and her laces one might indeed compare to those : but what a 
 whited wall would a woman appear to be, who had a complexion 
 which would justify such unnatural comparisons ? But this 
 lady is all glowing, all charming flesh and blood : yet so clear, 
 that every meandering vein is to be seen. 
 
 Thou hast heard me also describe the wavy ringlets of her 
 shining hair, needing neither art nor powder ; of itself an orna- 
 ment, defying all other ornaments : wantoning in and about a 
 neck that is beautiful beyond description. 
 
 Her head-dress was a Brussels-lace cap, peculiarly adapted to 
 the charming air and turn of her features. A sky-blue ribband 
 illustrated that. But although the weather was somewhat 
 sharp, she had not on either hat or cloakhood ; for besides that 
 she loves to use herself hardily, she seems to have intended to 
 shew me, that she was determined not to stand to her appoint- 
 ment. O Jack ! that such a sweet girl should be a rogue ! 
 
 Her gown was a pale primrose-coloured paduasoy : the cufifs 
 and robings curiously embroidered by the fingers of this ever- 
 charming Arachne, in a running pattern of violets and their 
 leaves ; the light in the flowers silver ; gold in the leaves. A 
 pair of diamond snaps in her ears. 
 
 Her ruflies were the same as her cap. Her apron a flowered 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 263 
 
 lawn. Her coat white satin, quilted : blue satin her shoes, 
 braided with the same colour, without lace ; for what need has 
 the prettiest foot in the world of ornament ? neat buckles in 
 them : and on her charming arms a pair of black velvet glove- 
 like muffs of her own invention ; for she makes and gives fashions 
 as she pleases. — Her hands velvet of themselves, thus uncovered 
 the freer to be grasped by those of her adorer. 
 
 I have told thee what were my transports, when the undrawn 
 bolt presented to me my long-expected goddess. — Her emotions 
 were more sweetly feminine, after the first moments ; for then 
 the fire of her starry eyes began to sink into a less dazzling lan- 
 guor. She trembled : nor knew she how to support the agita- 
 tions of a heart she had never found so ungovernable. She was 
 even fainting, when I clasped her in my supporting arms. What 
 a precious moment that ! How near, how sweetly near the 
 throbbing partners ! 
 
 By her dress, I saw, as I observed before, how unprepared she 
 was for a journey ; and not doubting her intention once more to 
 disappoint me, I would have drawn her after me. Then began 
 a contention the most vehement that ever I had with woman. 
 It would pain thy friendly heart to be told the infinite trouble 
 I had with her. I begged, I prayed, on my knees, yet in vain, 
 I begged and prayed her to answer her own appointment : and 
 had I not happily provided for such a struggle, knowing whom 
 I had to deal with, I had certainly failed in my design ; and 
 as certainly would have accompanied her in, without thee and 
 thy brethren : and who knows what might have been the 
 consequence ? 
 
 But my honest agent answering my signal, though not quite so 
 soon as I expected, in the manner thou knowest I had prescribed, 
 They are coming ! they are coming ! — Fly, fly, my beloved 
 creature, cried I, drawing my sword with a flourish, as if I would 
 have slain half an hundred of the supposed intruders : and, seiz- 
 ing her trembling hands, I drew her after me so swiftly, that my 
 feet, winged by love, could hardly keep pace with her feet, agi- 
 tated by fear. — And so I became her emperor. 
 
 I'll tell thee all, when I see thee : and thou shalt then judge 
 of my difficulties, and of her perverseness. And thou wilt rejoice 
 
264 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 with me at my conquest over such a watchful and open-eyed 
 charmer. 
 
 But seest thou not now (as I think I do) the wind-outstripping 
 fair one flying from her love to her love ? Is there not such a 
 game ? — Nay, flying from friends she was resolved not to 
 abandon, to the man she was determined not to go off with ? — ■ 
 The sex ! the sex, all over ! — Charming contradiction ! — Hah, 
 hah, hah, hah ! — I must here — I must here, lay down my pen, 
 to hold my sides : for I must have my laugh out now the fit is 
 upon me. 
 
 LETTER LIX 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Wednesday afternoon, April 26. 
 
 At length, my dearest Miss Howe, I am in London, and in 
 my new lodgings. They are neatly furnished, and the situation, 
 for the town, is pleasant. 
 
 But, I think you must not ask me, how I like the old gentle- 
 woman. Yet she seems courteous and obliging. Her kins- 
 women just appeared to welcome me at my alighting. They 
 seem to be genteel young women. But more of their aunt and 
 of them, as I shall see more. 
 
 Here I was broke in upon by Mr. Lovelace ; introducing the 
 widow leading in a kinswoman of hers to attend me, if I approved 
 of her, till my Hannah should come, or till I had provided myself 
 with some other servant. The widow gave her many good 
 qualities ; but said, that she had one great defect ; which was, 
 that she could not write, nor read writing ; that part of her 
 education having been neglected when she was young. 
 
 As for her defect, I can easily forgive that. She is very likely 
 and genteel ; too genteel indeed, I think, for a servant. But, 
 what I like least of all in her, she has a strange sly eye. I never 
 saw such an eye — half-confident, I think. But indeed Mrs. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 265 
 
 Sinclair herself (for that is the widow's name,) has an odd wink- 
 ing eye; and her respectfulness seems too much studied, me- 
 thinks, for the London ease and freedom. But people can't 
 help their looks, you know ; and after all, she is extremely civil 
 and obliging. And as for the young woman, (Dorcas is her 
 name) she will not be long with me. 
 
 I accepted her : how could I do otherwise ? But upon their 
 leaving me, I told him (who seemed inclinable to begin a con- 
 versation with me) that I desired that this apartment might 
 be considered as my retirement : that when I saw him it might 
 be in the dining-room. He withdrew very respectfully to the 
 door; but there stopt. 
 
 I see he has no mind to leave me, if he can help it. 
 
 My approbation of his tender behaviour in the midst of my 
 grief has given him a right, as he seems to think, of addressing me 
 with all the freedom of an approved lover. 
 
 While we were talking at the door, my new servant came up, 
 with an invitation to us both to tea. I said he might accept of 
 it, if he pleased ; but I desired him to make my excuses below, 
 and inform them of my choice to be retired as much as possible : 
 yet to promise for me my attendance on the widow and her 
 nieces at breakfast in the morning. 
 
 LETTER XCII 
 
 Miss Howe to Miss Clarissa Harlowe 
 
 Thursday, May 18. 
 
 I HAVE neither time nor patience, my dear friend, to answer 
 every material article in your last letters just now received. Mr. 
 Lovelace's proposals are all I like of him. And yet (as you do) 
 I think that he concludes them not with that warmth and ear- 
 nestness which we might naturally have expected from him. 
 Never in my life did I hear or read of so patient a man, with such 
 a blessing in his reach. 
 
 He to suggest delay from a compliment to be made to Lord M.^ 
 and to give time for settlements ! He, a part of whose character 
 
 ^ Lovelace's uncle. 
 
266 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 it is, not to know what complaisance to his relations is — I 
 have no patience with him ! 
 
 Would to heaven to-morrow, without complimenting any body, 
 might be his happy day ! — Villain ! After he had himself sug- 
 gested the compliment ! — And I think he accuses you of delay- 
 ing ! — Fellow, that he is — How my heart is wrung ! — 
 
 Yet once more, I say I can have no notion that he can or dare 
 to mean you dishonour. But then the man is a fool, my dear 
 — that's all. 
 
 However, since you are thrown upon a fool, marry the fool, 
 at the first opportunity ; and though I doubt that this man will 
 be the most ungovernable of fools, as all witty and vain fools 
 are, take him as a punishment, since you cannot as a reward : 
 in short, as one given to convince you that there is nothing but 
 imperfection in this life. 
 
 And what is the result of all I have written, but this ? Either 
 marry, my dear, or get from them all, and from him too. 
 
 I shall be impatient till I have your next. I am, my dearest 
 friend, 
 
 Your ever affectionate and faithful 
 Anna Howe. 
 
 LETTER CV 
 Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 Monday morning, May 22. 
 
 No generosity in this lady. None at all. Wouldst thou not 
 have thought, that after I had permitted her to withdraw, 
 primed for mischief as I was, she would meet me next morning 
 early ; and that with a smile ; making me one of her best 
 courtesies ? 
 
 I was in the dining-room before six, expecting her. She opened 
 not her door. I went up stairs and down ; and hemmed ; and 
 called Will ; called Dorcas ; threw the doors hard to ; but still 
 she opened not her door. Thus till half an hour after eight 
 fooled I away my time ; and then (breakfast ready) I sent 
 Dorcas to request her company. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 267 
 
 But I was astonished, when (following the wench, as she did 
 at the first invitation) I saw her enter dressed, all but her gloves, 
 and those and her fan in her hand : in the same moment bidding 
 Dorcas direct Will to get a chair to the door. 
 
 Cruel creature, thought I, to expose me thus to the derision 
 of the women below ! 
 
 Going abroad, madam ? 
 
 I am, sir. 
 
 I looked cursed silly, I am sure. You will breakfast first, I 
 hope, madam ; in a very humble strain ; yet with a hundred 
 tenter-hooks in my heart. 
 
 Had she given me more notice of her intention, I had perhaps 
 wrought myself up to the frame I was in the day before, and 
 begun my vengeance. And immediately came into my head all 
 the virulence that had been transcribed for me from Miss Howe's 
 letters, and in that letter which I had transcribed myself. 
 
 Yes, she would drink one dish ; and then laid her gloves and 
 fan in the window, just by. 
 
 I was perfectly disconcerted. I hemmed, and was going to 
 speak several times ; but I knew not in what key. Who's 
 modest now ! thought I. Who's insolent now ! — How a tyrant 
 of a woman confounds a bashful man ! She was acting Miss 
 Howe, I thought ; and I the spiritless Hickman. 
 
 At last, I will begin, thought I. 
 
 She a dish — la dish. 
 
 Sip, her eyes her own, she ; like an haughty and imperious 
 sovereign, conscious of dignity, every look a favour. 
 
 Sip, like her vassal, I ; lips and hands trembling, and not 
 knowing that I sipped or tasted. 
 
 I was — I was — I sip'd — (drawing in my breath and the 
 liquor together, though I scalded my mouth with it) I was in 
 hopes, madam — 
 
 Dorcas came in just then. — Dorcas, said she, is a chair gone 
 for? 
 
 D — n'd impertinence, thought I, thus to put me out in my 
 speech ; and I was forced to wait for the servant's answer to the 
 insolent mistress's question. 
 
 William is gone for one, madam. 
 
268 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 This cost me a minute's silence before I could begin again. 
 And then it was with my hopes, and my hopes, and my hopes, 
 that I should have been early admitted to — 
 
 What weather is it, Dorcas ? said she, as regardless of me as 
 if I had not been present. 
 
 A little lowering, madam — the sun is gone in — it was very 
 fine half an hour ago. 
 
 I had no patience. Up I rose. Down went the tea-cup, 
 saucer and all — Confound the weather, the sunshine, and the 
 wench ! — Be gone for a devil, when I am speaking to your 
 lady, and have so little opportunity given me. 
 
 Up rose the saucy-face, half-frighted ; and snatched from the 
 window her gloves and fan. 
 
 You must not go, madam ; — Seizing her hand — By my 
 soul you must not — 
 
 Must not J sir ! — But I must — you can curse your maid in 
 my absence as well as if I were present — except — except — 
 you intend for me what you direct to her. 
 
 Dearest creature, you must not go — you must not leave me 
 — such determined scorn ! such contempts ! — Questions asked 
 your servant of no meaning but to break in upon me — I cannot 
 bear it ! 
 
 Detain me not, struggling. I will not be withheld. I like 
 you not, nor your ways. You sought to quarrel with me yester- 
 day, for no reason in the world that I can think of hut because I 
 was too obliging. You are an ingrateful man ; and I hate you 
 with my whole heart, Mr. Lovelace. 
 
 Do not make me desperate, madam. Permit me to say, that 
 you shall not leave me in this humour. Wherever you go I will 
 attend you. 
 
 She would have flung from me : I will 7iot be detained, Mr. 
 Lovelace. I will go out. 
 
 Indeed you must not, madam, in this humour. And I placed 
 myself between her and the door. — ■ And then, fanning, she, 
 threw herself into a chair, her sweet face all crimsoned over with 
 passion. 
 
 I cast myself at her feet. Begone, Mr. Lovelace, said she, 
 with a rejecting motion, her fan in her hand ; for your own sake 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 269 
 
 leave me ! — My soul is above thee, man ! with both her hands 
 pushing me from her ! — Urge me not to tell thee how sincerely 
 I think my soul above thee ! — Thou hast in mine, a proud, a 
 too proud heart, to contend with ! — Leave me, and leave me 
 for ever ! — Thou hast a proud heart to contend with ! — 
 
 Her air, her manner, her voice, were bewitchingly noble, 
 though her words were so severe. 
 
 Let me worship an angel, said I, no woman. Forgive me, 
 dearest creature ! — Creature if you be, forgive me ! — Forgive 
 my inadvertencies ! Forgive my inequalities ! — Pity my in- 
 firmities ! — Who is equal to my Clarissa ? 
 
 I trembled between admiration and love ; and wrapt my 
 arms about her knees as she sat. She tried to rise at the moment ; 
 but my clasping round her thus ardently, drew her down again ; 
 and never was woman more affrighted. But, free as my clasping 
 emotion might appear to her apprehensive heart, I had not at 
 that instant any thought but what reverence inspired. And till 
 she had actually withdrawn [which I permitted under promise 
 of a speedy return, and on her consent to dismiss the chair] all 
 the motions of my heart were as pure as her own. 
 
 VOL. III. LETTER XLI 
 Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 Monday afternoon. 
 
 Pity me, Jack, for pity's sake ; since, if thou dost not, nobody 
 else will. 
 
 She began with me like a true woman [she in the fault, / to 
 be blamed] the moment I entered the dining-room ; not the least 
 apology, not the least excuse, for the uproar she had made, 
 and the trouble she had given me. 
 
 I come, said she, into thy detested presence, because I cannot 
 help it. But why am I to be imprisoned here ? Although to 
 no purpose, I cannot help 
 
 Dearest madam, interrupted I, give not way to so much vio- 
 lence. You must know, that your detention is entirely owing 
 to the desire I have to make you all the amends that is in my 
 power to make you. And this, as well for your sake as my own. 
 
270 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 — Surely there is still one way left to repair the wrongs you have 
 suffered — 
 
 Canst thou blot out the past week ! Several weeks past, I 
 should say ; ever since I have been with thee ? Canst thou call 
 back time ? — If thou canst — 
 
 Surely, madam, again interrupting her, if I may be permitted 
 to call you legally mine, I might have but anticip 
 
 Wretch, that thou art ! Say not another word upon this sub- 
 ject. When thou vowedst, when thou promisedst at Hampstead,^ 
 I had begun to think that I must be thine. If I had consented, 
 at the request of those I thought thy relations, this would have 
 been a principal inducement, that I could then have brought 
 thee, what was most wanted, an unsullied honour in dowry, to 
 a wretch destitute of all honour ; and could have met the congrat- 
 ulations of a family to which thy life has been one continued 
 disgrace, with a consciousness of deserving their gratulations. 
 But "Great and good God of Heaven, said she, give me patience 
 to support myself under the weight of those afflictions, which 
 thou, for wise and good ends, though at present impenetrable by 
 me, hast permitted !" 
 
 Then, turning towards me, who knew neither what to say to 
 her, nor for myself, I renounce thee for ever, Lovelace ! — 
 Abhorred of my soul ! for ever I renounce thee ! — Seek thy for- 
 tunes wheresoever thou wilt ! — 
 
 Hinder me not from going whither my mysterious destiny shall 
 lead me. 
 
 What right have you to stop me, as you lately did ; and to 
 bring me up by force, my hands and arms bruised with your vio- 
 lence ? What right have you to detain me here ? 
 
 I am cut to the heart, madam, with invectives so violent. I 
 am but too sensible of the wrong I have done you, or I could not 
 hear your reproaches. Yet, if you think yourself in my power, 
 I would caution you, madam, not to make me desperate. For 
 you shall be mine, or my life shall be the forfeit ! Nor is life 
 worth having without you ! 
 
 1 Some weeks before the interview described in this letter Clarissa had escaped from 
 the London house and found shelter at Hampstead. Lovelace had pursued her here, and 
 had brought her back to London under false pretenses. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 271 
 
 Be thine I — I be thine ! — said the passionate beauty. O 
 how lovely in her violence ! 
 
 Yes, madam, be mine ! — I repeat, you shall be mine ! — My 
 very crime is your glory. My love, my admiration of you is 
 increased by what has passed. I am willing, madam, to court 
 your returning favour : but let me tell you, were the house beset 
 by a thousand armed men, resolved to take you from me, they, 
 should not effect their purpose, while I had life. 
 
 I never, never will be yours, said she, clasping her hands to- 
 gether, and lifting up her eyes ! — I never will be yours ! 
 
 We may yet see many happy years, madam. Enjoin but the 
 terms I can make my peace with you upon, and I will instantly 
 comply. 
 
 Never, never, repeated she, will I be yours ! 
 
 Only forgive me, my dearest life, this one time ! — 
 
 Hear me out, I beseech you, madam ; for she was going to 
 speak : the God, whom you serve, requires but repentance and 
 amendment. Imitate him, my dearest love, and bless me with 
 the means of reforming a course of life, that begins to be 
 hateful to me. And let to-morrow's sun witness to our 
 espousals. 
 
 / cannot judge thee, said she ; but the God to whom thou so 
 boldly referrest, can ; and assure thyself he will. But, if indeed 
 thou art touched for thy ungrateful baseness, and meanest any 
 thing by pleading the holy example thou recommendest to my 
 imitation ; in this thy pretended repentant moment, let me sift 
 thee thoroughly ; and by thy answer I shall judge of the sincer- 
 ity of thy pretended declarations. 
 
 Let me ask thee next, said she (thou knowest the opinion I 
 have of the women thou broughtest to me at Hampstead ; and 
 who have seduced me hither to my ruin ; let me ask thee) if, 
 really and truly, they were Lady Betty Lawrence and thy cousin 
 Montague ? 
 
 Astonishing, my dear, that you should suspect them ! — 
 But, knowing your strange opinion of them, what can I say to 
 be believed ? 
 
272 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 Dost thou thus evade my question ? Let me know, I repeat, 
 whether those women be really lady Betty Lawrence and thy 
 cousin Montague? 
 
 Let me, my dearest love, be enabled to-morrow to call you 
 lawfully mine, and we will set out the next day, if you please, 
 for Berkshire, to my Lord M.'s, where they both are at this 
 time ; and you shall convince yourself by your own eyes, and 
 by your own ears ; which you will believe sooner than all I 
 can say or swear. 
 
 Now, Belford, she pressing me still for a categorical answer, 
 I swore to it [lovers^ oaths, Jack /] that they were really and truly 
 Lady Betty Lawrence and my cousin Montague. 
 
 She lifted up her hands and eyes — what can I think ! — What 
 can I think ! — 
 
 You think me a devil, madam ; a very devil ! or you could not, 
 after you have put these questions to me, seem to doubt the truth 
 of answers so solemnly sworn to. 
 
 And if I do think thee so, have I not cause ? Is there another 
 man in the world who could act by any poor friendless creature 
 as thou hast acted by me, whom thou hast 7nade friendless — 
 and who, before I knew thee, had for a friend every one who 
 knew me ? 
 
 A horrid dear creature ! — By my soul, she made me shudder ! 
 She had need indeed to talk of her unhappiness in falling into the 
 hands of the only man in the world, who could have used her, as 
 I have used her — she is the only woman in the world, who could 
 have shocked and disturbed me, as she has done. — So we are 
 upon a foot in that respect. And I think I have the worst of it 
 by much : since very Httle has been my joy ; very much my 
 trouble : and her punishment, as she calls it, is over : but when 
 mine will, or what it may he, who can tell ? 
 
 What a devil ails me ! — I can neither think nor write ! 
 Lie down, pen, for a moment ! 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 273 
 
 LETTER LVI 
 
 Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 Friday night, or rather Sat. morn, i o'clock. 
 
 I AM most confoundedly out of humour. The reason let it 
 follow ; if it will follow — no preparation for it from me. 
 
 I tried by gentleness and love to soften — what ? — marble. 
 A heart incapable either of love or gentleness. Her past inju- 
 ries for ever in her head. 
 
 I then wanted to provoke her : like a coward boy, who waits 
 for the first blow before he can persuade himself to fight. She 
 seemed aware of her danger : and would not directly brave my 
 resentment. 
 
 In this situation ; the women ready to assist ; and, if I pro- 
 ceeded not, as ready to ridicule me ; what had I left me, but to 
 pursue the concerted scheme. 
 
 If you must have it all, you must ! 
 
 Now, Belford, see us all sitting in judgment, resolved to 
 punish the fair briberess — I, and the mother, the hitherto 
 dreaded mother, the nieces Sally, Polly, the traiteress Dorcas, and 
 Mabell,^ a guard, as it were, over Dorcas, that she might not 
 run away, and hide herself : all pre-determined, and of necessity 
 pre-determined, from the journey I was going to take, and my 
 precarious situation with her — and hear her unbolt, unlock, 
 unbar the door ; then, as it proved afterwards, put the key into 
 the lock on the outside, lock the door, and put it in her pocket 
 — Will, I knew, below, who would give me notice, if, while we 
 were all above, she should mistake her way, and go down stairs, 
 instead of coming into the dining-room : the street doors also 
 doubly secured, and every shutter to the windows round the 
 house fastened, that no noise or screaming should be heard [such 
 was the brutal preparation !] — And then hear her step towards 
 us, and instantly see her enter among us, confiding in her own 
 innocence ; and with a majesty in her person and manner, that 
 
 1 Women in the house where Clarissa was confined. 
 
274 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 is natural to her ; but which then shone out in all its glory ; — 
 Every tongue silent, every eye awed, every heart quaking, mine, 
 in a particular manner, sunk throbless, and twice below its 
 usual region, to once at my throat : — a shameful recreant ! — 
 She silent too, looking round her, first on me ; then on the 
 mother, as no longer fearing her ! then on Sally, Polly, and the 
 culprit Dorcas ! — Such the glorious power of innocence exerted 
 at that awful moment ! 
 
 She would have spoken, but could not, looking down my guilt 
 into confusion. A mouse might have been heard passing over 
 the floor : her own light feet and rustling silks could not have 
 prevented it ; for she seemed to tread air, and to be all soul. 
 She passed backwards and forwards, now towards me, now 
 towards the door several times, before speech could get the better 
 of indignation ; and at last, after twice or thrice hemming to 
 recover her articulate voice — ^"O thou contemptible and 
 abandoned Lovelace ! thinkest thou that I see not through this 
 poor villainous plot of thine, and of these thy wicked accompHces ? 
 
 "Thou, woman, [looking at the mother] once my terror! 
 always my dislike ; but now my detestation ! shouldst once more 
 (for thine perhaps was the preparation) have provided for me 
 intoxicating potions to rob me of my senses — 
 
 ''And then, thou wretch, [turning to me] mightest more securely 
 have depended upon such a low contrivance as this ! 
 
 "And ye, vile women, who perhaps have been the ruin, body 
 and soul, of hundreds of innocents, (you shew me how, in full 
 assembly) know, that I am not married — ruined as I am, by 
 your help, I bless God, I am not married to this miscreant — 
 and I have friends that will demand my honour at your hands ! 
 — And to whose authority I will apply ; for none has this man 
 over me. Look to it then, what further insults you offer me, or 
 incite him to offer me. I am a person, though thus vilely be- 
 trayed, of rank and fortune. I never will be his ; and, to your 
 utter ruin, will find friends to pursue you : and now I have this 
 full proof of your detestable wickedness, and have heard your 
 base incitements, will have no mercy upon you !" 
 
 They could not laugh at the poor figure I made. Lord ! how 
 every devil, conscience-shaken, trembled ! — 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 275 
 
 What a dejection must ever fall to the lot of guilt, were it 
 given to innocence always thus to exert itself ! — 
 
 "And as for thee, thou vile Dorcas; thou double deceiver — 
 whining out thy pretended love for me ! — Begone, wretch ! — 
 Nobody will hurt thee ! — Begone, I say ! — Thou hast too well 
 acted thy part to be blamed by any here, but myself — thou art 
 safe : thy guilt is thy security in such a house as this ! — Thy 
 shameful, thy poor part, thou hast as well acted, as the low farce 
 could give thee to act ! — as well as they each of them (thy 
 superiors, though not thy betters) thou seest can act theirs. 
 — Steal away into darkness : no inquiry after this will be made, 
 whose the first advances, thine or mine." 
 
 And, as I hope to live, the wench, confoundedly frightened, 
 slunk away ; so did her sentinel Mabell ; though I, endeavour- 
 ing to rally, cried out for Dorcas to stay — but I believe the devil 
 could not have stopt her, when an angel bid her begone. 
 
 Madam, said I, let me tell you ; and was advancing towards her 
 with a fierce aspect, most cursedly vexed, and ashamed too 
 
 But she turned to me ; " Stop where thou art, O vilest and most 
 abandoned of men ! — Stop where thou art ! — Nor, with that 
 determined face, offer to touch me, if thou wouldst not that I 
 should be a corpse at thy feet !" 
 
 To my astonishment, she held forth a penknife in her hand, 
 the point to her own bosom, grasping resolutely the whole 
 handle, so that there was no offering to take it from her. 
 
 "I offer not mischief to any body but myself. You, sir, and 
 ye women, are safe from every violence of mine. The law shall 
 be all my resource : the LAW," and she spoke the word with 
 emphasis, that to such people carries natural terror with it, and 
 now struck a panic into them. 
 
 No wonder, since those who will damn themselves to procure 
 ease and plenty in this world, will tremble at everything that 
 seems to threaten their methods of obtaining that ease and 
 plenty. — 
 
 The LAW only shall be my refuge ! — 
 
 The infamous mother whispered me, that it were better to 
 make terms with this strange lady, and let her go. 
 
 Sally, notwithstanding all her impudent bravery at other 
 
276 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 times, said, // Mr. Lovelace had told them what was not true of 
 her being his wife — 
 
 And Polly Horton, that she must needs say, the lady, if she 
 were not my wife, had been very much injured ; that was all. 
 
 That is not now a matter to be disputed, cried I : you and I 
 know, madam 
 
 "We do, — said she ; and I thank God, I am not thine — once 
 more I thank God for it — I have no doubt of the further base- 
 ness that thou hast intended me, by this vile and low trick : 
 but I have my senses, Lovelace : and from my heart I despise 
 thee, thou very poor Lovelace ! — How canst thou stand in my 
 presence? thou, that" — 
 
 Madam, madam, madam — these are insults not to be borne 
 — and was approaching her. 
 
 She withdrew to the door, and set her back against it, hold- 
 ing the pointed knife to her heaving bosom ; while the women 
 held me, beseeching me not to provoke the violent lady — for 
 their house sake, and be curs'd to them, they besought me — • 
 and all three hung upon me — while the truly heroic lady, 
 braved me, at that distance. 
 
 "Approach me,' Lovelace, with resentment, if thou wilt. I 
 dare die. It is in defence of my honour. God will be merciful 
 to my poor soul ! I expect no mercy from thee ! I have gained 
 this distance, and two steps nearer me, and thou shalt see what 
 I dare do!" — 
 
 Leave me, women, to myself, and to my angel ; — They re- 
 tired at a distance — O my beloved creature, how you terrify 
 me ! — Holding out my arms, and kneeling on one knee — Not 
 a step, not a step further, except to receive my death at that 
 injured hand which is thus held up against a Hfe far dearer to me 
 than my own ! I am a villain ! the blackest of villains — Say 
 you will sheath your knife in the injurer's, not the injured's 
 heart, and then I will indeed approach you, but not else. 
 
 The mother twang'd her d — n'd nose ; and Sally and Polly 
 pulled out their handkerchiefs, and turned from us. They never 
 in their lives, they told me afterwards, beheld such a scene ■ 
 
 Innocence so triumphant: villainy so debased, they must 
 
 mean 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 277 
 
 Unawares to myself, I had moved onward to my angel ; — • 
 "And dost thou, dost thou, still disclaiming, still advancing — • 
 dost thou, dost thou, still insidiously move towards me?" [and 
 her hand was extended] ''I dare — I dare — not rashly neither 
 — ■ my heart from principle abhors the act, which thou makest 
 necessary! — ■ God in thy mercy ; [lifting up her eyes and hands] 
 God, in thy mercy ! — " 
 
 I threw myself to the further end of the room. An ejacula- 
 tion, a silent ejaculation employing her thoughts that moment ! 
 Polly says the whites of her lovely eyes were only visible : and, 
 in the instant that she extended her hand, assuredly to strike the 
 fatal blow [how the very recital terrifies me !] she cast her eye 
 towards me, and saw me, at the utmost distance the room would 
 allow, and heard my broken voice — my voice was utterly 
 broken ; nor knew I what I said, or whether to the purpose or 
 not — and her charming cheeks, that were all in a glow before, 
 turned pale, as if terrified at her own purpose ; and, lifting up her 
 eyes — "Thank God ! — Thank God ! said the angel — delivered 
 for the present; for the present delivered — • from myself — keep, 
 sir, keep that distance," [looking down towards me, who was 
 prostrate on the floor, my heart pierced, as with a hundred 
 daggers:] "that distance has saved a Hf e : to what reserved, 
 the Almighty only knows !" — 
 
 To be happy, madam ; and to make happy ! — And O let me 
 but hope for your favour for to-morrow — I will put off my 
 journey till then — and may God — 
 
 Swear not, sir ! — with an awful and piercing aspect — you 
 have too, too often sworn ! — God's eye is upon us ! — His more 
 immediate eye ; and looked wildly. — But the women looked up 
 to the ceiling, as if afraid of God's eye, and trembled. And well 
 they might ; and / too, who so very lately had each of us the 
 devil in our hearts. 
 
 If not to-morrow, madam, say but next Thursday, your 
 uncle's birth-day, say but next Thursday ! 
 
 "This I say, of this you may assure yourself, I never, never 
 will be yours. — And let me hope, that I may be entitled to the 
 performance of your promise, to be permitted to leave this 
 innocent house, as one called it (but long have my ears been 
 
278 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 accustomed to such inversions of words) as soon as the day 
 breaks." 
 
 Did my perdition depend upon it, that you cannot, madam, but 
 upon terms. And I hope you will not terrify me — still dreading 
 the accursed knife. 
 
 "Nothing less than an attempt upon my honour shall make 
 me desperate. I have no view but to defend my honour : with 
 such a view only I entered into treaty with your infamous agent 
 below. The resolution you have seen, I trust, God will give 
 me again, upon the same occasion. But for a less, I wish not 
 for it. — Only take notice, women, that I am no wife of this 
 man: basely as he has used me, I am not his wife. He has no 
 authority over me. If he go away by and by, and you act by 
 his authority to detain me, look to it. 
 
 Then, taking one of the lights, she turned from us ; and away 
 she went unmolested. — Not a soul was able to molest her. 
 
 Mabell saw her, tremblingly, and in a hurry, take the key of 
 her chamber-door out of her pocket, and unlock it ; and, as soon 
 as she entered, heard her double-lock, bar, and bolt it. 
 
 This, this Belford, was the hand I made of a contrivance from 
 which I expected so much ! — And now I am ten times worse off 
 than before. 
 
 LETTER CV 
 Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 M. Hall, Sat. night, July 15. 
 
 All undone, undone by Jupiter ! — Zounds, Jack, what shall 
 I do now ! A curse upon all my plots and contrivances ! 
 
 The moment thou receivest this, I bespeak thy assistance. 
 This messenger rides for hfe and death — 
 
 This cursed, cursed woman, ^ on Friday dispatched man and 
 horse with the joyful news that she had found out my angel ; ^ 
 
 1 Mrs. Sinclair, in whose keeping Clarissa had been since she came to London. 
 ^ Clarissa had escaped a second time, and had taken lodgings with a Mrs. Smith, in 
 Covent Garden. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 279 
 
 and on Friday morning, after she had been at prayers at Covent 
 Garden church — praying for my reformation perhaps — got 
 her arrested by two sheriff's officers, as she was returning to her 
 lodgings, who (villains !) put her into a chair they had in readi- 
 ness, and carried her to one of the cursed fellow's houses. 
 
 She has arrested her for 150/. pretendedly due for board and 
 lodging. 
 
 And here, has the dear creature lain already two days. 
 
 Hasten,' hasten, dear Jack, to the injured charmer ! — she 
 deserved not this ! 
 
 Set her free the moment you see her : — On your knees, for 
 me, beg her pardon : — only let her permit you to receive her 
 commands. 
 
 Let her have all her clothes and effects sent her instantly, as 
 a small proof of my sincerity. And force upon the dear creature, 
 who must be moneyless, what sums you can get her to take. 
 
 A line ! a line ! a kingdom for a line ! with tolerable news, the 
 first moment thou canst write ! — This fellow waits to bring it. 
 
 LETTER CIX 
 Mr. Belford to Robert Lovelace, Esq. 
 
 Monday, Jiily 17. 
 
 About six this morning I went to Rowland's.^ Mrs. Sinclair 
 was to follow me, in order to dismiss the action ; but not to come 
 in sight. 
 
 Rowland, upon inquiry, told me that the lady was extremely 
 ill ; and that she had desired, that no one but his wife or maid 
 should come near her. 
 
 I said, I must see her. 
 
 His wife went up : but returned presently, saying, she could 
 not get her to speak to her ; yet that her eyelids moved. 
 
 Oons, woman, said I, the lady may be in a fit : the lady may 
 be dying — let me go up. Shew me the way. 
 
 A horrid hole of a house, in an alley they call a court ; stairs 
 wretchedly narrow, even to the first floor rooms : and into a 
 
 1 Where Clarissa was Imprisoned for debt. 
 
28o SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 den they led me, with broken walls, which had been papered, as 
 I saw by a multitude of tacks, and some torn bits held on by the 
 rusty heads. 
 
 The floor indeed was clean, but the ceiHng was smoked with 
 variety of figures, and initials of names, that had been the woe- 
 ful employment of wretches who had no other way to amuse 
 themselves. 
 
 A bed at one corner, with coarse curtains tacked up at the feet 
 to the ceiling ; because the curtain-rings were broken off ; but 
 a coverlid upon it with a cleanish look, though plaguily in tat- 
 ters, and the corners tied up in tassels, that the rents in it might 
 go no further. 
 
 The windows dark and double-barred, the tops boarded up 
 to save mending ; and only a little four-paned eyelet-hole of a 
 casement to let in the air ; more, however, coming in at broken 
 panes, than could come in at that. 
 
 Four old Turkey-worked chairs, bursten-bottomed, the stuf- 
 fing staring out. 
 
 An old, tottering, worm-eaten table, that had more nails 
 bestowed in mending it to make it stand, than the table cost 
 fifty years ago, when new. 
 
 On the mantle-piece was an iron shove-up candlestick, with a 
 lighted candle in it, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, four of them, I 
 suppose, for a penny. 
 
 Near that, on the same shelf, was an old looking glass, cracked 
 through the middle, breaking out into a thousand points ; the 
 crack given it, perhaps, in a rage, by some poor creature, to 
 whom it gave the representation of his heart's woes in his face. 
 
 The chimney had two half tiles in it on one side, and one whole 
 one on the other ; which shewed it had been in better plight ; 
 but now the very mortar had followed the rest of the tiles in 
 every other place, and left the bricks bare. 
 
 An old half -barred stove-grate was in the chimney ; and in 
 that a large stone bottle without a neck, filled with baleful yew, 
 as an evergreen, withered southern-wood, dead sweet-briar, and 
 sprigs of rue in flower. 
 
 To finish the shocking description, in a dark nook stood an 
 old broken-bottomed cane couch, without a squab, or coverlid, 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 281 
 
 sunk at one corner, and unmortised by the failing of one of its 
 worm-eaten legs, which lay in two pieces under the wretched 
 piece of furniture it could no longer support. 
 
 And this, thou horrid Lovelace, was the bedchamber of the divine 
 Clarissa ! ! ! 
 
 I had leisure to cast my eye on these things : for, going up 
 softly, the poor lady turned not about at our entrance ; nor, till 
 I spoke, moved her head. 
 
 She was kneeUng in a corner of the room, near the dismal 
 window, against the table, on an old bolster (as it seemed to 
 be) of the cane couch, half-covered with her handkerchief ; her 
 back to the door ; which was only shut to, [no need of fasten- 
 ings !] her arms crossed upon the table, the fore-finger of her 
 right hand in her Bible. She had perhaps been reading in it, 
 and could read no longer. Paper, pens, ink, lay by her book on 
 the table. Her dress was white lustring, exceeding neat. 
 
 When I surveyed the room around, and the kneeling lady, 
 sunk with majesty too in her white flowing robes, (for she had 
 not on a hoop) spreading the dark, though not dirty, floor, and 
 illuminating that horrid corner, something rose in my throat, 
 I know not what. Con — Con — confound you both, said I, 
 to the man and woman, is this an apartment for such a lady ? 
 
 Sir, we would have had the lady to accept of our own bed- 
 chamber : but she refused it. We are poor people — and we 
 expect nobody will stay with us longer than they can help it. 
 
 Up then raised the charming sufferer her lovely face; but 
 with such a significance of woe overspreading it, that I could 
 not, for the soul of me, help being visibly affected. 
 
 I dare not approach you, dearest lady, without your leave : 
 but on my knees I beseech you to permit me to release you from 
 this d — n'd house, and out of the power of the accursed woman, 
 who was the occasion of your being here ! 
 
 She Hfted up her sweet face once more, and beheld me on my 
 knees. 
 
 Are you not — are you not Mr. Belford, sir ! I think your 
 name is Belford ? 
 
282 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 It is, madam, and I ever was a worshipper of your virtues, and 
 an advocate for you ; and I come to release you from the hands 
 you are in. 
 
 This moment, dearest lady, this very moment, if you please, 
 you may depart. You are absolutely free, and your own mis- 
 tress. 
 
 I had now as lieve die here in this place, as any where. I will 
 owe no obligation to any friend of him in whose company you 
 have seen me. So, pray, sir, withdraw. 
 
 I sent up again, by Rowland's wife, when I heard that the lady 
 was recovered, beseeching her to quit that devilish place ; and 
 the woman assured her, that she was at full liberty to do so ; 
 for that the action was dismissed. 
 
 Being told, that she desired not to be disturbed, I took this 
 opportunity to go to her lodgings in Covent Garden. 
 
 The man's name is Smith, a dealer in gloves, and petty mer- 
 chandise. Honest people, it seems. 
 
 I talked with the man, and told him what had befallen the 
 lady ; owing, as I said, to a mistake of orders ; and gave her the 
 character she deserved. 
 
 He told me, that a letter was left for her there on Saturday ; 
 and, about half an hour before I came, another, superscribed by 
 the same hand ; the first, by the post ; the other, by a country- 
 man. 
 
 I thought it right to take the two letters back with me ; and 
 dismissing my coach, took a chair, as a more proper vehicle for 
 the lady, if I (the friend of her destroyer) could prevail upon her 
 to leave Rowland's. 
 
 She gave the maid something ; probably the only half-guinea 
 she had : and then with difficulty, her hmbs trembhng under 
 her, and supported by Mrs. Rowland, got down stairs. 
 
 I offered my arm : she was pleased to lean upon it. 
 
 I ordered my servant (whose mourning made him less observ- 
 able as such, and who had not been in the lady's eye) to keep 
 the chair in view ; and to bring me word how she did when set 
 down. The fellow had the thought to step to the shop, just 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 283 
 
 before the chair entered it, under the pretence of buying snuff ; 
 and so enabled himself to give me an account, that she was 
 received with great joy by the good woman of the house ; who 
 told her, she was but just come in : and was preparing to attend 
 her in High Holborn. — - O Mrs. Smith, said she, as soon as she 
 saw her, did you not think I was run away ? — ■ You don't know 
 what I have suffered since I saw you. I have been in a prison ! 
 — Arrested for debts I owe not ! — But, thank God, I am here ! 
 
 Will you let Catharine assist me to bed ? — I have not had 
 my clothes off since Thursday night. 
 
 What she further said, the fellow heard not, she leaning upon 
 the maid, and going up stairs. 
 
 LETTER CXVIII 
 Miss Clarissa Harlowe to Miss Howe 
 
 Thursday afternoon. 
 
 You pain me, my dearest Miss Howe, by the ardour of your 
 noble friendship. I will be very brief, because I am not well. 
 But beforehand, I must tell you, my dear, I will not have that 
 man — don't be angry with me. — But indeed I won't. So 
 let him be asked no questions about me, I beseech you. 
 
 I do not despond, my dear. 
 
 I am no prisoner now in a vile house. I am not now in the 
 power of that man's devices. I am not now obliged to hide 
 myself in corners for fear of him. One of his intimate compan- 
 ions is become my warm friend, and engages to keep him from 
 me, and that by his own consent. I am among honest people. 
 I have all my clothes and effects restored to me. The wretch 
 himself bears testimony to my honour. 
 
 Indeed I am very weak and ill : but I have an excellent phy- 
 sician, Dr. H. and as worthy an apothecary, Mr. Goddard — 
 their treatment of me, my dear, is perfectly paternal! — My 
 mind too, I can find begins to strengthen : and methinks, at 
 times, I find myself superior to my calamities. 
 
 I shall have sinkings sometimes. I must expect such. And 
 my father's maledict — But you will chide me for introducing 
 that, now I am enumerating my comforts. 
 
284 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 But I charge you, my dear, that you do not suffer my calam- 
 ities to sit too heavy upon your own mind. If you do, that will 
 be to newpoint some of those arrows that have been blunted, 
 and lost their sharpness. 
 
 You will think very meanly of your Clarissa, if you do not 
 believe, that the greatest pleasure she can receive in this life, is 
 in your prosperity and welfare. Think not of me, my only 
 friend, but as we were in times past : and suppose me gone a 
 great, great way off ; — a long journey ! — 
 
 Love me still, however. But let it be with a weaning love. 
 I am not what I was, when we were inseparable lovers, as I may 
 say — our views must now be different. And so, my dearest 
 love, for the present adieu ! — Adieu, my dearest love ; — but 
 I shall soon write again, I hope ! 
 
 VOL. IV. LETTER LXXXIX 
 Mr. Belford to Robert Lovelace, Esq. 
 
 Thursday night, Aug. 31. 
 
 When I concluded my last, I hoped, that my next attendance 
 upon this surprising lady would furnish me with some particu- 
 lars as agreeable as now could be hoped for from the declining 
 way she is in, by reason of the welcome letter she had received 
 from her cousin Morden. But it proved quite otherwise to me, 
 though, not to herself, for I think I never was more shocked in 
 my life than on the occasion I shall mention presently. 
 
 When I attended her about seven in the evening, she told me 
 that she found herself in a very petulant way, after I had left 
 her. Strange, said she, that the pleasure I received from my 
 cousin's letter should have such an effect upon me? But I 
 could not help giving way to a comparative humour, as I may 
 call it, and to think it very hard, that my nearer relations did 
 not take the methods which my cousin Morden kindly took, 
 by inquiring into my merit or demerit, and giving my cause a 
 fair audit, before they proceeded to condemnation. 
 
 She had hardly said this, when she started, and a blush over- 
 spread her sweet face, on hearing, as I also did, a sort of lumber- 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 285 
 
 ing noise upon the stairs, as if a large trunk were bringing up 
 between two people : and looking upon me with an eye of con- 
 cern, Blunderers ! said she, they have brought in something two 
 hours before the time. — Don't be surprised, sir — it is all to 
 save you trouble. 
 
 Before I could speak, in came Mrs. Smith : O madam, said 
 she, what have you done ? — Mrs. Lovick,^ entering, made the 
 same exclamation. Lord have mercy upon me, madam ! cried 
 I, what have you done ? — For, she stepping at the instant to 
 the door, the women told me it was a coffin. — O Lovelace! 
 that thou hadst been there at the moment ! — Thou, the causer 
 of all these shocking scenes ! Surely thou couldst not have been 
 less affected than I, who have no guilt, as to her, to answer for. 
 
 With an intrepidity of a piece with the preparation, having 
 directed them to carry it into her bed-chamber, she returned to 
 us : they were not to have brought it in till after dark, said she 
 — Pray, excuse me, Mr. Belford : and don't you, Mrs. Lovick, 
 be concerned : nor you, Mrs. Smith — why should you ? There 
 is nothing more in it, than the unusualness of the thing. Why 
 may we not be as reasonably shocked at going to the church 
 where are the monuments of our ancestors, with whose dust we 
 even hope our dust shall be one day mingled, as to be moved at 
 such a sight as this ? 
 
 We all remaining silent, the women having their aprons at 
 their eyes. Why this concern for nothing at all ? said she : if I 
 am to be blamed for any thing, it is for shewing too much solici- 
 tude, as it may be thought, for this earthly part. I love to 
 do every thing for myself that I can do. I ever did. Every 
 other material point is so far done, and taken care of, that I have 
 had leisure for things of lesser moment. Minutenesses may be 
 observed where greater articles are not neglected for them. I 
 might have had this to order, perhaps, when less fit to order it. 
 I have no mother, no sister, no Mrs. Norton, no Miss Howe, 
 near me. Some of you must have seen this in a few days, if not 
 now ; perhaps have had the friendly trouble of directing it. 
 And what is the difference of a few days to you, when / am 
 gratified, rather than discomposed by it? I shall not die the 
 
 ^ A lodger at Mrs. Smith's. 
 
286 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 sooner for such a preparation. Should not every body that has 
 any thing to bequeath make their will ? And who, that makes 
 a will, should be afraid of a coffin ? — My dear friends (to the 
 women), I have considered these things; do not, with such an 
 object before you as you have had in me for weeks, give me 
 reason to think you have not. 
 
 How reasonable was all this ! — It shewed, indeed, that she 
 herself had well considered it. But yet we could not help 
 being shocked at the thoughts of the cofhn thus brought in; 
 the lovely person before our eyes, who is in all likehhood so soon 
 to fill it. 
 
 We were all silent still, the women in grief, I in a manner 
 stunned. She would not ask me, she said ; but would be glad, 
 since it had thus earlier than she had intended been brought 
 in, that her two good friends would walk in and look upon it. 
 They would be less shocked when it was made more famihar 
 to their eye : don't you lead back, said she, a starting steed to 
 the object he is apt to start at, in order to famiharize him to it, 
 
 and cure his starting ? The same reason will hold in this case. 
 
 Come, my good friends, I will lead you in. 
 
 I took my leave ; teUing her she had done wrong, very 
 
 wrong ; and ought not, by any means, to have such an object 
 
 before her. 
 
 The women followed her in. — 'Tis a strange sex ! nothing is 
 
 too shocking for them to look upon, or see acted, that has but 
 
 novelty and curiosity in it. 
 
 Down I hastened ; got a chair ; and was carried home, ex- 
 tremely shocked and discomposed : yet weighing the lady's 
 
 arguments, I know not why I was so affected — except, as she 
 
 said, at the unusualness of the thing. 
 
 While I waited for a chair, Mrs. Smith came down, and told 
 
 me, that there were devices and inscriptions upon the lid. Lord 
 
 bless me ! is a coffin a proper subject to display fancy upon ? 
 
 — But these great minds cannot avoid doing extraordinary 
 
 things ! 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 287 
 
 LETTER CII 
 
 Mr. Lovelace to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 Uxbridge, Tuesd. morn, between 4 and 5. 
 
 And can it be, that this admirable creature will so soon leave 
 this cursed world ! For cursed I shall think it, and more cursed 
 myself, when she is gone. O, Jack ! thou who canst sit so cool, 
 and, like Addison's angel, direct, and even enjoy, the storm, 
 that tears up my happiness by the roots ; blame me not for my 
 impatience, however unreasonable ! If thou knewest, that 
 already I feel the torments of the damned, in the remorse that 
 wrings my heart, on looking back upon my past actions by her, 
 thou wouldst not be the devil thou art, to halloo on a worrying 
 conscience, which, without thy merciless aggravations, is alto- 
 gether intolerable. 
 
 I know not what I write, nor what I would write. 
 
 Forbidden to attend the dear creature, yet longing to see her, 
 I would give the world to be admitted once more to her beloved 
 presence. I ride towards London three or four times a day, 
 resolving, pro and con, twenty times in two or three miles ; and 
 at last ride back; and, in view of Uxbridge, loathing even the 
 kind friend, and hospitable house, turn my horse's head again 
 towards the town, and resolve to gratify my humour, let her 
 take it as she will ; but, at the very entrance of it, after infinite 
 canvassings, once more alter my mind, dreading to offend and 
 shock her, lest, by that means, I should curtail a life so precious. 
 
 Woe be to either of the wretches who shall bring me the fatal 
 news that she is no more ! For it is but too likely that a shriek- 
 owl so hated will never whoot or scream again. 
 
 But, surely, she will not, she cannot yet die ! Such a match- 
 less excellence. 
 
 But, once more — should the worst happen — say not what 
 that worst is — and I am gone from this hated island — gone 
 forever — and may eternal — but I am crazed already — and 
 will therefore conclude myself, 
 
 Thine more than mine own, 
 
 (And no great compliment neither,) 
 
 R. L. 
 
288 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 LETTER CXIII 
 
 Mr. Belford [to Robert Lovelace, Esq. 
 
 Tuesday, Sept. s, at Mr. Smith's.] 
 
 Eight in the Evening. 
 
 I HAD but just time, in my former, to tell you, that Col. Morden 
 was arrived. He was on horseback, attended by tw(^ servants, 
 and alighted at the door, just as the clock struck five. Mrs. 
 Smith was then below in the back shop, weeping, her husband 
 with her, who was as much affected as she; Mrs. Lovick having 
 left them a little before, in tears Hkewise ; for they had been 
 bemoaning one another ; joining in opinion that the admirable 
 lady would not live the night over. She had told them, it was 
 her opinion too, from some numbnesses which she called the 
 forerunners of death, and from an increased inclination to doze. 
 
 The colonel, as Mrs. Smith told me afterwards, asked with 
 great impatience, the moment he aHghted, How Miss Harlowe 
 was ? She answered, Ahve ; but, she feared, drawing on apace. 
 Good God ! said he, with his hands and eyes lifted up. Can I 
 see her ? My name is Morden. I have the honour to be nearly 
 related to her. Step up, pray ; and let her know [she is sensible, 
 I hope] that I am here. Who is with her ? 
 
 Nobody but her nurse, and Mrs. Lovick, a widow gentle- 
 woman, who is as careful of her, as if she were her mother. 
 
 And more careful too, interrupted he, or she is not careful at 
 all 
 
 Except a gentleman be A^ith her, one Mr. Belford, continued 
 Mrs. Smith, who has been the best friend she has had. 
 
 If Mr. Belford be with her, surely I may — but pray step up, 
 and let Mr. Belford know, that I shall take it for a favour to 
 speak with him first. 
 
 Mrs. Smith came up to me in my new apartment. I had but 
 just dispatched your servant, and was asking her nurse, if I might 
 again be admitted ? Who answered, that she was dozing in the 
 elbow-chair, having refused to lie down, saying, she should soon, 
 she hoped, lie down for good. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 289 
 
 The colonel, who is really a fine gentleman, received me with 
 great pohteness. 
 
 Mrs. Smith, at his request, stept up, and brought us down 
 word, that Mrs. Lovick and her nurse were with her ; and that 
 she was in so sound a sleep, leaning upon the former in her elbow- 
 chair, that she neither heard her enter the room, nor go out. The 
 colonel begged, if not improper, that he might see her, though 
 sleeping. 
 
 She believed he might, she answered ; for her chair's back was 
 towards the door. 
 
 Mrs. Smith, stepping up before us, bid Mrs. Lovick and nurse 
 not to stir, when we entered : and then we went up softly together. 
 
 We beheld the lady, in a charming attitude. Dressed, as I 
 told you before, in her virgin white, she was sitting in her elbow- 
 chair, Mrs. Lovick close by her in another chair, with her left 
 arm round her neck, supporting it, as it were ; for, it seems, the 
 lady had bid her do so, saying. She had been a mother to her, 
 and she would deHght herself in thinking she was in her mamma's 
 arms ; for she found herself drowsy ; perhaps, she said, for the 
 last time she should ever be so. 
 
 One faded cheek rested upon the good woman's bosom, the 
 kindly warmth of which had overspread it with a faint, but 
 charming flush ; the other paler, and hollow, as if already iced 
 over by death. Her hands white as the hly, with her meandering 
 veins more transparently blue than ever I had seen even hers, 
 (veins so soon, alas ! to be choaked up by the congealment of that 
 purple stream, which already so languidly creeps, rather than 
 flows through them !) her hands hanging lifelessly, one before 
 her, the other grasped by the right hand of the kind widow, 
 whose tears bedewed the sweet face which her motherly bosom 
 supported, though unfelt by the fair sleeper ; and either insen- 
 sibly to the good woman, or what she would not disturb her to 
 wipe off, or to change her posture : her aspect was sweetly calm 
 and serene : and though she started now-and-then, yet her sleep 
 seemed easy ; her breath indeed short and quick ; but tolerably 
 free, and not Uke that of a dying person. 
 
290 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 In this heart-moving attitude she appeared to us when we 
 approached her, and came to have her lovely face before us. 
 
 The colonel, sighing often, gazed upon her with his arms 
 folded, and with the most profound and affectionate attention ; 
 till at last, on her starting, and fetching her breath with greater 
 difficulty than before, he retired to a screen, that was drawn 
 before her house, as she calls it, which, as I have heretofore 
 observed, stands under one of the windows. 
 
 Retiring thither, he drew out his handkerchief, and, over- 
 whelmed with grief, seemed unable to speak : but, on casting his 
 eye behind the screen, he soon broke silence ; for, struck with the 
 shape of the coffin, he lifted up a purplish-coloured cloth that 
 was spread over it, and, starting back, Good God ! said he, what's 
 
 here ! 
 
 ******* 
 
 The lady fetched a profound sigh, and, starting, it broke off 
 our talk ; and the colonel then withdrew farther behind the 
 screen, that his sudden appearance might not surprise her. 
 
 Where am I ? said she. How drowsy I am ! How long have I 
 dozed? Don't go, sir (for I was retiring). I am very stupid, 
 and shall be more and more so, I suppose. 
 
 If, madam, your cousin Morden should come, you would be 
 glad to see him, I presume ? ^ 
 
 I am too weak to wish to see my cousin now. It would but 
 discompose me, and him too. Yet, if he come while I can see, I 
 will see him, were it but to thank him for former favours, and for 
 his present kind intentions to me. 
 
 But if he come, what shall I do about the screen ? 
 
 The colonel (who heard all this) sent in his name; and I, 
 pretending to go down to him, introduced the afflicted gentleman ; 
 she having first ordered the screen to be put as close to the win- 
 dow as possible, that he might not see that was behind it ; while 
 he, having heard what she had said about it, was determined to 
 take no notice of it. 
 
 He folded the angel in his arms as she sat, dropping down on 
 
 1 Spoken by Belford. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 291 
 
 one knee ; for, supporting herself upon the two elbows of the chair, 
 she attempted to rise, but could not. Excuse, my dear cousin, 
 said she, excuse me, that I cannot stand up — I did not expect 
 this favour now. But I am glad of this opportunity to thank 
 you for all your generous goodness to me. 
 
 I never, my best beloved and dearest cousin, said he (with eyes 
 running over) shall forgive myself, that I did not attend you 
 sooner. Little did I think you were so ill ; nor do any of your 
 friends believe it. If they did — 
 
 If they did, repeated she, interrupting him, I should have had 
 more compassion from them. I am sure I should. But pray, 
 sir, how did you leave them ? Are you reconciled to them ? If 
 you are not, I beg, if you love your poor Clarissa, that you will : 
 for every widened difference augments but my fault : since 
 that is the foundation of all. 
 
 LETTER CXX 
 
 Mr. Belford to Robert Lovelace, Esq. 
 
 Thursday night. 
 
 I MAY as well try to write ; since, were I to go to bed, I shall not 
 sleep. I never had such a weight of grief upon my mind in my 
 life, as upon the demise of this admirable woman, whose soul is 
 now rejoicing in the regions of hght. 
 
 You may be glad to know the particulars of her happy exit. I 
 will try to proceed ; for all is hush and still ; the family retired : 
 but not one of them, and least of all her poor cousin, I dare say, 
 to rest. 
 
 At four o'clock, as I mentioned in my last, I was sent for down : 
 and, as thou usedst to like my descriptions, I will give thee the 
 woeful scene that presented itself to me, as I approached the bed. 
 
 The colonel was the first that took my attention, kneeling on 
 the side of the bed, the lady's right hand in both his with his face 
 covered, bathing it with his tears ; although she had been com- 
 forting him, as the women since told me, in elevated strains, 
 but broken accents. 
 
 On the other side of the bed sat the good widow ; her face over- 
 whelmed with tears, leaning her head against the bed's head in a 
 
292 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 most disconsolate manner ; and turning her face to me as soon as 
 she saw me, 0, Mr. Belford, cried she, with folded hands — The 
 dear lady — A heavy sob permitted her not to say more. 
 
 Mrs. Smith, with clasped fingers, and uplifted eyes, as if im- 
 ploring help from the only power which could give it, was kneeling 
 down by the bed's feet, tears in large drops trickling down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Her nurse was kneeling between the widow and Mrs. Smith, 
 her arms extended. In one hand she held an ineffectual cordial, 
 which she had just been offering to her dying mistress ; her face 
 was swoln with weeping (though used to such scenes as this) ; and 
 she turned her eyes towards me, as if she called upon me, by them, 
 to join in the helpless sorrow, a fresh stream bursting from them 
 as I approached the bed. 
 
 The maid of the house with her face upon her folded arms, as 
 she stood leaning against the wainscot, more audibly exprest her 
 grief than any of the others. 
 
 The lady had been silent a few minutes, and speechless as they 
 thought, moving her lips without uttering a word ; one hand, as I 
 said, in her cousin's. But when Mrs. Lovick on my approach 
 pronounced my name, O ! Mr. Belford, said she, with a faint 
 inward voice, but very distinct nevertheless — Now ! — Now ! 
 [in broken periods she spoke] — I bless God for his mercies to his 
 poor creature — will all soon be over — a few — a very few 
 moments — will end this strife — and I shall be happy. 
 
 Comfort here, sir — turning her head to the colonel — comfort 
 my cousin — see ! the blame — able kindness — he would not 
 wish me to be happy — so soon ! 
 
 Here she stopt, for two or three minutes, earnestly looking upon 
 him : then resuming, My dearest cousin, said she, be comforted 
 — what is dying but the common lot ? — The mortal frame may 
 seem to labour — but that is all ! — It is not so hard to die, as I 
 believed it to be ! — The preparation is the difficulty — I bless 
 God, I have had time for that — the rest is worse to beholders, 
 than to me ! — I am all blessed hope — hope itself. She looked 
 what she said, a sweet smile beaming over her countenance. 
 
 After a short silence, Once more, my dear cousin, said she, but 
 still in broken accents, commend me most dutifully to my father 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 293 
 
 and mother — there she stopt. And then proceeding — To my 
 sister, to my brother, to my uncles — and tell them, I bless them 
 with my parting breath — for all their goodness to me — even 
 for their displeasure — I bless them — most happy has been to 
 me my punishment here I Happy indeed ! 
 
 She was silent for a few moments, lifting up her eyes, and the 
 hand her cousin held not between his. Then, O death ! said she, 
 where is thy sting ! [The words I remember to have heard in the 
 burial service read over my uncle and poor Belton]. And after a 
 pause — It is good for me that I was afflicted ! Words of Scripture 
 I suppose. 
 
 Then turning towards us, who were lost in speechless sorrow — 
 O dear, dear gentlemen, said she, you know not v^h^it foretastes — - 
 what assurances — and there she again stopped, and looked up, 
 as if in a thankful rapture, sweetly smiling. 
 
 Then turning her head towards me — Do you, sir, tell your 
 friend, that I forgive him ! And I pray to God to forgive him ! — 
 Again pausing, and hfting up her eyes, as if praying that he would. 
 Let him know how happily I die ! — And that such as my own, I 
 wish to be his last hour. 
 
 She was again silent for a few moments : and then resuming — 
 My sight fails me ! — Your voices only — [for we both applauded 
 her Christian, her divine frame, though in accents as broken as 
 her own] : and the voice of grief is alike in all. Is not this Mr. 
 Morden's hand ? pressing one of his with that he had just let go. 
 Which is Mr. Belford's ? holding out the other. I gave her mine. 
 God Almighty bless you both, said she, and make you both — in 
 your last hour — for you must come to this — happy as I am. 
 
 She paused again, her breath growing shorter ; and, after a few 
 minutes, And now, my dearest cousin, give me your hand — ■ 
 nearer — still nearer — drawing it towards her ; and she pressed 
 it with her dying lips — God protect you, dear, dear sir — and 
 once more receive my best and most grateful thanks — and tell 
 my dear Miss Howe — and vouchsafe to see and to tell my 
 worthy Norton — she will be one day, I fear not, though now 
 lowly in her fortunes, a saint in heaven — tell them both, that I 
 remember them with thankful blessings in my last moments ! — 
 And pray God to give them happiness here for many, many years. 
 
294 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 for the sake of their friends and lovers ; and an heavenly crown 
 hereafter ; and such assurances of it, as I have, through the all- 
 satisfying merits of my blessed Redeemer. 
 
 Her sweet voice and broken periods, methinks, still fill my ears, 
 and never will be out of my memory. 
 
 After a short silence, in a more broken and faint accent — And 
 you, Mr. Belford, pressing my hand, may God preserve you, and 
 make you sensible of all your errors — you see, in me, how all 
 ends — may you be — and down sunk her head upon her pillow, 
 she fainting away, and drawing from us her hands. 
 
 We thought she was then gone ; and each gave way to a violent 
 burst of grief. 
 
 But soon shewing signs of returning life, our attention was 
 again engaged ; and I besought her, when a little recovered, to 
 complete in my favour her half-pronounced blessing. She waved 
 her hand to us both, and bowed her head six several times, as we 
 have since recollected, as if distinguishing every person present ; 
 not forgetting the nurse and the maid-servant ; the latter having 
 approached the bed, weeping, as if crouding in for the divine 
 lady's last blessing ; and she spoke faltering and inwardly — 
 Bless — bless — bless — you all — and — now — and now — 
 [holding up her almost lifeless hands for the last time] Come — O 
 come — blessed Lord — - Jesus ! 
 
 And with these words, the last but half-pronounced, expired : 
 — such a smile, such a charming serenity overspreading her sweet 
 face at the instant, as seemed to manifest her eternal happiness 
 already begun. 
 
 O Lovelace ! — But I can write no more ! 
 
 LETTER CXXXIX 
 
 Colonel Morden to John Belford, Esq. 
 
 Sunday night, Sept. lo. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 According to my promise, I send you an account of matters 
 here. Poor Mrs. Norton was so very ill upon the road, that 
 slowly as the hearse moved, and the chariot followed, I was 
 afraid we should not have got her to St. Alban's. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 295 
 
 When we were within five miles of Harlowe Place, I put on a 
 hand-gallop. I ordered the hearse to proceed more slowly still, 
 the cross-road we were in being rough ; and having more time 
 before us than I wanted ; for I wished not the hearse to be in till 
 near dusk. I got to Harlowe Place about four o'clock. You 
 may beHeve I found a mournful house. You desire me to be 
 very minute. 
 
 At my entrance into the court, they were all in motion. Every 
 servant whom I saw had swelled eyes, and looked with so much 
 concern, that at first I apprehended some new disaster had 
 happened in the family. Mr. John and Mr. Antony Harlowe, 
 and Mrs. Hervey, were there. They all helped on one another's 
 grief, as they had before done each other's hardness of heart. 
 
 My cousin James met me at the entrance of the hall. His 
 countenance expressed a fixed concern ; and he desired me to 
 excuse his behaviour the last time I was there. 
 
 My cousin Arabella came to me full of tears and grief. 
 
 cousin ! said she, hanging upon my arm, I dare not ask you 
 any questions ! — About the approach of the hearse, I suppose 
 she meant. 
 
 1 myself was full of grief ; and without going farther or speaking, 
 sat down in the hall in the first chair. 
 
 The brother sat down on one hand of me, the sister on the other. 
 Both were silent. The latter in tears. 
 
 Mr. Antony Harlowe came to me soon after. His face was 
 overspread with all the appearance of woe. He requested me 
 to walk into the parlour ; where, as he said, were all his fellow 
 mourners. 
 
 I attended him in. My cousins James and Arabella followed 
 me. 
 
 A perfect concert of grief, as I may say, broke out the moment I 
 entered the parlour. 
 
 My cousin Harlowe, the dear creature's father, as soon as he 
 saw me, said, O cousin, cousin, of all our family, you are the only 
 one who have nothing to reproach yourself with ! — You are a 
 happy man ! 
 
 The poor mother, bowing her head to me in speechless grief, 
 sat with her handkerchief held to her eyes, with one hand. The 
 
296 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 other hand was held by her sister Hervey, between both hers ; 
 Mrs. Hervey weeping upon it. 
 
 Near the window sat Mr. John Harlowe, his face and his body 
 turned from the sorrowing company ; his eyes red and swelled. 
 
 My cousin Antony, at his re-entering the parlour, went to- 
 wards Mrs. Harlowe — Don't — dear sister ! said he. — Then 
 towards my cousin Harlowe — Don't — dear brother ! — Don't 
 thus give way — and without being able to say another word, 
 went to a corner of the parlour, and wanting himself the comfort 
 he would fain have given, sunk into a chair, and audibly sobbed. 
 
 Miss Arabella followed her uncle Antony, as he walked in 
 before me, and seemed as if she would have spoken to the pierced 
 mother some words of comfort. But she was unable to utter 
 them, and got behind her mother's chair ; and inclining her face 
 over it, on the unhappy lady's shoulder, seemed to claim the con- 
 solation that indulgent parent used, but then was unable, to 
 afford her. 
 
 Young Mr. Harlowe, with all his vehemence of spirit, was now 
 subdued. His self-reproaching conscience, no doubt, was the 
 cause of it. 
 
 They all joined in a kind of melancholy chorus, and each ac- 
 cused him and herself, and some of them one another. But the 
 eyes of all, in turn, were cast upon my cousin James, as the person 
 who had kept up the general resentment against so sweet a 
 creature. While he was hardly able to bear his own remorse. 
 
 About six o'clock the hearse came to the outward gate — the 
 parish-church is at some distance ; but the wind setting fair, the 
 afflicted family were struck, just before it came, into a fresh fit of 
 grief, on hearing the funeral bell tolled in a very solemn manner. 
 A respect, as it proved, and as they all guessed, paid to the 
 memory of the dear deceased, out of officious love, as the hearse 
 passed near the church. 
 
 Judge, when their grief was so great in expectation of it, what 
 it must be when it arrived. 
 
 A servant came in to acquaint us with what its lumbering heavy 
 noise up the paved inner courtyard apprised us of before. He 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 297 
 
 spoke not. He could not speak. He looked, bowed and with- 
 drew. 
 
 I stept out. No one else could then stir. Her brother, how- 
 ever, soon followed me. When I came to the door, I beheld a 
 sight very affecting. 
 
 You have heard, sir, how universally my dear cousin was be- 
 loved. By the poor and middling sort especially, no young lady 
 was ever so much beloved. And with reason : she was the com- 
 mon patroness of all the honest poor in her neighbourhood. 
 
 It is natural for us, in every deep and sincere grief, to interest 
 all we know in what is so concerning to ourselves. The servants 
 of the family, it seems, had told their friends, and those theirs, 
 that though, living, their dear young lady could not be received 
 nor looked upon, her body was permitted to be brought home: 
 so that the hearse, and the solemn tolling of the bell, had drawn 
 together at least fifty of the neighbouring men, women, and 
 children, and some of good appearance. Not a soul of them, it 
 seems, with a dry eye, and each lamenting the death of this 
 admired lady, who, as I am told, never stirred out hut somebody was 
 the better for her. 
 
 These, when the coffin was taken out of the hearse, crowding 
 about it, hindered for a few moments its being carried in ; the 
 young people struggling who should bear it ; and yet, with 
 respectful whisperings, rather than clamorous contention. A 
 mark of veneration I had never before seen paid, upon any occa- 
 sion, in all my travels, from the underbred many, from whom 
 noise is generally inseparable in all their emulations. 
 
 At last six maidens were permitted to carry it in by the six 
 handles. 
 
 The corpse was thus borne, with the most solemn respect, into 
 the hall, and placed for the present upon two stools there. The 
 plates, and emblems, and inscription, set every one gazing upon 
 it, and admiring it. The more, when they were told that all 
 was of her own ordering. They wished to be permitted a sight 
 of the corpse ; but rather mentioned this as their wish than as 
 their hope. When they had all satisfied their curiosity, and 
 remarked upon the emblems, they dispersed with blessings upon 
 her memory, and with tears and lamentations ; pronouncing her 
 
298 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 to be happy ; and inferring, were she not so, what would become 
 of them ? While others ran over with repetitions of the good 
 she delighted to do. Nor were there wanting those among 
 them, who heaped curses upon the man who was the author 
 of her fall. 
 
 The servants of the family then got about the cofhn. They 
 could not before : and that afforded a new scene of sorrow : but 
 a silent one ; for they spoke only by their eyes, and by sighs, 
 looking upon the lid, and upon one another, by turns, with hands 
 lifted up. The presence of their young master possibly might 
 awe them, and cause their grief to be expressed only in dumb 
 show. 
 
 But when the corpse was carried into the lesser parlour adjoin- 
 ing to the hall, which she used to call her parlour, and put upon a 
 table in the middle of the room, and the father and mother, the 
 two uncles, her aunt Hervey, and her sister, came in, joining 
 her brother and me, with trembling feet, and eager woe, the scene 
 was still more affecting. Their sorrow was heightened, no doubt, 
 by the remembrance of their unforgiving severity : and now 
 seeing before them the receptacle that contained the glory of their 
 family, who so lately was driven thence by their indiscreet vio- 
 lence ; never, never more to be restored to them ! no wonder that 
 their grief was more than common grief. 
 
 No wonder that the dear departed, who foresaw the remorse 
 that would fall to the lot of this unhappy family when they came 
 to have the news of her death confirmed to them, was so grieved 
 for their apprehended grief, and endeavoured to comfort them by her 
 posthumous letters. But it was still a greater generosity in her to 
 try to excuse them to me, as she did, when we were alone together, 
 a few hours before she died ; and to aggravate more than (as far as 
 I can find) she ought to have done, the only error she was ever 
 guilty of. The more freely however perhaps (exalted creature !) 
 that I might think the better of her friends, although at her 
 own expense. I am, dear sir. 
 
 Your faithful and obedient servant, 
 Wm. Morden. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 299 
 
 LETTER CLXXVI 
 
 Translation of a Letter from F. G. de la Tour 
 To John Belford, Esq., Near Soho-Square, London 
 
 Trent, Dec. 18. N.S. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I HAVE melancholy news to inform you of, by order of the 
 Chevalier Lovelace. He shewed me his letter to you before he 
 sealed it ; signifying, that he was to meet the Chevalier Morden 
 on the 15th. Wherefore, as the occasion of the meeting is so 
 well known to you, I shall say nothing of it here. 
 
 I had taken care to have ready, within a little distance, a 
 surgeon and his assistant, to whom, under an oath of secrecy, I 
 had revealed the matter (though I did not own it to the two gentle- 
 men) ; so that they were prepared with bandages, and all things 
 proper. For well was I acquainted with the bravery and skill 
 of my chevalier; and had heard the character of the other; 
 and knew the animosity of both. A post-chaise was ready, with 
 each of their footmen, at a little distance. 
 
 The two chevaliers came exactly at their time : they were 
 attended by Monsieur Margate (the colonel's gentleman) and 
 myself. They had given orders ovet night, and now repeated 
 them in each other's presence, that we should observe a strict 
 impartiality between them : and that if one fell, each of us 
 should look upon himself, as to any needful help or retreat, 
 as the servant of the survivor, and take his commands 
 accordingly. 
 
 After a few compliments, both the gentlemen, with the greatest 
 presence of mind that ever I beheld in men, stript to their shirts, 
 and drew. 
 
 They parried with equal judgment several passes. My chevalier 
 drew the first blood, making a desperate push, which by a sudden 
 turn of his antagonist, missed going clear through him, and 
 wounded him on the fleshy part of the ribs of his right side ; 
 which part the sword tore out, being on the extremity of the body : 
 but, before my chevalier could recover himself, the colonel, in 
 return, pushed him into the inside of the left arm, near the 
 
300 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 shoulder : and the sword (raking his breast as it passed) being 
 followed by a great effusion of blood, the colonel said, sir, I 
 believe you have enough. 
 
 My chevalier swore by G — d, he was not hurt : 'twas a pin's 
 point : and so made another pass at his antagonist ; which he, 
 with a surprising dexterity, received under his arm, and run my 
 dear chevalier into the body : who immediately fell ; saying, 
 The luck is yours, sir — O my beloved Clarissa ! — Now art 
 thou — inwardly he spoke three or four words more. His sword 
 dropt from his hand. Mr. Morden threw his down, and ran to 
 him, saying in French — Ah, monsieur ! you are a dead man ! — ■ 
 Call to God for mercy ! 
 
 We gave the signal agreed upon to the footmen ; and they to 
 the surgeons ; who instantly came up. 
 
 Colonel Morden, I found, was too well used to the bloody 
 work ; for he was as cool as if nothing extraordinary had hap- 
 pened, assisting the surgeons though his own wound bled much. 
 But my dear chevalier fainted away two or three times running, 
 and vomited blood besides. 
 
 However, they stopped the bleeding for the present ; and we 
 helped him into the voiture : and then the colonel suffered his 
 own wound to be dressed ; and appeared concerned that my 
 chevalier was between whiles (when he could speak, and struggle) 
 extremely outrageous. — Poor gentleman ! he had made quite 
 sure of victory ! 
 
 The colonel, against the surgeons' advice, would mount on 
 horseback to pass into the Venetian territories ; and generously 
 gave me a purse of gold to pay the surgeons ; desiring me to 
 make a present to the footman ; and to accept of the remainder, 
 as a mark of his satisfaction in my conduct, and in my care and 
 tenderness of my master. 
 
 The surgeons told him, that my chevalier could not live over 
 the day. 
 
 When the colonel took leave of him, Mr. Lovelace said, you 
 have well revenged the dear creature. 
 
 I have, sir, said Mr. Morden : and perhaps shall be sorry 
 that you called upon me to this work, while I was balancing 
 whether to obey, or disobey, the dear angel. 
 
THE HISTORY OF CLARISSA HARLOWE 301 
 
 There is a fate in it ! replied my chevalier — a cursed fate ! — • 
 Or this could not have been ! — But be ye all witnesses, that I 
 have provoked my destiny, and acknowledge that I fall by a 
 man of honour. 
 
 Sir, said the colonel, with the piety of a confessor, (wringing 
 Mr. Lovelace's hand) snatch these few fleeting moments, and 
 commend yourself to God. 
 
 And so he rode off. 
 
 The voiture proceeded slowly with my chevalier ; yet the mo- 
 tion set both his wounds bleeding afresh ; and it was with difh- 
 culty they again stopped the blood. 
 
 We brought him alive to the nearest cottage ; and he gave 
 orders to me to dispatch to you the packet I herewith send sealed 
 up ; and bid me write to you the particulars of this most unhappy 
 affair ; and give you thanks, in his name, for all your favours and 
 friendship to him. 
 
 Contrary to all expectation, he lived over the night : but 
 sitfered much, as well from his impatience and disappointment, as 
 from his wounds; for he seemed very unwilling to die. 
 
 He was delirious, at times, in the two last hours ; and then 
 several times cried out, as if he had seen some frightful spectre. 
 Take her away ! Take her away ! but named nobody. And 
 sometimes praised some lady (that Clarissa, I suppose, whom he 
 had invoked when he received his death's wound) calling her, 
 Sweet excellence ! Divine creature ! Fair sufferer ! — And once he 
 said. Look down, blessed spirit, look down ; — And there stopt ; 
 — his lips, however, moving. 
 
 At nine in the morning, he was seized with convulsions, and 
 fainted away ; and it was a quarter of an hour before he came 
 out of them. 
 
 His few last words I must not omit, as they shew an ultimate 
 composure ; which may administer some consolation to his 
 honourable friends. 
 
 Blessed — said he, addressing himself no doubt to heaven ; for 
 his dying eyes were lifted up — a strong convulsion prevented 
 him for a few moments saying more — but recovering, he again, 
 with great fervor, (lifting up his eyes, and his spread hands) 
 pronounced the word blessed ! Then in a seeming ejaculation, he 
 
302 SAMUEL RICHARDSON 
 
 spoke inwardly so as not to be understood : at last he distinctly 
 pronounced these three words, 
 
 LET THIS EXPIATE ! 
 
 And then, his head sinking on his pillow, he expired, at about half 
 an hour after ten. 
 
 He little thought, poor gentleman ! his end so near : so had 
 given no direction about his body. I have caused it to be em- 
 bowelled, and deposited in a vault, till I have orders from England. 
 
 This is a favour that was procured with difficulty ; and would 
 have been refused, had he not been an Englishman of rank : a 
 nation with reason respected in every Austrian government — 
 for he had refused ghostly attendance, and the sacraments in the 
 catholic way. May his soul be happy, I pray God ! 
 
 I have had some trouble also on account of the manner of his 
 death, from the magistracy here ; who have taken the requisite 
 informations in the affair. And it has cost some money. Of 
 which, and of my dear chevalier's effects, I will give you a faith- 
 ful account in my next. And so, waiting at this place your 
 commands, I am, sir, 
 
 Your most faithful and obedient servant, 
 
 F. J. DE La Tour. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CONTAINING AS MUCH OF THE BIRTH OF THE FOUNDLING 
 
 AS IS NECESSARY OR PROPER TO ACQUAINT THE 
 
 READER WITH IN THE BEGINNING OF THIS HISTORY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 The Introduction to the Work, or Bill of Fare to the Feast 
 
 An author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who 
 gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one who 
 keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are welcome for 
 their money. In the former case, it is well known that the 
 entertainer provides what fare he pleases ; and though this 
 should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste 
 of his company, they must not find any fault ; nay, on the con- 
 trary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to 
 commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of 
 this happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for 
 what they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however 
 nice and whimsical these may prove ; and if everything is not 
 agreeable to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, 
 and to d — n their dinner without control. 
 
 To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by 
 any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest and 
 well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all persons may 
 peruse at their first entrance into the house ; and having thence 
 acquainted themselves with the entertainment which they may 
 expect, may either stay and regale with what is provided for 
 them, or may depart to some other ordinary better accommodated 
 to their taste. 
 
 303 
 
304 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man 
 who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended to 
 take a hint from these honest victuallers, and shall prefix not 
 only a general bill of fare to our whole entertainment, but shall 
 likewise give the reader particular bills to every course which 
 is to be served up in this and the ensuing volumes. 
 
 The provision, then, which we have here made is no other 
 than Human Nature. Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, 
 though most luxurious in his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, 
 because I have named but one article. The tortoise — as the 
 alderman of Bristol, well learned in eating, knows by much 
 experience — besides the delicious calipash and calipee, contains 
 many different kinds of food ; nor can the learned reader be 
 ignorant, that in human nature, though here collected under 
 one general name, is such prodigious variety, that a cook will 
 have sooner gone through all the several species of animal and 
 vegetable food in the world, than an author will be able to ex- 
 haust so extensive a subject. 
 
 An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more 
 delicate, that this dish is too common and vulgar ; for what else 
 is the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with 
 which the stalls abound ? Many exquisite viands might be 
 rejected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his con- 
 temning of them as common and vulgar, that something was to 
 be found in the most paltry alleys under the same name. In 
 reality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, as 
 the Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the 
 shops. 
 
 But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in 
 the cookery of the author ; for, as Mr Pope tells us — 
 
 "True wit is nature to advantage drest ; 
 What oft was thought, but ne'er so well exprest." 
 
 The same animal which hath the honour to have some part 
 of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be de- 
 graded in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it 
 were, in the vilest stall in town. Where, then, lies the difference 
 between the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 305 
 
 dinner on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, 
 the garnishing, and the setting forth ? Hence the one provokes 
 and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and 
 palls that which is the sharpest and keenest. 
 
 In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment 
 consists less in the subject than in the author's skill in well 
 dressing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to 
 find that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to one 
 of the highest principles of the best cook which the present age, 
 or perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great 
 man, as is well known to all lovers of polite eating, begins at 
 first by setting plain things before his hungry guests, rising 
 afterwards by degrees as their stomachs may be supposed to 
 decrease, to the very quintessence of sauce and spices. In 
 like manner, we shall represent human nature at first to the keen 
 appetite of our reader, in that more plain and simple manner 
 in which it is found in the country, and shall hereafter hash and 
 ragoo it with all the high French and Italian seasoning of affecta- 
 tion and vice which courts and cities afford. By these means, 
 we doubt not but our reader may be rendered desirous to read 
 on for ever, as the great person just above-mentioned is supposed 
 to have made some persons eat. 
 
 Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who 
 like our bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed 
 directly to serve up the first course of our history for their enter- 
 tainment. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A Short Description or Squire Allworthy, and a Fuller 
 Account of Miss Bridget Allworthy, his Sister 
 
 In that part of the western division of this kingdom which 
 is commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and per- 
 haps lives still, a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and 
 who might well be called the favourite of both nature and for- 
 tune ; for both of these seem to have contended which should 
 bless and enrich him most. In this contention, nature may 
 seem to some to have come off victorious, as she bestowed on 
 him many gifts, while fortune had only one gift in her power; 
 
3o6 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 but in pouring forth this, she was so very profuse, that others 
 perhaps may think this single endowment to have been more 
 than equivalent to all the various blessings which he enjoyed 
 from nature. From the former of these, he derived an agreeable 
 person, a sound constitution, a solid understanding, and a benev- 
 olent heart ; by the latter, he was decreed to the inheritance 
 of one of the largest estates in the county. 
 
 This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and 
 beautiful woman, of whom he had been extremely fond : by her 
 he had three children, all of whom died in their infancy. He 
 had likewise had the misfortune of burying this beloved wife 
 herself, about five years before the time in which this history 
 chuses to set out. This loss, however great, he bore like a man 
 of sense and constancy, though it must be confest he would 
 often talk a little whimsically on this head ; for he sometimes 
 said he looked on himself as still married, and considered his wife 
 as only gone a little before him, a journey which he should most 
 certainly, sooner or later, take after her ; and that he had not 
 the least doubt of meeting her again in a place where he should 
 never part with her more — sentiments for which his sense was 
 arraigned by one part of his neighbours, his religion by a second, 
 and his sincerity by a third. 
 
 He now Uved, for the most part, retired in the country, with 
 one sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This lady 
 was now somewhat past the age of thirty, an ^ra at which, in 
 the opinion of the malicious, the title of old maid may with no 
 impropriety be assumed. She was of that species of women 
 whom you commend rather for good qualities than beauty, and 
 who are generally called, by their own sex, very good sort of 
 women — as good a sort of woman, madam, as you would wish 
 to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of beauty, 
 that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be called one, 
 without contempt ; and would often thank God she was not as 
 handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty had led 
 into errors which she might have otherwise avoided. Miss 
 Bridget Allworthy (for that was the name of this lady) very 
 rightly conceived the charms of person in a woman to be no better 
 than snares for herself, as well as for others ; and yet so discreet 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 307 
 
 was she in her conduct, that her prudence was as much on the 
 guard as if she had all the snares to apprehend which were ever 
 laid for her whole sex. Indeed, I have observed, though it may 
 seem unaccountable to the reader, that this guard of prudence, 
 like the trained bands, is always readiest to go on duty where 
 there is the least danger. It often basely and cowardly deserts 
 those paragons for whom the men are all wishing, sighing, dying, 
 and spreading every net in their power ; and constantly attends 
 at the heels of that higher order of women for whom the other 
 sex have a more distant and awful respect, and whom (from 
 despair, I suppose, of success) they never venture to attack. 
 
 Reader, I think proper, before we proceed any farther together, 
 to acquaint thee that I intend to digress, through this whole 
 history, as often as I see occasion, of which I am myself a better 
 judge than any pitiful critic whatever ; and here I must desire 
 all those critics to mind their own business, and not to inter- 
 meddle with affairs or works which no ways concern them ; for 
 till they produce the authority by which they are constituted 
 judges, I shall not plead to their jurisdiction. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 An Odd Accident which befel Mr Allworthy at his return 
 
 Home. The Decent Behaviour of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, 
 
 WITH some Proper Animadversions on Bastards 
 
 I HAVE told my reader, in the preceding chapter, that Mr 
 Allworthy inherited a large fortune ; that he had a good heart, 
 and no family. Hence, doubtless, it will be concluded by many 
 that he lived like an honest man, owed no one a shilling, took, 
 nothing but what was his own, kept a good house, entertained 
 his neighbours with a hearty welcome at his table, and was 
 charitable to the poor, i.e., to those who had rather beg than 
 work, by giving them the offals from it ; that he died immensely 
 rich and built an hospital. 
 
 And true it is that he did many of these things ; but had he 
 done nothing more I should have left him to have recorded his 
 own merit on some fair freestone over the door of that hospital. 
 Matters of a much more extraordinary kind are to be the subject 
 
3o8 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 of this history, or I should grossly mis-spend my time in writing 
 so voluminous a work ; and you, my sagacious friend, might 
 with equal profit and pleasure travel through some pages which 
 certain droll authors have been facetiously pleased to call The 
 History of England. 
 
 Mr Allworthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in 
 London, on some very particular business, though I know not 
 what it was ; but judge of its importance by its having detained 
 him so long from home, whence he had not been absent a month 
 at a time during the space of many years. He came to his house 
 very late in the evening, and after a short supper with his sister, 
 retired much fatigued to his chamber. Here, having spent some 
 minutes on his knees — a custom which he never broke through 
 on any account — he was preparing to step into bed, when, 
 upon opening the cloathes, to his great surprize he beheld an 
 infant, wrapt up in some coarse Hnen, in a sweet and profound 
 sleep, between his sheets. He stood some time lost in astonish- 
 ment at this sight ; but, as good nature had always the ascendant 
 in his mind, he soon began to be touched with sentiments of 
 compassion for the little wretch before him. He then rang his 
 bell, and ordered an elderly woman-servant to rise immediately, 
 and come to him ; and in the meantime was so eager in con- 
 templating the beauty of innocence, appearing in those lively 
 colours with which infancy and sleep always display it, that his 
 thoughts were too much engaged to reflect that he was in his 
 shirt when the matron came in. She had indeed given her 
 master sufficient time to dress himself ; for out of respect to him, 
 and regard to decency, she had spent many minutes in adjusting 
 her hair at the looking-glass, notwithstanding all the hurry in 
 which she had been summoned by the servant, and though her 
 master, for aught she knew, lay expiring in an apoplexy, or in 
 some other fit. 
 
 It will not be wondered at that a creature who had so strict a 
 regard to decency in her own person, should be shocked at the 
 least deviation from it in another. She therefore no sooner 
 opened the door, and saw her master standing by the bedside in 
 his shirt, with a candle in his hand, than she started back in a 
 most terrible fright, and might perhaps have swooned away, had 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 309 
 
 he not now recollected his being undrest, and put an end to her 
 terrors by desiring her to stay without the door till he had 
 thrown some cloathes over his back, and was become incapable 
 of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs Deborah Wilkins, who, though 
 in the fifty-second year of her age, vowed she had never beheld a 
 man without his coat. Sneerers and prophane wits may perhaps 
 laugh at her first fright ; yet my graver reader, when he considers 
 the time of night, the summons from her bed, and the situation 
 in which she found her master, will highly justify and applaud 
 her conduct, unless the prudence which must be supposed to 
 attend maidens at that period of life at which Mrs Deborah had 
 arrived, should a little lessen his admiration. 
 
 When Mrs Deborah returned into the room, and was ac- 
 quainted by her master with the finding the little infant, her con- 
 sternation was rather greater than his had been ; nor could she 
 refrain from crying out, with great horror of accent as well as 
 look, "My good sir! what's to be done?" Mr Allworthy 
 answered, she must take care of the child that evening, and in 
 the morning he would give orders to provide it a nurse. "Yes, 
 sir," says she; "and I hope your worship will send out your 
 warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be one of 
 the neighbourhood ; and I should be glad to see her committed 
 to Bridewell, and whipt at the cart's tail. Indeed, such wicked 
 sluts cannot be too severely punished. I'll warrant 'tis not her 
 first, by her impudence in laying it to your worship." "In lay- 
 ing it to me, Deborah !" answered Allworthy: "I can't think 
 she hath any such design. I suppose she hath only taken this 
 method to provide for her child ; and truly I am glad she hath 
 not done worse." "I don't know what is worse," cries Deborah, 
 " than for such wicked strumpets to lay their sins at honest men's 
 doors ; and though your worship knows your own innocence, 
 yet the world is censorious ; and it hath been many an honest 
 man's hap to pass for the father of children he never begot ; 
 and if your worship should provide for the child, it may make 
 the people the apter to believe ; besides, why should your worship 
 provide for what the parish is obliged to maintain ? For my 
 own part, if it was an honest man's child, indeed — but for my 
 own part, it goes against me to touch these misbegotten wretches, 
 
310 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 whom I don't look upon as my fellow-creatures. Faugh ! how 
 it stinks ! It doth not smell like a Christian. If I might be 
 so bold to give my advice, I would have it put in a basket, and 
 sent out and laid at the churchwarden's door. It is a good night, 
 only a little rainy and windy ; and if it was well wrapt up, and 
 put in a warm basket, it is two to one but it lives till it is found 
 in the morning. But if it should not, we have discharged our 
 duty in taking proper care of it ; and it is, perhaps, better for 
 such creatures to die in a state of innocence, than to grow up 
 and imitate their mothers ; for nothing better can be expected 
 of them." 
 
 There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would 
 have offended Mr Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; 
 but he had now got one of his fingers into the infant's hand, which, 
 by its gentle pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, had 
 certainly outpleaded the eloquence of Mrs Deborah, had it been 
 ten times greater than it was. He now gave Mrs Deborah 
 positive orders to take the child to her own bed, and to call up 
 a maid-servant to provide it pap, and other things, against it 
 waked. He likewise ordered that proper cloathes should be 
 procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be brought 
 to himself as soon as he was stirring. 
 
 Such was the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the 
 respect she bore her master, under whom she enjoyed a most 
 excellent place, that her scruples gave way to his peremptory 
 commands ; and she took the child under her arms, without any 
 apparent disgust at the illegahty of its birth ; and declaring it ^ras 
 a sweet Httle infant, walked off with it to her own chamber. 
 
 Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers 
 which a heart that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when 
 thoroughly satisfied. As these are possibly sweeter than what 
 are occasioned by any other hearty meal, I should take more 
 pains to display them to the reader, if I knew any air to recom- 
 mend him to for the procuring such an appetite. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 311 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The Reader's Neck brought into Danger by a Description; 
 HIS Escape ; and the Great Condescension of Miss Bridget 
 
 Allworthy 
 
 The Gothic stile of building could produce nothing nobler than 
 Mr Allworthy's house. There was an air of grandeur in it 
 that struck you with awe, and rivalled the beauties of the best 
 Grecian architecture ; and it was as commodious within as vener- 
 able without. 
 
 It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom 
 than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the north-east by a 
 grove of old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of 
 near half a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming 
 prospect of the valley beneath. 
 
 In the midst of the grove was a fine lawn, sloping down towards 
 the house, near the summit of which rose a plentiful spring, gush- 
 ing out of a rock covered with firs, and forming a constant cascade 
 of about thirty feet, not carried down a regular flight of steps, 
 but tumbling in a natural fall over the broken and mossy stones 
 till it came to the bottom of the rockj then running ofT in a 
 pebbly channel, that with many lesser falls winded along, till it 
 fell into a lake at the foot of the hill, about a quarter of a mile 
 below the house on the south side, and which was seen from every 
 room in the front. Out of this lake, which filled the center of a 
 beautiful plain, embellished with groups of beeches and elms, 
 and fed with sheep, issued a river, that for several miles was 
 seen to meander through an amazing variety of meadows and 
 woods till it emptied itself into the sea, with a large arm of 
 which, and an island beyond it, the prospect was closed. 
 
 On the right of this valley opened another of less extent, 
 adorned with several villages, and terminated by one of the towers 
 of an old ruined abby, grown over with ivy, and part of the front, 
 which remained still entire. 
 
 The left-hand scene presented the view of a very fine park, 
 composed of very unequal ground, and agreeably varied with all 
 the diversity that hills, lawns, wood, and water, laid out with 
 admirable taste, but owing less to art than to nature, could give. 
 
312 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 Beyond this, the country gradually rose into a ridge of wild 
 mountains, the tops of which were above the clouds. 
 
 It was now the middle of May, and the morning was remarkably 
 serene, when Mr Allworthy walked forth on the terrace, where 
 the dawn opened every minute that lovely prospect we have be- 
 fore described to his eye ; and now having sent forth streams of 
 light, which ascended the blue firmament before him, as har- 
 bingers preceding his pomp, in the full blaze of his majesty rose 
 the sun, than which one object alone in this lower creation could 
 be more glorious, and that Mr Allworthy himself presented — a 
 human being replete with benevolence, meditating in what 
 manner he might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, 
 by doing most good to his creatures. 
 
 Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of 
 as high a hill as Mr Allworthy's, and how to get thee down with- 
 out breaking thy neck, I do not well know. However, let us e'en 
 venture to slide down together ; for Miss Bridget rings her bell, 
 and Mr Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where I must 
 attend, and, if you please, shall be glad of your company. 
 
 The usual compliments having past between Mr Allworthy and 
 Miss Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he summoned Mrs 
 Wilkins, and told his sister he had a present for her, for which 
 she thanked him — imagining, I suppose, it had been a gown, or 
 some ornament for her person. Indeed, he very often made 
 her such presents ; and she, in complacence to him, spent much 
 time in adorning herself. I say in complacence to him, because 
 she always exprest the greatest contempt for dress, and for those 
 ladies who made it their study. 
 
 But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed 
 when Mrs Wilkins, according to the order she had received from 
 her master, produced the little infant? Great surprizes, as 
 hath been observed, are apt to be silent ; and so was Miss Bridget, 
 till her brother began, and told her the whole story, which, as 
 the reader knows it already, we shall not repeat. 
 
 Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what the 
 ladies are pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained such 
 a severity of character, that it was expected, especially by Wilkins, 
 that she would have vented much bitterness on this occasion, 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 313 
 
 . and would have voted for sending the child, as a kind of noxious 
 animal, immediately out of the house ; but, on the contrary, 
 she rather took the good-natured side of the question, intimated 
 some compassion for the helpless little creature, and commended 
 her brother's charity in what he had done. 
 
 Perhaps the reader may account for this behaviour from her 
 condescension to Mr Allworthy, when we have informed him 
 that the good man had ended his narrative with owning a resolu- 
 tion to take care of the child, and to breed him up as his own ; 
 for, to acknowledge the truth, she was always ready to oblige 
 her brother, and very seldom, if ever, contradicted his sentiments. 
 She would, indeed, sometimes make a few observations, as that 
 men were headstrong, and must have their own way, and would 
 wish she had been blest with an independent fortune ; but these 
 were always vented in a low voice, and at the most amounted 
 only to what is called muttering. 
 
 However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed 
 with the utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, 
 whom she called an impudent slut, a wanton hussy, an audacious 
 harlot, a wicked jade, a vile strumpet, with every other appella- 
 tion with which the tongue of virtue never fails to lash those who 
 bring a disgrace on the sex. 
 
 A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in order 
 to discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into the 
 characters of the female servants of the house, who were all 
 acquitted by Mrs Wilkins, and with apparent merit ; for she 
 had collected them herself, and perhaps it would be difficult to 
 find such another set of scarecrows. 
 
 The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the 
 parish ; and this was referred to Mrs Wilkins, who was to enquire 
 with all imaginable dihgence, and to make her report in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 Matters being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his 
 study, as was his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, 
 at his desire, had undertaken the care of it. 
 
314 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Containing a Few Common Matters, with a very Uncommon 
 Observation upon Them 
 
 When her master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, 
 expecting her cue from Miss Bridget ; for as to what had past 
 before her master, the prudent housekeeper by no means rehed 
 upon it, as she had often known the sentiments of the lady in 
 her brother's absence to differ greatly from those which she had 
 expressed in his presence. Miss Bridget did not, however, 
 suffer her to continue long in this doubtful situation ; for having 
 looked some time earnestly at the child, as it lay asleep in the lap 
 of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could not forbear giving it a 
 hearty kiss, at the same time declaring herself wonderfully 
 pleased with its beauty and innocence. Mrs Deborah no 
 sooner observed this than she fell to squeezing and kissing, with as 
 great raptures as sometimes inspire the sage dame of forty and 
 five towards a youthful and vigorous bridegroom, crying out, 
 in a shrill voice, "O, the dear little creature ! — The dear, sweet, 
 pretty creature ! Well, I vow it is as fine a boy as ever was 
 seen !" 
 
 These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by 
 the lady, who now proceeded to execute the commission given 
 her by her brother, and gave orders for providing all necessaries 
 for the child, appointing a very good room in the house for his 
 nursery. Her orders were indeed so liberal, that, had it been a 
 child of her own, she could not have exceeded them ; but, lest 
 the virtuous reader may condemn her for showing too great 
 regard to a base-born infant, to which all charity is condemned 
 by law as irreligious, we think proper to observe that she con- 
 cluded the whole with saying, "Since it was her brother's whim 
 to adopt the Uttle brat, she supposed little master must be 
 treated with great tenderness. For her part, she could not help 
 thinking it was an encouragement to vice ; but that she knew 
 too much of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their ridic- 
 ulous humours." 
 
 With reflections of this nature she usually, as has been hinted, 
 accompanied every act of compliance with her brother's inclina- 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 315 
 
 tions ; and surely nothing could more contribute to heighten the 
 merit of this compliance than a declaration that she knew, 
 at the same time, the folly and unreasonableness of those inclina- 
 tions to which she submitted. Tacit obedience implies no force 
 upon the will, and consequently may be easily, and without any 
 pains, preserved ; but when a wife, a child, a relation, or a friend, 
 performs what we desire, with grumbling and reluctance, with 
 expressions of dislike and dissatisfaction, the manifest difficulty 
 which they undergo must greatly enhance the obligation. 
 
 As this is one of those deep observations which very few readers 
 can be supposed capable of making themselves, I have thought 
 proper to lend them my assistance ; but this is a favour rarely to 
 be expected in the course of my work. Indeed, I shall seldom or 
 never so indulge him, unless in such instances as this, where 
 nothing but the inspiration with which we writers are gifted, 
 can possibly enable any one to make the discovery. 
 
 BOOK III. CHAPTER II 
 
 The Heroe of this Great History appears with very Bad Omens. 
 A Little Tale or so low a Kind that some may think it 
 NOT Worth their Notice. A Word or Two concern- 
 ing A Squire, and more relating to a Gamekeeper 
 and a Schoolmaster 
 
 As we determined, when we first sat down to write this history, 
 to flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout by the direc- 
 tions of truth, we are obliged to bring our heroe on the stage in 
 a much more disadvantageous manner than we could wish ; and 
 to declare honestly, even at his first appearance, that it was the 
 universal opinion of all Mr Allworthy's family that he was 
 certainly born to be hanged. 
 
 Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this 
 conjecture ; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a 
 propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as 
 direct a tendency as any other to that fate which we have just 
 now observed to have been prophetically denounced against 
 him : he had been already convicted of three robberies, viz., of 
 
3i6 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 robbing an orchard, of stealing a duck out of a farmer's yard, 
 and of picking Master Blifil's ^ pocket of a ball. 
 
 The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by 
 the disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed 
 to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion ; a youth of so 
 different a cast from little Jones, that not only the family but all 
 the neighbourhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a 
 lad of a remarkable disposition ; sober, discreet, and pious 
 beyond his age ; qualities which gained him the love of every one 
 who knew him : while Tom Jones was universally disliked ; 
 and many expressed their wonder that Mr Allworthy would 
 suffer such a lad to be educated with his nephew, lest the morals of 
 the latter should be corrupted by his example. 
 
 An incident which happened about this time will set the charac- 
 ters of these two lads more fairly before the discerning reader 
 than is in the power of the longest dissertation. 
 
 Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, must serve for the heroe of this 
 history, had only one friend among all the servants of the family ; 
 for as to Mrs Wilkins, she had long since given him up, and was 
 perfectly reconciled to her mistress. This friend was the game- 
 keeper, a fellow of a loose kind of disposition, and who was 
 thought not to entertain much stricter notions concerning the 
 difference of meum and tuum than the young gentleman himself. 
 And hence this friendship gave occasion to many sarcastical 
 remarks among the domestics, most of which were either proverbs 
 before, or at least are become so now ; and, indeed, the wit of 
 them all may be comprised in that short Latin proverb, " Noscitur 
 a socio;'''' which, I think, is thus expressed in EngHsh, "You 
 may know him by the company he keeps." 
 
 To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, 
 of which we have just mentioned three examples, might perhaps 
 be derived from the encouragement he had received from his 
 fellow, who, in two or three instances, had been what the law 
 calls an accessary after the fact : for the whole duck, and great 
 part of the apples, were converted to the use of the gamekeeper 
 and his family ; though, as Jones alone was discovered, the poor 
 
 > Master Blifil is the son of Mrs. Blifil, formerly Miss Bridget Allworthy, and Captain 
 Blifil, now deceased. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 317 
 
 lad bore not only the whole smart, but the whole blame ; both 
 which fell again to his lot on the following occasion. 
 
 Contiguous to Mr AUworthy's estate was the manor of one 
 of those gentlemen who are called preservers of the game. This 
 species of men, from the great severity with which they revenge 
 the death of a hare or partridge, might be thought to cultivate 
 the same superstition with the Bannians in India ; many of 
 whom, we are told, dedicate their whole lives to the preservation 
 and protection of certain animals ; was it not that our English 
 Bannians, while they preserve them from other enemies, will 
 most unmercifully slaughter whole horseloads themselves ; 
 so that they stand clearly acquitted of any such heathenish 
 superstition. 
 
 I have, indeed, a much better opinion of this kind of men 
 than is entertained by some, as I take them to answer the order 
 of Nature, and the good purposes for which they were ordained, 
 in a more ample manner than many others. Now, as Horace 
 tells us that there are a set of human beings 
 
 Fruges consumere nati, 
 
 "Born to consume the fruits of the earth ; " so I make no manner 
 of doubt but that there are others 
 
 Feras consumere nati, 
 
 "Born to consume the beasts of the field ; " or, as it is commonly 
 called, the game ; and none, I believe, will deny but that those 
 squires fulfil this end of their creation. 
 
 Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; 
 when happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border 
 of that manor over which Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of 
 Nature, had planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew 
 into it, and were marked (as it is called) by the two sportsmen, 
 in some furze bushes, about two or three hundred paces beyond 
 Mr AUworthy's dominions. 
 
 Mr Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of 
 forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours ; 
 no more on those who were less rigid in this matter than on the 
 lord of this manor. With regard to others, indeed, these orders 
 
3i8 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 had not been always very scrupulously kept ; but as the disposition 
 of the gentleman with whom the partridges had taken sanctuary 
 was well known, the gamekeeper had never yet attempted to 
 invade his territories. Nor had he done it now, had not the 
 younger sportsman, who was excessively eager to pursue the flying 
 game, overpersuaded him ; but Jones being very importunate, 
 the other, who was himself keen enough after the sport, yielded 
 to his persuasions, entered the manor, and shot one of the 
 partridges. 
 
 The gentleman himself was at that time on horse-back, at a 
 little distance from them ; and hearing the gun go off, he im- 
 mediately made towards the place, and discovered poor Tom ; 
 for the gamekeeper had leapt into the thickest part of the furze- 
 brake, where he had happily concealed himself. 
 
 The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the par- 
 tridge upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would 
 acquaint Mr Allworthy. He was as good as his word : for he rode 
 immediately to his house, and complained of the trespass on his 
 manor in as high terms and as bitter language as if his house had 
 been broken open, and the most valuable furniture stole out of 
 it. He added, that some other person was in his company, 
 though he could not discover him ; for that two guns had been 
 discharged almost in the same instant. And, says he, "We 
 have found only this partridge, but the Lord knows what mischief 
 they have done." 
 
 At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr 
 Allworthy. He owned the fact, and alledged no other excuse 
 but what was really true, viz., that the covey was orginally 
 sprung in Mr Allworthy's own manor. 
 
 Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr 
 Allworthy declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the 
 culprit with the circumstance of the two guns, which had been 
 deposed by the squire and both his servants ; but Tom stoutly 
 persisted in asserting that he was alone ; yet, to say the truth, 
 he hesitated a Httle at first, which would have confirmed Mr 
 Allworthy's belief, had what the squire and his servants said 
 wanted any further confirmation. 
 
 The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 319 
 
 for, and the question put to him ; but he, relying on the promise 
 which Tom had made him, to take all upon himself, very reso- 
 lutely denied being in company with the young gentleman, or 
 indeed having seen him the whole afternoon. 
 
 Mr AUworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than usual 
 anger in his countenance, and advised him to confess who was 
 with him ; repeating, that he was resolved to know. The lad, 
 however, still maintained his resolution, and was dismissed with 
 much wrath by Mr AUworthy, who told him he should have to 
 the next morning to consider of it, when he should be questioned 
 by another person, and in another manner. 
 
 Poor Jones spent a very melancholy night ; and the more so, as 
 he was without his usual companion ; for Master BHfil was 
 gone abroad on a visit with his mother. Fear of the punishment 
 he was to suffer was on this occasion his least evil ; his chief 
 anxiety being, lest his constancy should fail him, and he should 
 be brought to betray the gamekeeper, whose ruin he knew must 
 now be the consequence. 
 
 Nor did the gamekeeper pass his time much better. He had 
 the same apprehensions with the youth ; for whose honour he 
 had likewise a much tenderer regard than for his skin. 
 
 In the morning, when Tom attended the reverend Mr 
 Thwackum, the person to whom Mr AUworthy had committed 
 the instruction of the two boys, he had the same questions put 
 to him by that gentleman which he had been asked the evening 
 before, to which he returned the same answers. The consequence 
 of this was, so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell little short 
 of the torture with which confessions are in some countries ex- 
 torted from criminals. 
 
 Tom bore his punishment with great resolution ; and though 
 his master asked him, between every stroke, whether he would not 
 confess, he was contented to be flead rather than betray his friend, 
 or break the promise he had made. 
 
 The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr 
 AUworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom's sufferings : 
 for besides that Mr Thwackum, being highly enraged that he was 
 not able to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had 
 carried his severity much beyond the good man's intention, this 
 
320 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 latter began now to suspect that the squire had been mistaken ; 
 which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make probable ; 
 and as for what the servants had said in confirmation of their 
 master's account, he laid no great stress upon that. Now, as 
 cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr Allworthy 
 could by no means support the consciousness a single moment, 
 he sent for Tom, and after many kind and friendly exhortations, 
 said, "I am convinced, my dear child, that my suspicions have 
 wronged you ; I am sorry that you have been so severely 
 punished on this account." And at last gave him a little 
 horse to make him amends ; again repeating his sorrow for 
 what had past. 
 
 Tom's guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could 
 make it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum, than 
 the generosity of Allworthy. The tears burst from his eyes, 
 and he fell upon his knees crying, "Oh, sir, you are too good to 
 me. Indeed you are. Indeed I don't deserve it." And at 
 that very instant, from the fulness of his heart, had almost 
 betrayed the secret ; but the good genius of the gamekeeper 
 suggested to him what might be the consequence to the poor 
 fellow, and this consideration sealed his lips. 
 
 Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from 
 showing any compassion or kindness to the boy saying, "He 
 had persisted in an untruth;" and gave some hints, that a 
 second whipping might probably bring the matter to light. 
 
 But Mr Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the ex- 
 periment. He said, the boy had suffered enough already for 
 concealing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he 
 could have no motive but a mistaken point of honour for 
 so doing. 
 
 "Honour!" cryed Thwackum, with some warmth, "mere 
 stubbornness and obstinacy ! Can honour teach any one to tell 
 a he, or can any honour exist independent of religion ?" 
 
 This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 321 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Containing a Necessary Apology for the Author ; and a Child- 
 ish Incident, which perhaps requires an Apology Likewise 
 
 Before I proceed farther, I shall beg leave to obviate some mis- 
 constructions into which the zeal of some few readers may lead 
 them ; for I would not willingly give offence to any, especially 
 to men who are warm in the cause of virtue or religion. 
 
 I hope, therefore, no man will, by the grossest misunderstand- 
 ing or perversion of my meaning, misrepresent me, as endeavour- 
 ing to cast any ridicule on the greatest perfections of human 
 nature ; and which do, indeed, alone purify and ennoble the heart 
 of man, and raise him above the brute creation. This, reader, I 
 will venture to say (and by how much the better man you are 
 yourself, by so much the more will you be inclined to believe me), 
 that I would rather have buried the sentiments of these two 
 persons in eternal oblivion, than have done any injury to either 
 of these glorious causes. 
 
 On the contrary, it is with a view to their service, that I have 
 taken upon me to record the lives and actions of two of their 
 false and pretended champions. A treacherous friend is the 
 most dangerous enemy ; and I will say boldly, that both religion 
 and virtue have received more real discredit from hypocrites 
 than the wittiest profligates or infidels could ever cast upon 
 them : nay, farther, as these two, in their purity, are rightly 
 called the bands of civil society, and are indeed the greatest of 
 blessings ; so when poisoned and corrupted with fraud, pretence, 
 and affectation, they have become the worst of civil curses, and 
 have enabled men to perpetrate the most cruel mischiefs to 
 their own species. 
 
 Indeed, I doubt not but this ridicule will in general be allowed : 
 my chief apprehension is, as many true and just sentiments 
 often came from the mouths of these persons, lest the whole 
 should be taken together, and I should be conceived to ridicule 
 all ahke. Now the reader will be pleased to consider, that, as 
 neither of these men were fools, they could not be supposed to 
 have holden none but wrong principles, and to have uttered 
 nothing but absurdities ; what injustice, therefore, must I have 
 
322 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 done to their characters, had I selected only what was bad ! 
 And how horribly wretched and maimed must their arguments 
 have appeared ! 
 
 Upon the whole, it is not religion or virtue, but the want of 
 them, which is here exposed. Had not Thwackum too much 
 neglected virtue, and Square,^ religion, in the composition of their 
 several systems, and had not both utterly discarded all natural 
 goodness of heart, they had never been represented as the objects 
 of derision in this history ; in which we will now proceed. 
 
 This matter then, which put an end to the debate mentioned 
 in the last chapter, was no other than a quarrel between Master 
 Blifil and Tom Jones, the consequence of which had been a 
 bloody nose to the former ; for though Master Blifil, notwith- 
 standing he was the younger, was in size above the other's match, 
 yet Tom was much his superior at the noble art of boxing. 
 
 Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that 
 youth ; for besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad 
 amidst all his roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr Thwackum 
 being always the second of the latter, would have been sufficient 
 to deter him. 
 
 But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours ; 
 it is therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference 
 arising at play between the two lads, Master Bhfil called Tom a 
 beggarly bastard. Upon which the latter, who was somewhat 
 passionate in his disposition, immediately caused that phenome- 
 non in the face of the former, which we have above remembered. 
 
 Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and 
 the tears galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his uncle 
 and the tremendous Thwackum. In which court an indictment 
 of assault, battery, and wounding, was instantly preferred 
 against Tom ; who in his excuse only pleaded the provocation, 
 which was indeed all the matter that Master Blifil had omitted. 
 
 It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped 
 his memory; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, that he 
 had made use of no such appellation; adding, "Heaven forbid 
 such naughty words should ever come out of his mouth !" 
 
 1 Mr. Square is a gentleman philosopher also resident at Mr. AUworthy's and diametrically 
 opposed in point of view to the Rev. Mr. Thwackum. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 323 
 
 Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance 
 of the words. Upon which Master Blifil said, "It is no wonder. 
 Those who will tell one lib, will hardly stick at another. If I 
 had told my master such a wicked fib as you have done, I should 
 be ashamed to show my face." 
 
 "What fib, child?" cries Thwackum pretty eagerly. 
 
 "Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting when 
 he killed the partridge; but he knows" (here he burst into a 
 flood of tears), "yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that 
 Black George the gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said — yes 
 you did — deny it if you can, that you would not have confest 
 the truth, though master had cut you to pieces." 
 
 At this the fire flashed from Thwackum's eyes, and he cried out 
 in triumph — "Oh ! ho ! this is your mistaken notion of honour ! 
 This is the boy who was not to be whipped again !" But Mr 
 Allworthy, with a more gentle aspect, turned towards the lad, 
 and said, "Is this true, child? How came you to persist so 
 obstinately in a falsehood ? " 
 
 Tom said, "He scorned a He as much as any one: but he 
 thought his honour engaged him to act as he did ; for he had 
 promised the poor fellow to conceal him: which," he said, "he 
 thought himself farther obliged to, as the gamekeeper had begged 
 him not to go into the gentleman's manor, and had at last gone 
 himself, in compliance with his persuasions." He said, "This 
 was the whole truth of the matter, and he would take his oath 
 of it ;" and concluded with very passionately begging Mr All- 
 worthy "to have compassion on the poor fellow's family, es- 
 pecially as he himself only had been guilty, and the other had 
 been very difficultly prevailed on to do what he did. Indeed, 
 sir," said he, "it could hardly be called a He that I told ; for the 
 poor fellow was entirely innocent of the whole matter. I should 
 have gone alone after the birds ; nay, I did go at first, and he 
 only followed me to prevent more mischief. Do, pray, sir, let 
 me be punished ; take my little horse away again ; but pray, 
 sir, forgive poor George." 
 
 Mr Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed 
 the boys, advising them to live more friendly and peaceably 
 together. 
 
324 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 1 
 
 The Opinions of the Divine and the Philosopher concerning 
 THE Two Boys; with some Reasons for their Opinions, 
 
 AND OTHER MATTERS 
 
 It is probable, that by disclosing this secret, which had been 
 communicated in the utmost confidence to him, young Blifil 
 preserved his companion from a good lashing ; for the offence 
 of the bloody nose would have been of itself sufficient cause for 
 Thwackum to have proceeded to correction ; but now this was 
 totally absorbed in the consideration of the other matter; and 
 with regard to this, Mr Allworthy declared privately, he thought 
 the boy deserved reward rather than punishment, so that 
 Thwackum's hand was withheld by a general pardon. 
 
 Thwackum, whose meditations were full of birch, exclaimed 
 against this weak, and, as he said he would venture to call it, 
 wicked lenity. To remit the punishment of such crimes was, 
 he said, to encourage them. He enlarged much on the correction 
 of children, and quoted many texts from Solomon, and others ; 
 which being to be found in so many other books, shall not 
 be found here. He then applied himself to the vice of lying, 
 on which head he was altogether as learned as he had been on 
 the other. 
 
 Square said, he had been endeavouring to reconcile the be- 
 haviour of Tom with his idea of perfect virtue, but could not. 
 He owned there was something which at first sight appeared Hke 
 fortitude in the action ; but as fortitude was a virtue, and false- 
 hood a vice, they could by no means agree or unite together. He 
 added, that as this was in some measure to confound virtue and 
 vice, it might be worth Mr Thwackum's consideration, whether a 
 larger castigation might not be laid on upon the account. 
 
 As both these learned men concurred in censuring Jones, so 
 were they no less unanimous in applauding Master Blifil. To 
 bring truth to light, was by the parson asserted to be the duty 
 of every religious man ; and by the philosopher this was declared 
 to be highly conformable with the rule of right, and the eternal 
 and unalterable fitness of things. 
 
 All this, however, weighed very little with Mr Allworthy. He 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JOxVES, A FOUNDLING 325 
 
 could not be prevailed on to sign the warrant for the execution of 
 Jones. There was something within his own breast with which 
 the invincible fidelity which that youth had preserved, corre- 
 sponded much better than it had done with the religion of 
 Thwackum, or with the virtue of Square. He therefore strictly 
 ordered the former of these gentlemen to abstain from laying 
 violent hands on Tom for what had past. The pedagogue was 
 obliged to obey those orders ; but not without great reluctance, 
 and frequent mutterings that the boy would be certainly spoiled. 
 
 Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more 
 severity. He presently summoned that poor fellow before him, 
 and after many bitter remonstrances, paid him his wages, and 
 dismist him from his service ; for Mr Allworthy rightly observed, 
 that there was a great difference between being guilty of a false- 
 hood to excuse yourself, and to excuse another. He likewise 
 urged, as the principal motive to his inflexible severity against 
 this man, that he had basely suffered Tom Jones to undergo 
 so heavy a punishment for his sake, whereas he ought to have 
 prevented it by making the discovery himself. 
 
 When the story became public, many people differed from 
 Square and Thwackum, in judging the conduct of the two lads 
 on the occasion. Master Blifil was generally called a sneaking 
 rascal, a poor-spirited wretch, with other epithets of the like kind ; 
 whilst Tom was honoured with the appellations of a brave lad, 
 a jolly dog, and an honest fellow. Indeed, his behaviour to 
 Black George much ingratiated him with all the servants ; for 
 though that fellow was before universally disliked, yet he was 
 no sooner turned away than he was as universally pitied ; and 
 the friendship and gallantry of Tom Jones was celebrated by 
 them all with the highest applause ; and they condemned Master 
 Blifil as openly as they durst, without incurring the danger of 
 offending his mother. For all this, however, poor Tom smarted 
 in the flesh ; for though Thwackum had been inhibited to exercise 
 his arm on the foregoing account, yet, as the proverb says. It is 
 easy to find a stick, &c. So was it easy to find a rod ; and, in- 
 deed, the not being able to find one was the only thing which could 
 have kept Thwackum any long time from chastising poor Jones. 
 
 Had the bare delight in the sport been the only inducement to 
 
^26 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 the pedagogue, it is probable Master Blifil would likewise have 
 had his share ; but though Mr Allworthy had given him frequent 
 orders to make no difference between the lads, yet was Thwackum 
 altogether as kind and gentle to this youth, as he was harsh, 
 nay even barbarous, to the other. To say the truth, BHfil had 
 greatly gained his master's affections ; partly by the profound 
 respect he always showed his person, but much more by the decent 
 reverence with which he received his doctrine ; for he had got by 
 heart, and frequently repeated, his phrases, and maintained all his 
 master's religious principles with a zeal which was surprizing in 
 one so young, and which greatly endeared him to the worthy 
 preceptor. 
 
 Tom Jones, on the other hand, was not only deficient in out- 
 ward tokens of respect, often forgetting to pull off his hat, or to 
 bow at his master's approach ; but was altogether as unmindful 
 both of his master's precepts and example. He was indeed a 
 thoughtless, giddy youth, with Uttle sobriety in his manners, and 
 less in his countenance ; and would often very impudently and 
 indecently laugh at his companion for his serious behaviour. 
 
 Mr Square had the same reason for his preference of the former 
 lad ; for Tom Jones showed no more regard to the learned dis- 
 courses which this gentleman would sometimes throw away 
 upon him, than to those of Thwackum. He once ventured to 
 make a jest of the rule of right ; and at another time said, he 
 believed there was no rule in the world capable of making such 
 a man as his father (for so Mr Allworthy suffered himself to 
 be called). 
 
 Master Bhfil, on the contrary, had address enough at sixteen 
 to recommend himself at one and the same time to both these 
 opposites. With one he was all religion, with the other he was all 
 virtue. And when both were present, he was profoundly silent, 
 which both interpreted in his favour and in their own. 
 
 Nor was Bhfil contented with flattering both these gentlemen to 
 their faces ; he took frequent occasions of praising them behind 
 their backs to Allworthy ; before whom, when they two were 
 alone, and his uncle commended any religious or virtuous senti- 
 ment (for many such came constantly from him) he seldom 
 failed to ascribe it to the good instructions he had received from 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 327 
 
 either Thwackum or Square ; for he knew his uncle repeated all 
 such compliments to the persons for whose use they were meant ; 
 and he found by experience the great impressions which they 
 made on the philosopher, as well as on the divine : for, to say 
 the truth, there is no kind of flattery so irresistible as this, at 
 second hand. 
 
 The young gentleman, moreover, soon perceived how extremely 
 grateful all those panegyrics on his instructors were to Mr 
 Allworthy himself, as they so loudly resounded the praise of 
 that singular plan of education which he had laid down; for 
 this worthy man having observed the imperfect institution of our 
 public schools, and the many vices which boys were there liable 
 to learn, had resolved to educate his nephew, as well as the other 
 lad, whom he had in a manner adopted, in his own house ; where 
 he thought their morals would escape all that danger of being 
 corrupted to which they would be unavoidably exposed in any 
 pubUc school or university. 
 
 Having, therefore, determined to commit these boys to the 
 tuition of a private tutor, Mr Thwackum was recommended 
 to him for that ofhce, by a very particular friend, of whose under- 
 standing Mr Allworthy had a great opinion, and in whose integ- 
 rity he placed much confidence. This Thwackum was fellow 
 of a college, where he almost entirely resided ; and had a 
 great reputation for learning, religion, and sobriety of manners. 
 And these were doubtless the qualifications by which Mr All- 
 worthy's friend had been induced to recommend him ; though 
 indeed this friend had some obligations to Thwackum's family, 
 who were the most considerable persons in a borough which that 
 gentleman represented in parliament. 
 
 Thwackum, at his first arrival, was extremely agreeable to 
 Allworthy ; and indeed he perfectly answered the character 
 which had been given of him. Upon longer acquaintance, how- 
 ever, and more intimate conversation, this worthy man saw in- 
 firmities in the tutor, which he could have wished him to have 
 been without ; though as those seemed greatly overbalanced by 
 his good quahties, they did not incline Mr Allworthy to part with 
 him : nor would they indeed have justified such a proceeding ; for 
 the reader is greatly mistaken, if he conceives that Thwackum ap- 
 
328 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 peared to Mr Allworthy in the same light as he doth to him in 
 this history ; and he is as much deceived, if he imagines that the 
 most intimate acquaintance which he himself could have had with 
 that divine, would have informed him of those things which we, 
 from our inspiration, are enabled to open and discover. Of 
 readers who, from such conceits as these, condemn the wisdom 
 or penetration of Mr Allworthy, I shall not scruple to say, that 
 they make a very bad and ungrateful use of that knowledge which 
 we have communicated to them. 
 
 These apparent errors in the doctrine of Thwackum served 
 greatly to palliate the contrary errors in that of Square, which our 
 good man no less saw and condemned. He thought, indeed, 
 that the different exuberancies of these gentlemen would correct 
 their different imperfections ; and that from both, especially 
 with his assistance, the two lads would derive sufficient precepts 
 of true religion and virtue. If the event happened contrary to 
 his expectations, this possibly proceeded from some fault in the 
 plan itself; which the reader hath my leave to discover, if he 
 can : for we do not pretend to introduce any infallible characters 
 into this history; where we hope nothing will be found which 
 hath never yet been seen in human nature. 
 
 To return therefore : the reader will not, I think, wonder that 
 the different behaviour of the two lads above commemorated, 
 produced the different effects of which he hath already seen some 
 instance ; and besides this, there was another reason for the con- 
 duct of the philosopher and the pedagogue ; but this being matter 
 of great importance, we shall reveal it in the next chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Containing a Better Reason still eor the before-mentioned 
 
 Opinions 
 
 It is to be known then, that those two learned personages, 
 who have lately made a considerable figure on the theatre of 
 this history, had, from their first arrival at Mr Allworthy's 
 house, taken so great an affection, the one to his virtue, the other 
 to his religion, that they had meditated the closest alliance with 
 him. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 329 
 
 For this purpose they had cast their eyes on that fair widow, 
 whom, though we have not for some time made any mention of 
 her, the reader, we trust, hath not forgot. Mrs BHfil was indeed 
 the object to which they both aspired. 
 
 It may seem remarkable, that, of four persons whom we have 
 commemorated at Mr Allworthy's house three of them should 
 fix their inclinations on a lady who was never greatly celebrated 
 for her beauty, and who was, moreover, now a little descended 
 into the vale of years ; but in reality bosom friends, and intimate 
 acquaintance, have a kind of natural propensity to particular 
 females at the house of a friend — viz., to his grandmother, 
 mother, sister, daughter, aunt, niece, or cousin, when they are 
 rich ; and to his wife, sister, daughter, niece, cousin, mistress, 
 or servant-maid, if they should be handsome. 
 
 We would not, however, have our reader imagine, that persons 
 of such characters as were supported by Thwackum and Square, 
 would undertake a matter of this kind, which hath been a little 
 censured by some rigid moralists, before they had thoroughly 
 examined it, and considered whether it was (as Shakespear 
 phrases it) "StufT o' th' conscience," or no. Thwackum was 
 encouraged to the undertaking by reflecting that to covet your 
 neighbour's sister is nowhere forbidden : and he knew it was a 
 rule in the construction of all laws, that " Expressum facit cessare 
 taciturn.'''' The sense of which is, "When a lawgiver sets down 
 plainly his whole meaning, we are prevented from making him 
 mean what we please ourselves." As some instances of women, 
 therefore, are mentioned in the divine law, which forbids us to 
 covet our neighbour's goods, and that of a sister omitted, he 
 concluded it to be lawful. And as to Square, who was in his 
 person what is called a jolly fellow, or a widow's man, he easily 
 reconciled his choice to the eternal fitness of things. 
 
 Now, as both of these gentlemen were industrious in taking 
 every opportunity of recommending themselves to the widow, 
 they apprehended one certain method was, by giving her son the 
 constant preference to the other lad ; and as they conceived the 
 kindness and affection which Mr Allworthy showed the latter, 
 must be highly disagreeable to her, they doubted not but the 
 laying hold on all occasions to degrade and viUfy him, would be 
 
330 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 highly pleasing to her ; who, as she hated the boy, must love 
 those who did him any hurt. In this Thwackum had the ad- 
 vantage ; for while Square could only scarify the poor lad's 
 reputation, he could flea his skin ;' and, indeed, he considered 
 every lash he gave him as a compliment paid to his mistress ; 
 so that he could, with the utmost propriety, repeat this old 
 flogging line, "Castigo te non quod odio habeam, sed quod Amem. 
 I chastise thee not out of hatred, but out of love." And this, 
 indeed, he often had in his mouth, or rather, according to the old 
 phrase, never more properly applied, at his fingers' ends. 
 
 For this reason, principally, the two gentlemen concurred, as 
 we have seen above, in their opinion concerning the two lads ; 
 this being, indeed, almost the only instance of their concurring 
 on any point ; for, beside the difference of their principles, they 
 had both long ago strongly suspected each other's design, and 
 hated one another with no little degree of inveteracy. 
 
 This mutual animosity was a good deal increased by their 
 alternate successes; for Mrs Blifil knew what they would be at 
 long before they imagined it ; or, indeed, intended she should : 
 for they proceeded with great caution, lest she should be offended, 
 and acquaint Mr Allworthy. But they had no reason for any 
 such fear ; she was well enough pleased with a passion, of which 
 she intended none should have any fruits but herself. And the 
 only fruits she designed for herself were, flattery and courtship ; 
 for which purpose she soothed them by turns, and a long time 
 equally. She was, indeed, rather inclined to favour the parson's 
 principles ; but Square's person was more agreeable to her eye, 
 for he was a comely man ; whereas the pedagogue did in counte- 
 nance very nearly resemble that gentleman, who, in the Harlot's 
 Progress, is seen correcting the ladies in Bridewell. 
 
 Whether Mrs Blifil had been surfeited with the sweets of mar- 
 riage, or disgusted by its bitters, or from what other cause it 
 proceeded, I will not determine ; but she could never be brought 
 to listen to any second proposals. However, she at last conversed 
 with Square with such a degree of intimacy that malicious tongues 
 began to whisper things of her, to which, as well for the sake of 
 the lady, as that they were highly disagreeable to the rule of 
 right and the fitness of things, we will give no credit, and therefore 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 331 
 
 shall not blot our paper with them. The pedagogue, 'tis certain, 
 whipped on, without getting a step nearer to his journey's end. 
 
 Indeed he had committed a great error, and that Square 
 discovered much sooner than himself. Mrs Blifil (as, perhaps, 
 the reader may have formerly guessed) was not over and above 
 pleased with the behaviour of her husband ; nay, to be honest, 
 she absolutely hated him, till his death at last a little reconciled 
 him to her affections. It will not be therefore greatly wondered 
 at, if she had not the most violent regard to the offspring she had 
 by him. And, in fact, she had so little of this regard, that in 
 his infancy she seldom saw her son, or took any notice of him ; 
 and hence she acquiesced, after a little reluctance, in all the fa- 
 vours which Mr Allworthy showered on the foundling ; whom 
 the good man called his own boy, and in all things put on an 
 entire equality with Master Blifil. This acquiescence in Mrs 
 Blifil was considered by the neighbours, and by the family, as a 
 mark of her condescension to her brother's humour, and she was 
 imagined by all others, as well as Thwackum and Square, to hate 
 the foundling in her heart ; nay, the more civility she showed him, 
 the more they conceived she detested him, and the surer schemes 
 she was laying for his ruin : for as they thought it her inter- 
 est to hate him, it was very difficult for her to persuade them she 
 did not. 
 
 Thwackum was the more confirmed in his opinion, as she had 
 more than once shly caused him to whip Tom Jones, when Mr 
 Allworthy, who was an enemy to this exercise, was abroad ; 
 whereas she had never given any such orders concerning young 
 Blifil. And this had likewise imposed upon Square. In reality, 
 though she certainly hated her own son — of which, however 
 monstrous it appears, I am assured she is not a singular instance 
 — she appeared, notwithstanding all her outward compliance, 
 to be in her heart sufficiently displeased with all the favour 
 shown by Mr Allworthy to the foundfing. She frequently com- 
 plained of this behind her brother's back, and very sharply 
 censured him for it, both to Thwackum and Square ; nay, she 
 would throw it in the teeth of Allworthy himself, when a Uttle 
 quarrel, or miff, as it is vulgarly called, arose between them. 
 
 However, when Tom grew up, and gave tokens of that gallantry 
 
332 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 of temper which greatly recommends men to women, this disin- 
 chnation which she had discovered to him when a child, by de- 
 grees abated, and at last she so evidently demonstrated her 
 affection to him to be much stronger than what she bore her own 
 son, that it was impossible to mistake her any longer. She was 
 so desirous of often seeing him, and discovered such satisfaction 
 and delight in his company, that before he was eighteen years 
 old he was become a rival to both Square and Thwackum ; and 
 what is worse, the whole country began to talk as loudly of her 
 inclination to Tom, as they had before done of that which she 
 had shown to Square: on which account the philosopher con- 
 ceived the most implacable hatred for our poor heroe. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 In which the Author himself makes his Appearance on 
 
 THE Stage 
 
 Though Mr Allworthy was not of himself hasty to see things 
 in a disadvantageous light, and was a stranger to the public 
 voice, which seldom reaches to a brother or a husband, though it 
 rings in the ears of all the neighbourhood ; yet was this affection 
 of Mrs Blifil to Tom, and the preference which she too visibly gave 
 him to her own son, of the utmost disadvantage to that youth. 
 
 For such was the compassion which inhabited Mr Allworthy's 
 mind, that nothing but the steel of justice could ever subdue it. 
 To be unfortunate in any respect was sufficient, if there was no 
 demerit to counterpoise it, to turn the scale of that good man's 
 pity, and to engage his friendship and his benefaction. 
 
 When therefore he plainly saw Master Blifil was absolutely 
 detested (for that he was) by his own mother, he began, on that 
 account only, to look with an eye of compassion upon him ; and 
 what the effects of compassion are, in good and benevolent minds, 
 I need not here explain to most of my readers. 
 
 Henceforward he saw every appearance of virtue in the youth 
 through the magnifying end, and viewed all his faults with the 
 glass inverted, so that they became scarce perceptible. And 
 this perhaps the amiable temper of pity may make commendable ; 
 but the next step the weakness of human nature alone must 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING ^7,7, 
 
 excuse ; for he no sooner perceived that preference which Mrs 
 Blifil gave to Tom, than that poor youth (however innocent) 
 began to sink in his affections as he rose in hers. This, it is 
 true, would of itself alone never have been able to eradicate 
 Jones from his bosom ; but it was greatly injurious to him, and 
 prepared Mr Allworthy's mind for those impressions which 
 afterwards produced the mighty events that will be contained 
 hereafter in this history ; and to which, it must be confest, the 
 unfortunate lad, by his own wantonness, wildness, and want 
 of caution, too much contributed. 
 
 In recording some instances of these, we shall, if rightly under- 
 stood, afford a very useful lesson to those well-disposed youths 
 who shall hereafter be our readers ; for they may here find, that 
 goodness of heart, and openness of temper, though these may give 
 them great comfort within, and administer to an honest pride in 
 their own minds, will by no means, alas ! do their business in 
 the world. Prudence and circumspection are necessary even to 
 the best of men. They are indeed, as it were, a guard to Virtue, 
 without which she can never be safe. It is not enough that your 
 designs, nay, that your actions, are intrinsically good ; you must 
 take care they shall appear so. If your inside be never so beauti- 
 ful, you must preserve a fair outside also. This must be con- 
 stantly looked to, or malice and envy will take care to blacken it 
 so, that the sagacity and goodness of an Allworthy will not be able 
 to see through it, and to discern the beauties within. Let this, 
 my young readers, be your constant maxim, that no man can be 
 good enough to enable him to neglect the rules of prudence ; nor 
 will Virtue herself look beautiful, unless she be bedecked with the 
 outward ornaments of decency and decorum. And this precept, 
 my worthy disciples, if you read with due attention, you will, I 
 hope, find sufficiently enforced by examples in the following pages. 
 
 I ask pardon for this short appearance, by way of chorus, on 
 the stage. It is in reality for my own sake, that, while I am dis- 
 covering the rocks on which innocence and goodness often split, 
 I may not be misunderstood to recommend the, very means to 
 my worthy readers, by which I intend to show them they will be 
 undone. And this, as I could not prevail on any of my actors 
 to speak, I myself was obliged to declare. 
 
334 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A Childish Incident, in which, however, is seen a Good- 
 natured Disposition in Tom Jones 
 
 The reader may remember that Mr Allworthy gave Tom Jones 
 a little horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punishment which 
 he imagined he had suffered innocently. 
 
 This horse Tom kept above half a year, and then rode him to a 
 neighbouring fair, and sold him. 
 
 At his return, being questioned by Thwackum what he had 
 done with the money for which the horse was sold, he frankly 
 declared he would not tell him. 
 
 " Oho ! " says Thwackum, "you will not ! then I will have it out 
 of your br — h ; " that being the place to which he always applied 
 for information on every doubtful occasion. 
 
 Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and every- 
 thing prepared for execution, when Mr Allworthy, entering the 
 room, gave the criminal a reprieve, and took him with him into 
 another apartment; where, being alone with Tom, he put the 
 same question to him which Thwackum had before asked him. 
 
 Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing ; but as 
 for that tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other 
 answer than with a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be able 
 to pay him for all his barbarities. 
 
 Mr Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his in- 
 decent and disrespectful expressions concerning his master ; 
 but much more for his avowing an intention of revenge. He 
 threatened him with the entire loss of his favour, if he ever heard 
 such another word from his mouth ; for, he said, he would never 
 support or befriend a reprobate. By these and the like declara- 
 tions, he extorted some compunction from Tom, in which that 
 youth was not over-sincere ; for he really meditated some return 
 for all the smarting favours he had received at the hands of the 
 pedagogue. He was, however, brought by Mr Allworthy to 
 express a concern for his resentment against Thwackum ; and 
 then the good man, after some wholesome admonition, permitted 
 him to proceed, which he did as follows : — 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 335 
 
 "Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all 
 the world : I know the great obligations I have to you, and should 
 detest myself if I thought my heart was capable of ingratitude. 
 Could the little horse you gave me speak, I am sure he could tell 
 you how fond I was of your present ; for I had more pleasure in 
 feeding him than in riding him. Indeed, sir, it went to my heart 
 to part with him ; nor would I have sold him upon any other 
 account in the world than what I did. You yourself, sir, I am 
 convinced, in my case, would have done the same : for none ever 
 so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. What would you feel, 
 dear sir, if you thought yourself the occasion of them ? Indeed, 
 sir, there never was any misery like theirs." 
 
 "Like v/hose, child ? " says Allworthy : "What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Oh, sir !" answered Tom, "your poor gamekeeper, with all 
 his large family, ever since your discarding him, have been 
 perishing with all the miseries of cold and hunger : I could not 
 bear to see these poor wretches naked and starving, and at the 
 same time know myself to have been the occasion of all their 
 sufferings. I could not bear it, sir ; upon my soul, I could not." 
 [Here the tears ran down his cheeks, and he thus proceeded.] 
 "It was to save them from absolute destruction I parted with 
 your dear present, notwithstanding all the value I had for it : 
 I sold the horse for them, and they have every farthing of the 
 money." 
 
 Mr Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and before 
 he spoke the tears started from his eyes. He at length dismissed 
 Tom with a gentle rebuke, advising him for the future to apply 
 to him in cases of distress, rather than to use extraordinary means 
 of reheving them himself. 
 
 This affair was afterwards the subject of much debate between 
 Thwackum and Square. Thwackum held, that this was flying 
 in Mr Allworthy's face, who had intended to punish the fellow 
 for his disobedience. He said, in some instances, what the world 
 called charity appeared to him to be opposing the will of the 
 Almighty, which had marked some particular persons for destruc- 
 tion ; and that this was in like manner acting in opposition to Mr 
 Allworthy ; concluding, as usual, with a hearty recommendation 
 of birch. 
 
336 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 Square argued strongly on the other side, in opposition perhaps 
 to Thwackum, or in comphance with Mr Allworthy, who seemed 
 very much to approve what Jones had done. As to what he urged 
 on this occasion, as I am convinced most of my readers will be 
 much abler advocates for poor Jones, it would be impertinent 
 to relate it. Indeed it was not difficult to reconcile to the rule 
 of right an action which it would have been impossible to deduce 
 from the rule of wrong. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Containing an Incident of a more Heinous Kind, with the 
 Comments or Thwackum and Square 
 
 It hath been observed by some man of much greater reputation 
 for wisdom than myself, that misfortunes seldom come single. 
 An instance of this may, I believe, be seen in those gentlemen 
 who have the misfortune to have any of their rogueries detected ; 
 for here discovery seldom stops till the whole is come out. Thus 
 it happened to poor Tom ; who was no sooner pardoned for selHng 
 the horse, than he was discovered to have some time before sold 
 a fine Bible which Mr Allworthy gave him, the money arising from 
 which sale he had disposed of in the same manner. This Bible 
 Master Blifil had purchased, though he had already such another 
 of his own, partly out of respect for the book, and partly out of 
 friendship to Tom, being unwilling that the Bible should be sold 
 out of the family at half-price. He therefore deposited the said 
 half-price himself ; for he was a very prudent lad, and so careful 
 of his money, that he had laid up almost every penny which he 
 had received from Mr Allworthy. 
 
 Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book but 
 their own. On the contrary, from the time when Master Bhfil 
 was first possessed of this Bible, he never used any other. Nay, 
 he was seen reading in it much oftener than he had before been 
 in his own. Now, as he frequently asked Thwackum to explain 
 difficult passages to him, that gentleman unfortunately took 
 notice of Tom's name, which was written in many parts of the 
 book. This brought on an inquiry, which obliged Master Blifil 
 to discover the whole matter. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 337 
 
 Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called 
 sacrilege, should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded 
 immediately to castigation : and not contented with that he 
 acquainted Mr AUworthy, at their next meeting, with this mon- 
 strous crime, as it appeared to him : inveighing against Tom in 
 the most bitter terms, and likening him to the buyers and sellers 
 who were driven out of the temple. 
 
 Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, 
 he could not perceive any higher crime in selling one book than 
 in selHng another. That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by 
 all laws both Divine and human, and consequently there was 
 no unfitness in it. He told Thwackum, that his great concern 
 on this occasion brought to his mind the story of a very devout 
 woman, who, out of pure regard to religion, stole Tillotson's 
 Sermons from a lady of her acquaintance. 
 
 This story caused a vast quantity of blood to rush into the 
 parson's face, which of itself was none of the palest ; and he was 
 going to reply with great warmth and anger, had not Mrs Blifil, 
 who was present at this debate, interposed. That lady declared 
 herself absolutely of Mr Square's side. She argued, indeed, 
 very learnedly in support of his opinion ; and concluded with 
 saying, if Tom had been guilty of any fault, she must confess 
 her own son appeared to be equally culpable ; for that she could 
 see no difference between the buyer and the seller; both of 
 whom were alike to be driven out of the temple. 
 
 Mrs Blifil having declared her opinion, put an end to the 
 debate. Square's triumph would almost have stopt his words, 
 had he needed them ; and Thwackum, who, for reasons before- 
 mentioned, durst not venture at disobliging the lady, was almost 
 choaked with indignation. As to Mr AUworthy, he said, since 
 the boy had been already punished he would not deliver his 
 sentiments on the occasion ; and whether he was or was not 
 angry with the lad, I must leave to the reader's own conjecture. 
 
 Soon after this, an action was brought against the gamekeeper 
 by Squire Western (the gentleman in whose manor the partridge 
 was killed), for depredations of the like kind. This was a most 
 unfortunate circumstance for the fellow, as it not only of itself 
 threatened his ruin, but actually prevented Mr AUworthy from 
 
338 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 restoring him to his favour: for as that gentleman was walking 
 out one evening with Master Bhfil and young Jones, the latter 
 slily drew him to the habitation of Black George ; where the 
 family of that poor wretch, namely, his wife and children, were 
 found in all the misery with which cold, hunger, and nakedness, 
 can affect human creatures : for as to the money they had re- 
 ceived from Jones, former debts had consumed almost the whole. 
 
 Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of 
 Mr Allworthy. He immediately gave the mother a couple of 
 guineas, with which he bid her cloath her children. The poor 
 woman burst into tears at this goodness, and while she was 
 thanking him, could not refrain from expressing her gratitude 
 to Tom ; who had, she said, long preserved both her and hers 
 from starving. "We have not," says she, "had a morsel to 
 eat, nor have these poor children had a rag to put on, but what 
 his goodness hath bestowed on us." For, indeed, besides the 
 horse and the Bible, Tom had sacrificed a night-gown, and other 
 things, to the use of this distressed family. 
 
 On their return home, Tom made use of all his eloquence to 
 display the wretchedness of these people, and the penitence of 
 Black George himself ; and in this he succeeded so well, that Mr 
 Allworthy said, he thought the man had suffered enough for 
 what was past ; that he would forgive him, and think of some 
 means of providing for him and his family. 
 
 Jones was so delighted with this news, that, though it was 
 dark when they returned home, he could not help going back a 
 mile, in a shower of rain, to acquaint the poor woman with the 
 glad tidings ; but, like other hasty divulgers of news, he only 
 brought on himself the trouble of contradicting it : for the ill- 
 fortune of Black George made use of the very opportunity of his 
 friend's absence to overturn all again. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 In which Master Blifil and Jones appear in Different Lights 
 
 Master Blifil fell very short of his companion in the amiable 
 quality of mercy ; but he as greatly exceeded him in one of a 
 much higher kind, namely, in justice : in which he followed both 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 339 
 
 the precepts and example of Thwackum and Square ; for though 
 they would both make frequent use of the word mercy, yet it 
 was plain that in reality Square held it to be inconsistent with 
 the rule of right ; and Thwackum was for doing justice, and leav- 
 ing mercy to heaven. The two gentlemen did indeed somewhat 
 differ in opinion concerning the objects of this sublime virtue ; 
 by which Thwackum would probably have destroyed one half 
 of mankind, and Square the other half. 
 
 Master Blifil then, though he had kept silence in the presence 
 of Jones, yet, when he had better considered the matter, could 
 by no means endure the thought of suffering his uncle to confer 
 favours on the undeserving. He therefore resolved immediately 
 to acquaint him with the fact which we have above slightly 
 hinted to the readers. The truth of which was as follows : 
 
 The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from 
 Mr Allworthy's service, and before Tom's selHng the horse, being 
 in want of bread, either to fill his own mouth or those of his 
 family, as he passed through a field belonging to Mr Western 
 espied a hare sitting in her form. This hare he had basely and 
 barbarously knocked on the head, against the laws of the land, 
 and no less against the laws of sportsmen. 
 
 The higgler to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately 
 taken many months after with a quantity of game upon him, 
 was obliged to make his peace with the squire, by becoming 
 evidence against some poacher. And now Black George was 
 pitched upon by him, as being a person already obnoxious to 
 Mr Western, and one of no good fame in the country. He was, 
 besides, the best sacrifice the higgler could make, as he had sup- 
 plied him with no game since ; and by this means the witness had 
 an opportunity of screening his better customers : for the squire, 
 being charmed with the power of punishing Black George, whom a 
 single transgression was sufficient to ruin, made no further enquiry. 
 
 Had this fact been truly laid before Mr Allworthy, it might 
 probably have done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But 
 there is no zeal blinder than that which is inspired with the love 
 of justice against offenders. Master Blifil had forgot the distance 
 of the time. He varied likewise in the manner of the fact : 
 and by the hasty addition of the single letter S he considerably 
 
340 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 altered the story; for he said that George had wired hares. 
 These alterations might probably have been set right, had not 
 Master Blifil unluckily insisted on a promise of secrecy from 
 Mr Allworthy before he revealed the matter to him ; but by that 
 means the poor gamekeeper was condemned without having an 
 opportunity to defend himself : for as the fact of killing the hare, 
 and of the action brought, were certainly true, Mr Allworthy 
 had no doubt concerning the rest. 
 
 Short-lived then was the joy of these poor people ; for Mr 
 Allworthy the next morning declared he had fresh reason, with- 
 out assigning it, for his anger, and strictly forbad Tom to mention 
 George any more : though as for his family, he said he would 
 endeavour to keep them from starving ; but as to the fellow 
 himself, he would leave him to the laws, which nothing could 
 keep him from breaking. 
 
 Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr All- 
 worthy, for of Master Blifil he had not the least suspicion. 
 However, as his friendship was to be tired out by no disap- 
 pointments, he now determined to try another method of pre- 
 serving the poor gamekeeper from ruin. 
 
 Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr Western. He 
 had so greatly recommended himself to that gentleman, by 
 leaping over five-barred gates, and by other acts of sportsman- 
 ship, that the squire had declared Tom would certainly make a 
 great man if he had but sufficient encouragement. He often 
 wished he had himself a son with such parts ; and one day very 
 solemnly asserted at a drinking bout, that Tom should hunt a 
 pack of hounds for a thousand pound of his money, with any 
 huntsman in the whole country. 
 
 By such kind of talents he had so ingratiated himself with 
 the squire, that he was a most welcome guest at his table, and a 
 favourite companion in his sport : everything which the squire 
 held most dear, to wit, his guns, dogs, and horses, were now as 
 much at the command of Jones, as if they had been his own. 
 He resolved therefore to make use of this favour on behalf of 
 his friend Black George, whom he hoped to introduce into Mr 
 Western's family, in the same capacity in which he had before 
 served Mr Allworthy. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 341 
 
 The reader, if he considers that this fellow was already ob- 
 noxious to Mr Western, and if he considers farther the weighty 
 business by which that gentleman's displeasure had been in- 
 curred, will perhaps condemn this as a foolish and desperate 
 undertaking ; but if he should totally condemn young Jones on 
 that account, he will greatly applaud him for strengthening 
 himself with all imaginable interest on so arduous an occasion. 
 
 For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr Western's daughter, 
 a young lady of about seventeen years of age, whom her father, 
 next after those necessary implements of sport just before men- 
 tioned, loved and esteemed above all the world. Now, as she 
 had some influence on the squire, so Tom had some little in- 
 fluence on her. But this being the intended heroine of this 
 work, a lady with whom we ourselves are greatly in love, and 
 with whom many of our readers will probably be in love, too, 
 before we part, it is by no means proper she should make her 
 appearance at the end of a book. 
 
 CONTAINING THE TIME OF A YEAR 
 
 BOOK IV. CHAPTER I 
 
 Containing Five Pages of Paper 
 
 As truth distinguishes our writings from those idle romances 
 which are filled with monsters, the productions, not of nature, 
 but of distempered brains ; and which have been therefore recom- 
 mended by an eminent critic to the sole use of the pastry-cook ; 
 so, on the other hand, we would avoid any resemblance to that 
 kind of history which a celebrated poet seems to think is no less 
 calculated for the emolument of the brewer, as the reading it 
 should be always attended with a tankard of good ale — 
 
 While — history with her comrade ale, 
 Soothes the sad series of her serious tale. 
 
 For as this is the liquor of modern historians, nay, perhaps 
 their muse, if we may beheve the opinion of Butler, who attrib- 
 utes inspiration to ale, it ought likewise to be the potation of 
 their readers, since every book ought to be read with the same 
 spirit and in the same manner as it is writ. Thus the famous 
 
342 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 author of Hurlothrumbo told a learned bishop, that the reason 
 his lordship could not taste the excellence of his piece was, that 
 he did not read it with a fiddle in his hand ; which instrument 
 he himself had always had in his own, when he composed it. 
 
 That our work, therefore, might be in no danger of being 
 likened to the labours of these historians, we have taken every 
 occasion of interspersing through the whole sundry similes, de- 
 scriptions, and other kind of poetical embellishments. These 
 are, indeed, designed to supply the place of the said ale, and to 
 refresh the mind, whenever those slumbers, which in a long work 
 are apt to invade the reader as well as the writer, shall begin to 
 creep upon him. Without interruptions of this kind, the best 
 narrative of plain matter of fact must overpower every reader; 
 for nothing but the everlasting watchfulness, which Homer has 
 ascribed only to Jove himself, can be proof against a newspaper 
 of many volumes. 
 
 We shall leave to the reader to determine with what judgment 
 we have chosen the several occasions for inserting those orna- 
 mental parts of our work. Surely it will be allowed that none 
 could be more proper than the present, where we are about to 
 introduce a considerable character on the scene ; no less, indeed, 
 than the heroine of this heroic, historical, prosaic poem. Here, 
 therefore, we have thought proper to prepare the mind of the 
 reader for her reception, by filling it with every pleasing image 
 which we can draw from the face of nature. And for this method 
 we plead many precedents. First, this is an art well known 
 to, and much practised by, our tragick poets, who seldom fail 
 to prepare their audience for the reception of their principal 
 characters. 
 
 Thus the heroe is always introduced with a flourish of drums 
 and trumpets, in order to rouse a martial spirit in the audience, 
 and to accommodate their ears to bombast and fustian, which 
 Mr Locke's blind man would not have grossly erred in likening 
 to the sound of a trumpet. Again, when lovers are coming forth, 
 soft music often conducts them on the stage, either to soothe the 
 audience with the softness of the tender passion, or to lull and 
 prepare them for that gentle slumber in which they will most 
 probably be composed by the ensuing scene. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 343 
 
 And not only the poets, but the masters of these poets, the 
 managers of playhouses, seem to be in this secret; for, besides 
 the aforesaid kettle-drums, &c., which denote the heroe's ap- 
 proach, he is generally ushered on the stage by a large troop of 
 half a dozen scene-shifters ; and how necessary these are imagined 
 to his appearance, may be concluded from the following theatri- 
 cal story : — 
 
 King Pyrrhus was at dinner at an ale-house bordering on the 
 theatre, when he was summoned to go on the stage. The heroe, 
 being unwilling to quit his shoulder of mutton, and as unwilling 
 to draw on himself the indignation of Mr Wilks (his brother- 
 manager) for making the audience wait, had bribed these his 
 harbingers to be out of the way. While Mr Wilks, therefore, 
 was thundering out, "Where are the carpenters to walk on 
 before King Pyrrhus?" that monarch very quietly eat his 
 mutton, and the audience however impatient, were obliged to 
 entertain themselves with music in his absence. 
 
 To be plain, I much question whether the politician, who hath 
 generally a good nose, hath not scented out somewhat of the 
 utility of this practice. I am convinced that awful magistrate 
 my lord-mayor contracts a good deal of that reverence which 
 attends him through the year, by the several pageants which 
 precede his pomp. Nay, I must confess, that even I myself, 
 who am not remarkably liable to be captivated with show, have 
 yielded not a little to the impressions of much preceding state. 
 When I have seen a man strutting in a procession, after others 
 whose business was only to walk before him, I have conceived 
 a higher notion of his dignity than I have felt on seeing him in 
 a common situation. But there is one instance, which comes 
 exactly up to my purpose. This is the custom of sending on a 
 basket-woman, who is to precede the pomp at a coronation, 
 and to strew the stage with flowers, before the great personages 
 begin their procession. The antients would certainly have 
 invoked the goddess Flora for this purpose, and it would have 
 been no difliculty for their priests, or politicians to have per- 
 suaded the people of the real presence of the deity, though a 
 plain mortal had personated her and performed her offlce. But 
 we have no such design of imposing on our reader ; and therefore 
 
344 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 those who object to the heathen theology, may, if they please, 
 change our goddess into the above-mentioned basket-woman. 
 Our intention, in short, is to introduce our heroine with the 
 utmost solemnity in our power, with an elevation of stile, and 
 all other circumstances proper to raise the veneration of our 
 reader. Indeed we would, for certain causes, advise those of 
 our male readers who have any hearts, to read no farther, were 
 we not well assured, that how amiable soever the picture of our 
 heroine will appear, as it is really a copy from nature, many of 
 our fair countrywomen will be found worthy to satisfy any pas- 
 sion, and to answer any idea of female perfection which our 
 pencil will be able to raise. 
 
 And now, without any further preface, we proceed to our next 
 chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 A Short Hint or what we can do in the Sublime, and a 
 Description of Miss Sophia Western 
 
 Hushed be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of 
 the winds confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of noisy 
 Boreas, and the sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting Eurus. Do 
 thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant bed, mount the 
 western sky, and lead on those delicious gales, the charms of 
 which call forth the lovely Flora from her chamber, perfumed 
 with pearly dews, when on the ist of June, her birth-day, the 
 blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over the verdant 
 mead, where every flower rises to do her homage, till the whole 
 field becomes enamelled, and colours contend with sweets which 
 shall ravish her most. 
 
 So charming may she now appear ! and you the feathered 
 choristers of nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can 
 excell, tune your melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. 
 From love proceeds your music, and to love it returns. Awaken 
 therefore that gentle passion in every swain : for lo ! adorned 
 with all the charms in which nature can array her ; bedecked with 
 beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, and tender- 
 ness, breathing sweetness from her rosy lips, and darting bright- 
 ness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes ! 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 345 
 
 Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus 
 de Medicis. Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beau- 
 ties at Hampton Court. Thou may'st remember each bright 
 Churchill of the galaxy, and all the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if 
 their reign was before thy times, at least thou hast seen their 
 daughters, the no less dazzling beauties of the present age ; 
 whose names, should we here insert, we apprehend they would 
 fill the whole volume. 
 
 Now if thou hast seen all these, be not afraid of the rude 
 answer which Lord Rochester once gave to a man who had seen 
 many things. No. If thou hast seen all these without know- 
 ing what beauty is, thou hast no eyes ; if without feehng its 
 power, thou hast no heart. 
 
 Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all 
 these without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia ; for 
 she did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like 
 the picture of Lady Ranelagh : and, I have heard, more still to 
 the famous dutchess of Mazarine ; but most of all she resembled 
 one whose image never can depart from my breast, and whom, 
 if thou dost remember, thou hast then, my friend, an adequate 
 idea of Sophia. 
 
 But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will en- 
 deavour with our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though 
 we are sensible that our highest abilities are very inadequate to 
 the task. 
 
 Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr Western, was a middle- 
 sized woman ; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was not 
 only exact, but extremely delicate : and the nice proportion of 
 her arms promised the truest symmetry in her limbs. Her 
 hair, which was black, was so luxuriant, that it reached her 
 middle, before she cut it to comply with the modern fashion ; 
 and it was now curled so gracefully in her neck, that few could 
 believe it to be her own. If envy could find any part of the face 
 which demanded less commendation than the rest, it might 
 possibly think her forehead might have been higher without 
 prejudice to her. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched 
 beyond the power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre 
 in them, which all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose 
 
346 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 was exactly regular, and her mouth, in which were two rows of 
 ivory, exactly answered Sir John Suckhng's description in those 
 lines : — 
 
 Her lips were red, and one was thin, 
 
 Compar'd to that was next her chin. 
 Some bee had stung it newly. 
 
 Her cheeks were of the oval kind ; and in her right she had a 
 dimple, which the least smile discovered. Her chin had cer- 
 tainly its share in forming the beauty of her face ; but it was 
 difficult to say it was either large or small, though perhaps it 
 was rather of the former kind. Her complexion had rather more 
 of the lily than of the rose ; but when exercise or modesty in- 
 creased her natural colour, no vermiHon could equal it. Then 
 one might indeed cry out with the celebrated Dr Donne : 
 
 Her pure and eloquent blood 
 
 Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought 
 That one might almost say her body thought. 
 
 Her neck was long and finely turned : and here, if I was not 
 afraid of offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest 
 beauties of the famous Venus de Medicis were outdone. Here 
 was whiteness which no lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. 
 The finest cambric might indeed be supposed from envy to 
 cover that bosom which was much whiter than itself. — It 
 was indeed, 
 
 Nitor splendens Pario marmore purius. 
 A gloss shining beyond the purest brightness of Parian marble. 
 
 Such was the outside of Sophia ; nor was this beautiful frame 
 disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every 
 way equal to her person ; nay, the latter borrowed some charms 
 from the former ; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her 
 temper diffused that glory over her countenance which no 
 regularity of features can give. But as there are no perfections 
 of the mind which do not discover themselves in that perfect 
 intimacy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this 
 charming young creature, so it is needless to mention them here : 
 nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader's understanding, 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 347 
 
 and may also rob him of that pleasure which he will receive in 
 forming his own judgment of her character. 
 
 It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental 
 accomplishments she had derived from nature, they were some- 
 what improved and cultivated by art : for she had been educated 
 under the care of an aunt, who was a lady of great discretion, 
 and was thoroughly acquainted with the world, having lived in 
 her youth about the court, whence she had retired some years 
 since into the country. By her conversation and instructions, 
 Sophia was perfectly well bred, though perhaps she wanted a 
 little of that ease in her behaviour which is to be acquired only 
 by habit, and living within what is called the pohte circle. But 
 this, to say the truth, is often too dearly purchased ; and though 
 it hath charms so inexpressible, that the French, perhaps, among 
 other qualities, mean to express this, when they declare they 
 know not what it is ; yet its absence is well compensated by 
 innocence ; nor can good sense and a natural gentility ever stand 
 in need of it. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Wherein the History goes back to commemorate a Tripling 
 
 Incident that happened Some Years since ; but which, 
 
 Trifling as it was, had some Future Consequences 
 
 The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year, when 
 she is introduced into this history. Her father, as hath been 
 said, was fonder of her than of any other human creature. To 
 her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in order to engage her interest 
 on the behalf of his friend the gamekeeper. 
 
 But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation 
 of some previous matters may be necessary. 
 
 Though the different tempers of Mr Allworthy and of Mr 
 Western did not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet 
 they Hved upon what is called a decent footing together ; by 
 which means the young people of both families had been ac- 
 quainted from their infancy ; and as they were all near of the 
 same age, had been frequent playmates together. 
 
 The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia, than 
 
348 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the pref- 
 erence which she gave the former of these, would often appear 
 so plainly, that a lad of a more passionate turn than Master 
 Blifil was, might have shown some displeasure at it. 
 
 As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, 
 it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses 
 of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most 
 secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and 
 cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the 
 world. 
 
 However, as persons who suspect they have given others 
 cause of offence, are apt to conclude they are offended ; so Sophia 
 imputed an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the supe- 
 rior sagacity of Thwackum and Square discerned to have arisen 
 from a much better principle. 
 
 Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a 
 little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, 
 and taught to sing. 
 
 Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so 
 extremely fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, 
 and her chief pleasure to play with it. By these means little 
 Tommy, for so the bird was called, was become so tame, that it 
 would feed out of the hand of its mistress, would perch upon 
 the finger, and lie contented in her bosom, where it seemed almost 
 sensible of its own happiness ; though she always kept a small 
 string about its leg, nor would ever trust it with the liberty of 
 flying away. 
 
 One day, when Mr Allworthy and his whole family dined at 
 Mr Western's, Master Blifil, being in the garden with Httle 
 Sophia, and observing the extreme fondness that she showed for 
 her Httle bird, desired her to trust it for a moment in his hands. 
 Sophia presently compHed with the young gentleman's request, 
 and after some previous caution, delivered him her bird ; of 
 which he was no sooner in possession, than he slipt the string 
 from its leg and tossed it into the air. 
 
 The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than 
 forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew 
 directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 349 
 
 Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that 
 Tom Jones, who was at a Httle distance, immediately ran to her 
 assistance. 
 
 He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he 
 cursed Blifil for a pitiful malicious rascal ; and then immediately 
 stripping off his coat he applied himself to climbing the tree to 
 which the bird escaped. 
 
 Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the 
 branch on which it was perched, and that hung over a canal, 
 broke, and the poor lad plumped over head and ears into the 
 water. 
 
 Sophia's concern now changed its object. And as she appre- 
 hended the boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times 
 louder than before ; and indeed Master Blifil himself now sec- 
 onded her with all the vociferation in his power. 
 
 The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, 
 were instantly alarmed, and came all forth ; but just as they 
 reached the canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shal- 
 low in that part) arrived safely on shore. 
 
 Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping 
 and shivering before him, when Mr Allworthy desired him to 
 have patience; and turning to Master Blifil, said, "Pray, child, 
 what is the reason of all this disturbance ? " 
 
 Master Blifil answered, "Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for 
 what I have done ; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. 
 I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the poor 
 creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving 
 it what it desired ; for I always thought there was something 
 very cruel in confining anything. It seemed to be against the 
 law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty ; nay, 
 it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be done 
 by ; but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been so much 
 concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done it ; nay, if 
 I had known what would have happened to the bird itself : for 
 when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after it, fell into 
 the water, the bird took a second flight, and presently a nasty 
 hawk carried it away." 
 
 Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate 
 
350 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 (for her concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when 
 it happened), shed a shower of tears. These Mr Allworthy 
 endeavoured to assuage, promising her a much finer bird : but 
 she declared she would never have another. Her father chid her 
 for crying so for a foolish bird ; but could not help telling young 
 Blifil, if he was a son of his, his backside should be well fiead. 
 
 Sophia now returned to her chamber, the two young gentle- 
 men were sent home, and the rest of the company returned to 
 their bottle ; where a conversation ensued on the subject of the 
 bird, so curious, that we think it deserves a chapter by itself. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A Dreadful Accident which befel Sophia. The Gallant 
 
 Behaviour of Jones, and the more Dreadful Consequence 
 
 OF THAT Behaviour to the Young Lady ; with a Short 
 
 Digression in Favour of the Female Sex 
 
 Mr Western grew every day fonder and fonder of Sophia, 
 insomuch that his beloved dogs themselves almost gave place 
 to her in his affections ; but as he could not prevail on himself 
 to abandon these, he contrived very cunningly to enjoy their 
 company, together with that of his daughter, by insisting on her 
 riding a hunting with him. 
 
 Sophia, to whom her father's word was a law, readily complied 
 with his desires, though she had not the least delight in a sport, 
 which was of too rough and masculine a nature to suit with 
 her disposition. She had however another motive, beside her 
 obedience, to accompany the old gentleman in the chase ; for 
 by her presence she hoped in some measure to restrain his 
 impetuosity, and to prevent him from so frequently exposing 
 his neck to the utmost hazard. 
 
 The strongest objection was that which would have formerly 
 been an inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with 
 young Jones, whom she had determined to avoid ; but as the end 
 of the hunting season now approached, she hoped, by a short 
 absence with her aunt, to reason herself entirely out of her unfor- 
 tunate passion ; and had not any doubt of being able to meet 
 him in the field the subsequent season without the least danger. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 351 
 
 On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from 
 the chase, and was arrived within a httle distance from Mr West- 
 ern's house, her horse, whose mettlesome spirit required a better 
 rider, fell suddenly to prancing and capering in such a manner 
 that she was in the most imminent peril of falling. Tom Jones, 
 who was at a little distance behind, saw this, and immediately 
 galloped up to her assistance. As soon as he came up, he leapt 
 from his own horse, and caught hold of hers by the bridle. The 
 unruly beast presently reared himself an end on his hind legs, 
 and threw his lovely burthen from his back, and Jones caught 
 her in his arms. 
 
 She was so affected with the fright, that she was not imme- 
 diately able to satisfy Jones, who was very sollicitous to know 
 whether she had received any hurt. She soon after, however, 
 recovered her spirits, assured him she was safe, and thanked 
 him for the care he had taken of her. Jones answered, "If I 
 have preserved you, madam, I am sufficiently repaid ; for I 
 promise you, I would have secured you from the least harm at 
 the expense of a much greater misfortune to myself than I have 
 suffered on this occasion." 
 
 "What misfortune?" replied Sophia eagerly; "I hope you 
 have come to no mischief?" 
 
 "Be not concerned, madam," answered Jones. "Heaven be 
 praised you have escaped so well, considering the danger you 
 was in. If I have broke my arm, I consider it as a trifle, in com- 
 parison of what I feared upon your account." 
 
 Sophia then screamed out, "Broke your arm! Heaven 
 forbid." 
 
 "I am afraid I have, madam," says Jones: "but I beg you 
 will suffer me first to take care of you. I have a right hand yet 
 at your service, to help you into the next field, whence we have 
 but a very little walk to your father's house." 
 
 Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was 
 using the other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. 
 She now grew much paler than her fears for herself had made 
 her before. All her limbs were seized with a trembling, insomuch 
 that Jones could scarce support her ; and as her thoughts were 
 in no less agitation, she could not refrain from giving Jones a 
 
352 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 look so full of tenderness, that it almost argued a stronger sen- 
 sation in her mind, than even gratitude and pity united can raise 
 in the gentlest female bosom, without the assistance of a third 
 more powerful passion. 
 
 Mr Western, who was advanced at some distance when this 
 accident happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the 
 horsemen. Sophia immediately acquainted them with what 
 had befallen Jones, and begged them to take care of him. Upon 
 which Western, who had been much alarmed by meeting his 
 daughter's horse without its rider, and was now overjoyed to 
 find her unhurt, cried out, " I am glad it is no worse. If Tom hath 
 broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again." 
 
 The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his 
 house on foot, with his daughter and Jones. An impartial spec- 
 tator, who had met them on the way, would, on viewing their 
 several countenances, have concluded Sophia alone to have 
 been the object of compassion : for as to Jones, he exulted in 
 having probably saved the hfe of the young lady, at the price 
 only of a broken bone; and Mr Western, though he was not 
 unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was, 
 however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate 
 escape of his daughter. 
 
 The generosity of Sophia's temper construed this behaviour 
 of Jones into great bravery ; and it made a deep impression on 
 her heart : for certain it is, that there is no one quality which 
 so generally recommends men to women as this ; proceeding, if 
 we believe the common opinion, from that natural timidity of 
 the sex, which is, says Mr Osborne, ''so great, that a woman is 
 the most cowardly of all the creatures God ever made;" — a 
 sentiment more remarkable for its bluntness than for its truth. 
 Aristotle, in his Pohtics, doth them, I believe, more justice, 
 when he says, "The modesty and fortitude of men differ from 
 those virtues in women; for the fortitude which becomes a 
 woman, would be cowardice in a man ; and the modesty which 
 becomes a man, would be pertness in a woman." Nor is there, 
 perhaps, more of truth in the opinion of those who derive the 
 partiality which women are inclined to show to the brave, from 
 this excess of their fear. Mr Bayle (I think, in his article of 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 353 
 
 Helen) imputes this, and with greater probabihty, to their vio- 
 lent love of glory ; for the truth of which, we have the authority of 
 him who of all others saw farthest into human nature, and who 
 introduces the heroine of his Odyssey, the great pattern of 
 matrimonial love and constancy, assigning the glory of her hus- 
 band as the only source of her affection towards him.^ 
 
 However this be, certain it is that the accident operated very 
 strongly on Sophia ; and, indeed, after much enquiry into the 
 matter, I am inclined to believe, that, at this very time, the 
 charming Sophia made no less impression on the heart of Jones ; 
 to say truth, he had for some time become sensible of the irre- 
 sistible power of her charms. 
 
 BOOK V. CHAPTER II 
 
 In which Mr Jones receives Many Friendly Visits during his 
 
 Confinement; with Some Fine Touches or the Passion 
 
 OF Love, scarce Visible to the Naked Eye 
 
 Tom Jones had many visitors during his confinement, though 
 some, perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr Allworthy 
 saw him almost every day ; but though he pitied Tom's suffer- 
 ings, and greatly approved the gallant behaviour which had 
 occasioned them ; yet he thought this was a favourable oppor- 
 tunity to bring him to a sober sense of his indiscreet conduct; 
 and that wholesome advice for that purpose could never be 
 applied at a 'more proper geason than at the present, when the 
 mind was softened by pain and sickness, and alarmed by danger ; 
 and when its attention was unembarrassed with those turbulent 
 passions which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure. 
 
 At all seasons, therefore, when the good man was alone with 
 the youth, especially when the latter was totally at ease, he took 
 occasion to remind him of his former miscarriages, but in the 
 mildest and tenderest manner, and only in order to introduce 
 the caution which he prescribed for his future behaviour; "on 
 which alone," he assured him, "would depend his own felicity, 
 and the kindness which he might yet promise himself to receive 
 
 1 The English reader will not find this in the poem ; for the sentiment is entirely left 
 out in the translation. [Author's note.] 
 
354 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 at the hands of his father by adoption, unless he should here- 
 after forfeit his good opinion : for as to what had past," he said, 
 ''it should be all forgiven and forgotten. He therefore advised 
 him to make a good use of this accident, that so in the end it 
 might prove a visitation for his own good." 
 
 Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits ; and 
 he too considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lec- 
 tures. His stile, however, was more severe than Mr Allworthy's : 
 he told his pupil, "That he ought to look on his broken Umb as 
 a judgment from heaven on his sins. That it would become him 
 to be daily on his knees, pouring forth thanksgivings that he had 
 broken his arm only, and not his neck; which latter," he said, 
 "was very probably reserved for some future occasion, and 
 that, perhaps, not very remote. For his part," he said, "he had 
 often wondered some judgment had not overtaken him before; 
 but it might be perceived by this, that Divine punishments, 
 though slow, are always sure." Hence Hkewise he advised him, 
 "to foresee, with equal certainty, the greater evils which were 
 yet behind, and which were as sure as this of overtaking him in 
 his state of reprobacy. These are," said he, "to be averted only 
 by such a thorough and sincere repentance as is not to be expected 
 or hoped for from one so abandoned in his youth, and whose 
 mind, I am afraid, is totally corrupted. It is my duty, however, 
 to exhort you to this repentance, though I too well know all exhor- 
 tations will be vain and fruitless. But liberavi animam meam. 
 I can accuse my own conscience of no neglect ; though it is at 
 the same time with the utmost concern I see you travelling on to 
 certain misery in this world, and to as certain damnation in the 
 next." 
 
 Square talked in a very diflferent strain; he said, "Such acci- 
 dents as a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise 
 man. That it was abundantly sufficient to reconcile the mind 
 to any of these mischances, to reflect that they are liable to 
 befal the wisest of mankind, and are undoubtedly for the good 
 of the whole." He said, "It was a mere abuse of words to call 
 those things evils, in which there was no moral unfitness : that 
 pain, which was the worst consequence of such accidents, was the 
 most contemptible thing in the world;" with more of the like 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 355 
 
 sentences, extracted out of the second book of Tully's Tusculan 
 questions, and from the great Lord Shaftesbury. In pronounc- 
 ing these he was one day so eager, that he unfortunately bit 
 his tongue ; and in such a manner, that it not only put an end to 
 his discourse, but created much emotion in him, and caused him 
 to mutter an oath or two : but what was worst of all, this acci- 
 dent gave Thwackum, who was present, and who held all such 
 doctrine to be heathenish and atheistical, an opportunity to clap , 
 a judgment on his back. Now this was done with so malicious 
 a sneer, that it totally unhinged (if I may so say) the temper of 
 the philosopher, which the bite of his tongue had somewhat 
 ruffled ; and as he was disabled from venting his wrath at his 
 lips, he had possibly found a more violent method of revenging 
 himself, had not the surgeon, who was then luckily in the room, 
 contrary to his own interest, interposed and preserved the peace. 
 
 Mr Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone. 
 This worthy young man, however, professed much regard for 
 him, and as great concern at his misfortune ; but cautiously 
 avoided any intimacy, lest, as he frequently hinted, it might 
 contaminate the sobriety of his own character : for which pur- 
 pose he had constantly in his mouth that proverb in which Solo- 
 mon speaks against evil communication. Not that he was so 
 bitter as Thwackum ; for he always expressed some hopes of 
 Tom's reformation; "which," he said, "the unparalleled good- 
 ness shown by his uncle on this occasion, must certainly effect 
 in one not absolutely abandoned :" but concluded, "if Mr Jones 
 ever offends hereafter, I shall not be able to say a syllable in his 
 favour." 
 
 As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, unless 
 when he was engaged either in the field or over his bottle. Nay, 
 he would sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and it was not 
 without difficulty that he was prevented from forcing Jones to 
 take his beer too : for no quack ever held his nostrum to be a 
 more general panacea than he did this ; which, he said, had more 
 virtue in it than was in all the physic in an apothecary's shop. 
 He was, however, by much entreaty, prevailed on to forbear the 
 application of this medicine ; but from serenading his patient 
 every hunting morning with the horn under his window, it was 
 
356 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 impossible to withhold him ; nor did he ever lay aside that 
 hallow, with which he entered into all companies, when he visited 
 Jones, without any regard to the sick person's being at that time 
 either awake or asleep. 
 
 This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily 
 it effected none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as 
 soon as he was able to sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom 
 the squire then brought to visit him ; nor was it, indeed, long 
 before Jones was able to attend her to the harpsichord, where 
 she would kindly condescend, for hours together, to charm him 
 with the most delicious music, unless when the squire thought 
 proper to interrupt her, by insisting on Old Sir Simon, or some 
 other of his favourite pieces. 
 
 Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured 
 to set on her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appear- 
 ances now and then slip forth : for love may again be likened to 
 a disease in this, that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will 
 certainly break out in another. What her lips, therefore, con- 
 cealed, her eyes, her blushes, and many little involuntary actions, 
 betrayed. 
 
 One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and 
 Jones was attending, the squire came into the room, crying, 
 ''There, Tom, I have had a battle for thee below-stairs with thick 
 parson Thwackum. He hath been a telling Allworthy, before 
 my face, that the broken bone was a judgment upon thee. D — n 
 it, says I, how can that be ? Did he not come by it in defence 
 of a young woman ? A judgment indeed ! Pox, if he never 
 doth anything worse, he will go to heaven sooner than all the 
 parsons in the country. He hath more reason to glory in it 
 than to be ashamed of it." — "Indeed, sir," says Jones, "I have 
 no reason for either ; but if it preserved Miss Western, I shall 
 always think it the happiest accident of my life." — "And to 
 gu," said the squire, "to zet Allworthy against thee vor it! 
 D — n un, if the parson had unt his petticuoats on, I should have 
 lent un o flick ; for I love thee dearly, my boy, and d— n me if 
 there is anything in my power which I won't do for thee. Sha't 
 take thy choice of all the horses in my stable to-morrow morn- 
 ing, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch." Jones thanked 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 357 
 
 him, but declined accepting the offer. "Nay," added the squire, 
 *'sha't ha the sorrel mare that Sophy rode. She cost me fifty 
 guineas, and comes six years old this grass." "If she had cost 
 me a thousand," cries Jones passionately, "I would have given 
 her to the dogs." "Pooh ! pooh !" answered Western ; "what ! 
 because she broke thy arm ? Shouldst forget and forgive. I 
 thought hadst been more a man than to bear malice against a 
 dumb creature." — Here Sophia interposed, and put an end to 
 the conversation, by desiring her father's leave to play to him ; 
 a request which he never refused. 
 
 The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one 
 change during the foregoing speeches ; and probably she imputed 
 the passionate resentment which Jones had expressed against 
 the mare, to a different motive from that from which her father 
 had derived it. Her spirits were at this time in a visible flutter ; 
 and she played so intolerably ill, that had not Western soon 
 fallen asleep, he must have remarked it. Jones, however, who 
 was sufficiently awake, and was not without an ear any more 
 than without eyes, made some observations ; which being joined 
 to all which the reader may remember to have passed formerly, 
 gave him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect on 
 the whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia ; 
 an opinion which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, ex- 
 tremely wonder at his not having been well confirmed in long 
 ago. To confess the truth, he had rather too much diflidence 
 in himself, and was not forward enough in seeing the advances 
 of a young lady ; a misfortune which can be cured only by that 
 early town education, which is at present so generally in fashion. 
 
 When these thoughts had fully taken possession of Jones, 
 they occasioned a perturbation in his mind, which, in a consti- 
 tution less pure and firm than his, might have been, at such a 
 season, attended with very dangerous consequences. He was 
 truly sensible of the great worth of Sophia. He extremely Hked 
 her person, no less admired her accomplishments, and tenderly 
 loved her goodness. In reahty, as he had never once enter- 
 tained any thought of possessing her, nor had ever given the least 
 voluntary indulgence to his inclinations, he had a much stronger 
 passion for her than he himself was acquainted with. His heart 
 
358 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 now brought forth the full secret, at the same time that it 
 assured him the adorable object returned his affection. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 A Little Chapter, in which is Contained a Little Incident 
 
 Among other visitants, who paid their comphments to the 
 young gentleman in his confinement, Mrs Honour was one. 
 The reader, perhaps, when he reflects on some expressions which 
 have formerly dropt from her, may conceive that she herself 
 had a very particular affection for Mr Jones ; but, in reality, 
 it was no such thing. Tom was a handsome young fellow ; 
 and for that species of men Mrs Honour had some regard ; but 
 this was perfectly indiscriminate ; for having been crossed in 
 the love which she bore a certain nobleman's footman, who had 
 basely deserted her after a promise of marriage, she had so 
 securely kept together the broken remains of her heart, that 
 no man had ever since been able to possess himself of any single 
 fragment. She viewed all handsome men with that equal 
 regard and benevolence which a sober and virtuous mind bears 
 to all the good. She might indeed be called a lover of men, as 
 Socrates was a lover of mankind, preferring one to another for 
 corporeal, as he for mental qualifications ; but never carrying 
 this preference so far as to cause any perturbation in the phil- 
 osophical serenity of her temper. 
 
 The day after Mr Jones had that conflict with himself which 
 we have seen in the preceding chapter, Mrs Honour came into 
 his room, and finding him alone, began in the following manner : 
 — "La, sir, where do you think I have been? I warrants you, 
 you would not guess in fifty years ; but if you did guess, to be 
 sure I must not tell you neither." — "Nay, if it be something 
 which you must not tell me," said Jones, "I shall have the 
 curiosity to enquire, and I know you will not be so barbarous to 
 refuse me." — "I don't know," cries she, "why I should refuse 
 you neither, for that matter; for to be sure you won't mention 
 it any more. And for that matter, if you knew where I have 
 been, unless you knew what I have been about, it would not 
 signify much. Nay, I don't see why it should be kept a secret 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 359 
 
 for my part ; for to be sure she is the best lady in the world." 
 Upon this, Jones began to beg earnestly to be let into this secret, 
 and faithfully promised not to divulge it. She then proceeded 
 thus : — "Why, you must know, sir, my young lady sent me to 
 enquire after Molly Seagrim, and to see whether the wench 
 wanted anything ; to be sure, I did not care to go, methinks ; 
 but servants must do what they are ordered. — So my lady 
 bid me go and carry her some linen, and other things. She 
 is too good. If such forward sluts were sent to Bridewel, it 
 would be better for them. I told my lady, says I, madam, 
 your la'ship is encouraging idleness." — "And was my Sophia 
 so good?" says Jones. "My Sophia! I assure you, marry 
 come up," answered Honour. "And yet if you knew all- — " 
 "What do you mean by these words," replied Jones, "if I knew 
 all?" "I mean what I mean," says Honour. "Don't you 
 remember putting your hands in my lady's muff once ? I vow 
 I could almost find in my heart to tell, if I was certain my lady 
 would never come to the hearing on't." Jones then made several 
 solemn protestations. And Honour proceeded — "Then to be 
 sure, my lady gave me that muff ; and afterwards, upon hearing 
 
 what you had done " "Then you told her what I had done ? " 
 
 interrupted Jones. "If I did, sir," answered she, "you need 
 not be angry with me. Many's the man would have given his 
 head to have had my lady told, if they had known, — for, to be 
 sure, the biggest lord in the land might be proud — but, I pro- 
 test, I have a great mind not to tell you." Jones fell to 
 entreaties, and soon prevailed on her to go on thus. "You must 
 know then, sir, that my lady had given this muff to me ; but about 
 a day or two after I had told her the story, she quarrels with her 
 new muff, and to be sure it is the prettiest that ever was seen. 
 Honour, says she, this is an odious muff ; it is too big for me, I 
 can't wear it : till I can get another, you must let me have my old 
 one again, and you may have this in the room on't — for she's 
 a good lady, and scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I 
 promise you that. So to be sure I fetched it her back again, 
 and, I believe, she hath worn it upon her arm almost ever 
 since, and I warrants hath given it many a kiss when nobody 
 hath seen her." 
 
360 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 1 
 
 Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western him- 
 self, who came to summon Jones to the harpsichord ; whither the 
 poor young fellow went all pale and trembling. This Western 
 observed, but, on seeing Mrs Honour, imputed it to a wrong 
 cause ; and having given Jones a hearty curse between jest and 
 earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach up the game in 
 his warren. 
 
 Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, and 
 we may believe it was no small addition to her charms, in the eye 
 of Mr Jones, that she now happened to have on her right arm 
 this very muff. 
 
 She was playing one of her father's favourite tunes, and he 
 was leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, 
 and put her out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he 
 snatched the muff from her, and with a hearty curse threw it 
 into the fire. Sophia instantly started up, and with the utmost 
 eagerness recovered it from the flames. 
 
 Though this incident will probably appear of little consequence 
 to many of our readers ; yet, trifling as it was, it had so violent 
 an effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to relate it. 
 In reality, there are many little circumstances too often omitted 
 by injudicious historians, from which events of the utmost 
 importance arise. The world may indeed be considered as a vast 
 machine, in which the great wheels are originally set in motion 
 by those which are very minute, and almost imperceptible to 
 any but the strongest eyes. 
 
 Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia ; not all 
 the dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes ; 
 the harmony of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, 
 good-humour, greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, had 
 been able so absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of poor 
 Jones, as this little incident of the muff. 
 
 The citadel of Jones was now taken by surprize. All those 
 considerations of honour and prudence which our heroe had 
 lately with so much military wisdom placed as guards over the 
 avenues of his heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of 
 love marched in, in triumph. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 361 
 
 BOOK VI. CHAPTER II 
 
 The Character of Mrs Western. Her Great Learning and 
 
 Knowledge of the World, and an Instance of the Deep 
 
 Penetration which she derived from those Advantages 
 
 The reader hath seen Mr Western, his sister, and daughter, 
 with young Jones, and the parson, going together to Mr Western's 
 house, where the greater part of the company spent the evening 
 with much joy and festivity. Sophia was indeed the only grave 
 person ; for as to Jones, though love had now gotten entire posses- 
 sion of his heart, yet the pleasing reflection on Mr Allworthy's 
 recovery, and the presence of his mistress, joined to some tender 
 looks which she now and then could not refrain from giving him, 
 so elevated our heroe, that he joined the mirth of the other three, 
 who were perhaps as good-humoured people as any in the world. 
 
 Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next 
 morning at breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than 
 usual, leaving her father and aunt together. The squire took 
 no notice of this change in his daughter's disposition. To say 
 the truth, though he was somewhat of a politician, and had been 
 twice a candidate in the country interest at an election, he was a 
 man of no great observation. His sister was a lady of a different 
 turn. She had lived about the court, and had seen the world. 
 Hence she had acquired all that knowledge which the said world 
 usually communicates ; and was a perfect mistress of manners, 
 customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor did her erudition stop 
 here. She had considerably improved her mind by study; 
 she had not only read all the modern plays, operas, oratorios, 
 poems, and romances — • in all which she was a critic ; but had 
 gone through Rapin's History of England, Eachard's Roman 
 History, and many French Memoires pour servir a VHistoire: 
 to these she had added most of the political pamphlets and jour- 
 nals published within the last twenty years. From which she 
 had attained a very competent skill in politics, and could dis- 
 course very learnedly on the affairs of Europe. She was, more- 
 over, excellently well skilled in the doctrine of amour, and knew 
 better than anybody who and who were together ; a knowledge 
 which she the more easily attained, as her pursuit of it was never 
 
362 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 diverted by any affairs of her own ; for either she had no 
 inchnations, or they had never been solicited ; which last is 
 indeed very probable ; for her masculine person, which was near 
 six foot high, added to her manner and learning, possibly prevented 
 the other sex from regarding her, notwithstanding her petticoats, 
 in the Hght of a woman. However, as she had considered the 
 matter scientifically, she perfectly well knew, though she had 
 never practised them, all the arts which fine ladies use when 
 they desire to give encouragement, or to conceal hking, with all 
 the long appendage of smiles, ogles, glances, &c., as they are at 
 present practised in the beau-monde. To sum the whole, no 
 species of disguise or affectation had escaped her notice ; but as 
 to the plain simple workings of honest nature, as she had never 
 seen any such, she could know but Httle of them. 
 
 By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs Western had now, 
 as she thought, made a discovery of something in the mind of 
 Sophia. The first hint of this she took from the behaviour of the 
 young lady in the field of battle; and the suspicion which she 
 then conceived, was greatly corroborated by some observations 
 which she had made that evening and the next morning. How- 
 ever, being greatly cautious to avoid being found in a mistake, 
 she carried the secret a whole fortnight in her bosom, giving 
 only some oblique hints, by simpering, winks, nods, and now and 
 then dropping an obscure word, which indeed sufficiently alarmed 
 Sophia, but did not at all affect her brother. 
 
 Being at length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth of 
 her observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, when 
 she was alone with her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles 
 in the following manner : — 
 
 "Pray, brother, have you not observed something very ex- 
 traordinary in my niece lately?" — ''No, not I," answered 
 Western; "is anything the matter with the girl?" — "I think 
 there is," replied she; "and something of much consequence 
 too." — "Why, she doth not complain of anything," cries 
 Western; "and she hath had the small-pox." — "Brother," 
 returned she, "girls are hable to other distempers besides the 
 small-pox, and sometimes possibly to much worse." Here 
 Western interrupted her with much earnestness, and begged her, 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 363 
 
 if anything ailed his daughter, to acquaint him immediately; 
 adding," she knew he loved her more than his own soul, and that 
 he would send to the world's end for the best physician to her." 
 "Nay, nay," answered she, smiling, "the distemper is not so 
 terrible ; but I believe, brother, you are convinced I know the 
 world, and I promise you I was never more deceived in my life, 
 if my niece be not most desperately in love." — "How ! in love ! " 
 cries Western, in a passion ; "in love, without acquainting me ! 
 I'll disinherit her ; I'll turn her out of doors, stark naked, with- 
 out a farthing. Is all my kindness vor 'ur, and vondness o'ur 
 come to this, to fall in love without asking me leave?" — "But 
 you will not," answered Mrs Western, "turn this daughter 
 whom you love better than your own soul, out of doors, before 
 you know whether you shall approve her choice. Suppose she 
 should have fixed on the very person whom you yourself would 
 wish, I hope you would not be angry then?" — "No, no," cries 
 Western, "that would make a difference. If she marries the 
 man I would ha' her, she may love whom she pleases, I shan't 
 trouble my head about that." "That is spoken," answered the 
 sister, "Hke a sensible man; but I believe the very person she 
 hath chosen would be the very person you would choose for her- 
 I will disclaim all knowledge of the world, if it is not so ; and I 
 believe, brother, you will allow I have some." — "Why, lookee, 
 sister," said Western, "I do believe you have as much as any 
 woman ; and to be sure those are women's matters. You know 
 I don't love to hear you talk about politics ; they belong to us, 
 and petticoats should not meddle : but come, who is the man ?" 
 — "Marry !" said she, "you may find him out yourself if you 
 please. You, who are so great a politician, can be at no great 
 loss. The judgment which can penetrate into the cabinets of 
 princes, and discover the secret springs which move the great 
 state wheels in all the poHtical machines of Europe, must surely, 
 with very Httle difficulty, find out what passes in the rude unin- 
 formed mind of a girl." — "Sister," cries the squire, "I have 
 often warn'd you not to talk the court gibberish to me. I tell 
 you, I don't understand the' lingo : but I can read a journal, or 
 the London Evening Post. Perhaps, indeed, there may be now 
 and tan a verse which I can't make much of, because half the 
 
364 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 letters are left out ; yet I know very well what is meant by that, 
 and that our affairs don't go so well as they should do, because of 
 bribery and corruption." — ^ "I pity your country ignorance from 
 my heart," cries the lady. — "Do you?" answered Western; 
 "and I pity your town learning ; I had rather be anything than a 
 courtier, and a Presbyterian, and a Hanoverian too, as some 
 people, I believe, are." — ^"If you mean me," answered she, 
 "you know I am a woman, brother ; and it signifies nothing what 
 I am. Besides — " — "I do know you are a woman," cries the 
 squire, "and it's well for thee that art one ; if hadst been a man, 
 I promise thee I had lent thee a flick long ago." — "Ay, there," 
 said she, "in that flick Hes all your fancied superiority. Your 
 bodies, and not your brains, are stronger than ours. BeHeve 
 me, it is well for you that you are able to beat us ; or, such is 
 the superiority of our understanding, we should make all of you 
 what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are already — 
 our slaves." — ^ "I am glad I know your mind," answered the 
 squire. "But we'll talk more of this matter another time. At 
 present, do tell me what man is it you mean about my daughter ? " 
 — "Hold a moment," said she, "while I digest that sovereign 
 contempt I have for your sex ; or else I ought to be angry too 
 
 with you. There 1 have made a shift to gulp it down. 
 
 And now, good poHtic sir, what think you of Mr BHfil? Did 
 she not faint away on seeing him lie breathless on the ground ? 
 Did she not, after he was recovered, turn pale again the moment 
 we came up to that part of the field where he stood ? And pray 
 what else should be the occasion of all her melancholy that night 
 at supper, the next morning, and indeed ever since?" — "'Fore 
 George !" cries the squire, "now you mind me on't, I remember 
 it all. It is certainly so, and I am glad on't with all my heart. 
 I knew Sophy was a good girl, and would not fall in love to make 
 me angry. I was never more rejoiced in my life ; for nothing can 
 lie so handy together as our two estates. I had this matter in 
 my head some time ago : for certainly the two estates are in a 
 manner joined together in matrimony already, and it would be a 
 thousand pities to part them. It is true, indeed, there be larger 
 estates in the kingdom, but not in this county, and I had rather 
 bate something, than marry my daughter among strangers and 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 365 
 
 foreigners. Besides, most o' zuch great estates be in the hands 
 of lords, and I heate the very name of themmun. Well but, 
 sister, what would you advise me to do ; for I tell you women 
 know these matters better than we do?" — "Oh, your humble 
 servant, sir," answered the lady: "we are obliged to you for 
 allowing us a capacity in anything. Since you are pleased, then, 
 most politic sir, to ask my advice, I think you may propose the 
 match to Allworthy yourself. There is no indecorum in the 
 proposal's coming from the parent of either side. King Alcinous, 
 in Mr Pope's Odyssey, offers his daughter to Ulysses. I need 
 not caution so politic a person not to say that your daughter is 
 in love ; that would indeed be against all rules." — "Well," said 
 the squire, "I will propose it; but I shall certainly lend un a 
 flick, if he should refuse me." "Fear not," cries Mrs Western; 
 "the match is too advantageous to be refused." "I don't know 
 that," answered the squire: "Allworthy is a queer b — ch, and 
 money hath no effect o'un." "Brother," said the lady, "your 
 poHtics astonish me. Are you really to be imposed on by pro- 
 fessions ? Do you think Mr Allworthy hath more contempt for 
 money than other men because he professes more ? Such credu- 
 lity would better become one of us weak women, than that wise 
 sex which heaven hath formed for politicians. Indeed, brother, 
 you would make a fine plenipo to negotiate with the French. 
 They would soon persuade you, that they take towns out of mere 
 defensive principles." "Sister," answered the squire, with much 
 scorn, "• let your friends at court answer for the towns taken; 
 as you are a woman, I shall lay no blame upon you ; for I suppose 
 they are wiser than to trust women with secrets." He accom- 
 panied this with so sarcastical a laugh, that Mrs Western could 
 bear no longer. She had been all this time fretted in a tender 
 part (for she was indeed very deeply skilled in these matters, 
 and very violent in them), and therefore, burst forth in a rage, 
 declared her brother to be both a clown and a blockhead, and 
 that she would stay no longer in his house. 
 
 The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was, 
 however, in many points, a perfect politican. He strongly held 
 all those wise tenets, which are so well inculcated in that Politico- 
 Peripatetic school of Exchange-alley. He knew the just value 
 
366 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 and only use of money, viz., to lay it up. He was likewise well 
 skilled in the exact value of reversions, expectations, &c., and had 
 often considered the amount of his sister's fortune, and the chance 
 which he or his posterity had of inheriting it. This he was in- 
 finitely too wise to sacrifice to a trifling resentment. When he 
 found, therefore, he had carried matters too far, he began to 
 think of reconciling them ; which was no very difficult task, as 
 the lady had great affection for her brother, and still greater for 
 her niece ; and though too susceptible of an affront offered to her 
 skill in politics, on which she much valued herself, was a woman 
 of a very extraordinary good and sweet disposition. 
 
 Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for 
 whose escape from the stable no place but the window was left 
 open, he next applied himself to his sister ; softened and soothed 
 her, by unsaying all he had said, and by assertions directly 
 contrary to those which had incensed her. Lastly, he summoned 
 the eloquence of Sophia to his assistance, who, besides a most 
 graceful and winning address, had the advantage of being heard 
 with great favour and partiality by her aunt. 
 
 The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs Western, 
 who said, "Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as 
 those have their use in the army of the empress queen, so you 
 likewise have some good in you. I will therefore once more sign 
 a treaty of peace with you, and see that you do not infringe it on 
 your side ; at least, as you are so excellent a poUtican, I may 
 expect you will keep your leagues, like the French, till your inter- 
 est calls upon you to break them." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Containing Two Defiances to the Critics 
 
 The squire having settled matters with his sister, as we have seen 
 in the last chapter, was so greatly impatient to communicate the 
 proposal to Allworthy, that Mrs Western had the utmost dif- 
 ficulty to prevent him from visiting that gentleman in his sickness, 
 for this purpose. 
 
 Mr Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr Western at 
 the time when he was taken ill. He was therefore no sooner 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 367 
 
 discharged out of the custody of physic, but he thought (as was 
 usual with him on all occasions, both the highest and the lowest) 
 of fulfilling his engagement. 
 
 In the interval between the time of the dialogue in the last 
 chapter, and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, from 
 certain obscure hints thrown out by her aunt, collected some 
 apprehension that the sagacious lady suspected her passion for 
 Jones. She now resolved to take this opportunity of wiping 
 out all such suspicion, and for that purpose to put an entire 
 constraint on her behaviour. 
 
 First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy 
 heart with the utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and the 
 highest gaiety in her manner. Secondly, she addressed her whole 
 discourse to Mr Blifll, and took not the least notice of poor Jones 
 the whole day. 
 
 The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daughter, 
 that he scarce eat any dinner, and spent almost his whole time in 
 watching opportunities of conveying signs of his approbation by 
 winks and nods to his sister ; who was not at first altogether so 
 pleased with what she saw as was her brother. 
 
 In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt 
 was at first staggered, and began to suspect some affectation in 
 her niece ; but as she was herself a woman of great art, so she 
 soon attributed this to extreme art in Sophia. She remembered 
 the many hints she had given her niece concerning her being in 
 love, and imagined the young lady had taken this way to rally 
 her out of her opinion, by an overacted civility ; a notion that 
 was greatly corroborated by the excessive gaiety with which the 
 whole was accompanied. We cannot here avoid remarking, that 
 this conjecture would have been better founded had Sophia 
 lived ten years in the air of Grosvenor Square, where young 
 ladies do learn a wonderful knack of rallying and playing with 
 that passion, which is a mighty serious thing in woods and groves 
 an hundred miles distant from London. 
 
 To say the truth, in discovering the deceit of others, it matters 
 much that our own art be wound up, if I may use the expression, 
 in the same key with theirs : for very artful men sometimes 
 miscarry by fancying others wiser, or, in other words, greater 
 
368 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 1 
 
 knaves, than they really are. As this observation is pretty deep, 
 I will illustrate it by the following short story. Three country- 
 men were pursuing a Wiltshire thief through Brentford. The 
 simplest of them seeing "The Wiltshire House," written under a 
 sign, advised his companions tq enter it, for there most probably 
 they would find their countryman. The second, who was wiser, 
 laughed at this simplicity ; but the third, who was wiser still, 
 answered, "Let us go in, however, for he may think we should 
 not suspect him of going amongst his own countrymen." They 
 accordingly went in and searched the house, and by that means 
 missed overtaking the thief, who was at that time but a Httle 
 way before them ; and who, as they all knew, but had never once 
 reflected, could not read. 
 
 The reader will pardon a digression in which so invaluable a 
 secret is communicated, since every gamester will agree how 
 necessary it is to know exactly the play of another, in order to 
 countermine him. This will, moreover, afford a reason why the 
 wiser man, as is often seen, is the bubble of the weaker, and why 
 many simple and innocent characters are so generally misunder- 
 stood and misrepresented ; but what is most material, this will 
 account for the deceit which Sophia put on her politic aunt. 
 
 Dinner being ended, and the company retired into the garden, 
 Mr Western, who was thoroughly convinced of the certainty of 
 what his sister had told him, took Mr Allworthy aside, and 
 very bluntly proposed a match between Sophia and young 
 Mr Blifil. 
 
 Mr Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter 
 at any unexpected and sudden tidings of worldly profit. His 
 mind was, indeed, tempered with that philosophy which becomes 
 a man and a Christian. He affected no absolute superiority to 
 all pleasure and pain, to all joy and grief ; but was not at the 
 same time to be discomposed and ruffled by every accidental 
 blast, by every smile or frown of fortune. He received, therefore, 
 Mr Western's proposal without any visible emotion, or without 
 any alteration of countenance. He said. the alhance was such as 
 he sincerely wished; then launched forth into a very just en- 
 comium on the young lady's merit ; acknowledged the offer to 
 be advantageous in point of fortune; and after thanking Mr 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 369 
 
 Western for the good opinion he had professed of his nephew, 
 concluded, that if the young people liked each other, he should 
 be very desirous to complete the affair. 
 
 Western was a little disappointed at Mr Allworthy's answer, 
 which was not so warm as he expected. He treated the doubt 
 whether the young people might like one another with great 
 contempt, saying, "That parents were the best judges of proper 
 matches for their children : that for his part he should insist on 
 the most resigned obedience from his daughter : and if any young 
 fellow could refuse such a bed-fellow, he was his humble servant, 
 and hoped there was no harm done." 
 
 Allworthy endeavoured to soften this resentment by many 
 eulogiums on Sophia, declaring he had no doubt but that Mr 
 Blifil would very gladly receive the offer; but all was ineffec- 
 tual ; he could obtain no other answer from the squire but — "I 
 say no more — I humbly hope there's no harm done — that's all." 
 Which words he repeated at least a hundred times before they 
 parted. 
 
 Allworthy was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be 
 offended at this behaviour ; and though he was so averse to the 
 rigour which some parents exercise on their children in the article 
 of marriage, that he had resolved never to force his nephew's 
 incKnations, he was nevertheless much pleased with the prospect 
 of this union ; for the whole country resounded the praises of 
 Sophia, and he had himself greatly admired the uncommon 
 endowments of both her mind and person. To which I beheve 
 we may add, the consideration of her vast fortune, which, though 
 he was too sober to be intoxicated with it, he was too sensible to 
 despise. 
 
 And here, in defiance of all the barking critics in the world, I 
 must and will introduce a digression concerning true wisdom, of 
 which Mr Allworthy was in reality as great a pattern as he was of 
 goodness. 
 
 True wisdom then, notwithstanding all which Mr Hogarth's 
 poor poet may have writ against riches, and in spite of all which 
 any rich well-fed divine may have preached against pleasure, 
 consists not in the contempt of either of these. A man may 
 have as much wisdom in the possession of an affluent fortune, 
 
370 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 as any beggar in the streets ; or may enjoy a handsome wife or a 
 hearty friend, and still remain as wise as any sour popish recluse, 
 who buries all his social faculties, and starves his belly while he 
 well lashes his back. 
 
 To say truth, the wisest man is the likeliest to possess all 
 worldly blessings in an eminent degree ; for as that moderation 
 which wisdom prescribes is the surest way to useful wealth, so 
 can it alone quaUfy us to taste many pleasures. The wise 
 man gratifies every appetite and every passion, while the fool 
 sacrifices all the rest to pall and satiate one. 
 
 It may be objected, that very wise men have been notoriously 
 avaricious. I answer, Not wise in that instance. It may like- 
 wise be said. That the wisest men have been in their youth 
 immoderately fond of pleasure. I answer. They were not 
 wise then. 
 
 Wisdom, in short, whose lessons have been represented as so 
 hard to learn by those who never were at her school, only teaches 
 us to extend a simple maxim universally known and followed 
 even in the lowest hfe, a little farther than that Hfe carries it. 
 And this is, not to buy at too dear a price. 
 
 Now, whoever takes this maxim abroad with him into the grand 
 market of the world, and constantly appHes it to honours, to 
 riches, to pleasures, and to every other commodity which that 
 market affords, is, I will venture to affirm, a wise man, and must 
 be so acknowledged in the worldly sense of the word ; for he 
 makes the best of bargains, since in reaHty he purchases every- 
 thing at the price only of a Httle trouble, and carries home all 
 the good things I have mentioned, while he keeps his health, his 
 innocence, and his reputation, the common prices which are paid 
 for them by others, entire and to himself. 
 
 From this moderation, likewise, he learns two other lessons, 
 which complete his character. First, never to be intoxicated 
 when he hath made the best bargain, nor dejected when the 
 market is empty, or when its commodities are too dear for his 
 purchase. 
 
 But I must remember on what subject I am writing, and not 
 trespass too far on the patience of a good-natured critic. Here, 
 therefore, I put an end to the chapter. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 371 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Containing Sundry Curious Matters 
 
 As soon as Mr Allworthy returned home, he took Mr BHfil 
 apart, and after some preface, communicated to him the proposal 
 which had been made by Mr Western, and at the same time in- 
 formed him how agreeable this match would be to himself. 
 
 The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression on 
 Bhfil ; not that his heart was pre-engaged ; neither was he totally 
 insensible of beauty, or had any aversion to women ; but his 
 appetites were by nature so moderate, that he was able, by 
 philosophy, or by study, or by some other method, easily to 
 subdue them : and as to that passion which we have treated of in 
 the first chapter of this book, he had not the least tincture of it 
 in his whole composition. 
 
 But though he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, of 
 which we there treated, and of which the virtues and beauty of 
 Sophia formed so notable an object ; yet was he altogether as 
 well furnished with some other passions, that promised themselves 
 very full gratification in the young lady's fortune. Such were 
 avarice and ambition, which divided the dominion of his mind 
 between them. He had more than once considered the possession 
 of this fortune as a very desirable thing, and had entertained 
 some distant views concerning it ; but his own youth, and that 
 of the young lady, and indeed principally a reflection that Mr 
 Western might marry again, and have more children, had re- 
 strained him from too hasty or eager a pursuit. 
 
 This last and most material objection was now in great meas- 
 ure removed, as the proposal came from Mr Western himself. 
 Blifil, therefore, after a very short hesitation, answered Mr All- 
 worthy, that matrimony was a subject on which he had not yet 
 thought ; but that he was so sensible of his friendly and fatherly 
 care, that he should in all things submit himself to his pleasure. 
 
 Allworthy was naturally a man of spirit, and his present gravity 
 arose from true wisdom and philosophy, not from any original 
 phlegm in his disposition ; for he had possessed much fire in his 
 youth, and had married a beautiful woman for love. He was 
 not therefore greatly pleased with this cold answer of his nephew ; 
 
372 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 nor could he help launching forth into the praises of Sophia, and 
 expressing some wonder that the heart of a young man could be 
 impregnable to the force of such charms, unless it was guarded by 
 some prior affection. 
 
 Blifil assured him he had no such guard ; and then proceeded 
 to discourse so wisely and religiously on love and marriage, that 
 he would have stopt the mouth of a parent much less devoutly 
 inclined than was his uncle. In the end, the good man was 
 satisfied that his nephew, far from having any objections to 
 Sophia, had that esteem for her, which in sober and virtuous 
 minds is the sure foundation of friendship and love. And as he 
 doubted not but the lover would, in a little time, become alto- 
 gether as agreeable to his mistress, he foresaw great happiness 
 arising to all parties by so proper and desirable an union. With 
 Mr Blifil's consent therefore he wrote the next morning to Mr 
 Western, acquainting him that his nephew had very thankfully 
 and gladly received the proposal, and would be ready to wait on 
 the young lady, whenever she should be pleased to accept his visit. 
 
 Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately 
 returned an answer ; in which, without having mentioned a 
 word to his daughter, he appointed that very afternoon for 
 opening the scene of courtship. 
 
 As soon as he had dispatched this messenger, he went in quest 
 of his sister, whom he found reading and expounding the Gazette 
 to parson Supple. To this exposition he was obliged to attend 
 near a quarter of an hour, though with great violence to his 
 natural impetuosity, before he was suffered to speak. At length, 
 however, he found an opportunity of acquainting the lady, that 
 he had business of great consequence to impart to her ; to which 
 she answered, "Brother, I am entirely at your service. Things 
 look so well in the north, that I was never in a better humour." 
 
 The parson then withdrawing. Western acquainted her with 
 all which had passed, and desired her to communicate the affair 
 to Sophia, which she readily and chearfully undertook ; though 
 perhaps her brother was a little obliged to that agreeable northern 
 aspect which had so dehghted her, that he heard no comment on 
 his proceedings ; for they were certainly somewhat too hasty and 
 violent. 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 373 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 In which is related what passed between Sophia and her Aunt 
 
 Sophia was in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came in. 
 The moment she saw Mrs Western, she shut the book with so 
 much eagerness, that the good lady could not forbear asking her, 
 What book that was which she seemed so much afraid of showing ? 
 "Upon my word, madam," answered Sophia, "it is a book which 
 I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own I have read. It is the 
 production of a young lady of fashion, whose good understanding, 
 I think, doth honour to her sex, and whose good heart is an honour 
 to human nature." Mrs Western then took up the book, and 
 immediately after threw it down, saying — "Yes, the author is of 
 a very good family ; but she is not much among people one knows. 
 I have never read it ; for the best judges say, there is not much 
 in it." — "I dare not, madam, set up my own opinion," says 
 Sophia, "against the best judges, but there appears to me a 
 great deal of human nature in it ; and in many parts so much 
 true tenderness and delicacy, that it hath cost me many a tear." 
 — "Ay, and do you love to cry then?" says the aunt. "I love 
 a tender sensation," answered the niece, "and would pay the 
 price of a tear for it at any time." — "Well, but show me," said 
 the aunt, "what was you reading when I came in; there was 
 something very tender in that, I believe, and very loving too. 
 You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah, child, you should read books 
 which would teach you a little hypocrisy, which would instruct 
 you how to hide your thoughts a little better." — "I hope, 
 madam," answered Sophia, "I have no thoughts which I ought 
 to be ashamed of discovering." — "Ashamed! no," cries the aunt, 
 "I don't think you have any thoughts which you ought to be 
 ashamed of ; and yet, child, you blushed just now when I men- 
 tioned the word loving. Dear Sophy, be assured you have not 
 one thought which I am not well acquainted with ; as well, child, 
 as the French are with our motions, long before we put them in 
 execution. Did you think, child, because you have been able 
 to impose upon your father, that you could impose upon me ? 
 Do you imagine I did not know the reason of your overacting 
 all that friendship for Mr Bhfil yesterday ? I have seen a little 
 
374 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 too much of the world, to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not 
 blush again. I tell you it is a passion you need not be ashamed 
 of. It is a passion I myself approve, and have already brought 
 your father into the approbation of it. Indeed, I solely consider 
 your inclination; for I would always have that gratified, if 
 possible, though one may sacrifice higher prospects. Come, 
 I have news which will delight your very soul. Make me your 
 confident and I will undertake you shall be happy to the very 
 extent of your wishes." "La, madam," says Sophia, looking 
 more foolishly than ever she did in her life, " I know not what to 
 say — why, madam, should you suspect?" — "Nay, no dis- 
 honesty," returned Mrs Western. "Consider, you are speaking 
 to one of your own sex, to an aunt, and I hope you are convinced 
 you speak to a friend. Consider, you are only revealing to me 
 what I know already, and what I plainly saw yesterday, through 
 that most artful of all disguises, which you had put on, and which 
 must have deceived any one who had not perfectly known the 
 world. Lastly, consider it is a passion which I highly approve," 
 *La, madam," says Sophia, "you come upon one so unawares, 
 and on a sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not blind — and 
 certainly, if it be a fault to see all human perfections assembled 
 together — but is it possible my father and you, madam, can see 
 with my eyes?" "I tell you," answered' the aunt, "we do en- 
 tirely approve ; and this very afternoon your father hath ap- 
 pointed for you to receive your lover." "My father, this after- 
 noon!" cries Sophia, with the blood starting from her face. — 
 "Yes, child," said the aunt, "this afternoon. You know the 
 impetuosity of my brother's temper. I acquainted him with the 
 passion which I first discovered in you that evening when you 
 fainted away in the field. I saw it in your fainting. I saw it 
 immediately upon your recovery. I saw it that evening at sup- 
 per, and the next morning at breakfast (you know, child, I have 
 seen the world) . Well, I no sooner acquainted my brother, but he 
 immediately wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed it 
 yesterday, Allworthy consented (as to be sure he must with joy), 
 and this afternoon, I tell you, you are to put on all your best airs." 
 "This afternoon !" cries Sophia. "Dear aunt, you frighten me 
 out of my senses." "O, my dear," said the aunt, "you will soon 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 375 
 
 come to yourself again ; for he is a charming young fellow, that's 
 the truth on't." "Nay, I will own," says Sophia, "I know none 
 with such perfections. So brave, and yet so gentle ; so witty, yet so 
 inoffensive ; so humane, so civil, so genteel, so handsome ! What 
 signifies his being base born, when compared with such qualifica- 
 tions as these?" ''Base born? What do you mean?" said 
 the aunt, "Mr Blifil base born !" Sophia turned instantly pale 
 at this name, and faintly repeated it. Upon which the aunt 
 cried, "Mr Blifil — ay, Mr Blifil, of whom else have we been 
 talking?" "Good heavens," answered Sophia, ready to sink, 
 "of Mr Jones, I thought ; I am sure I know no other who de- 
 serves — " "I protest," cries the aunt, "you frighten me in your 
 turn. Is it Mr Jones, and not Mr Bhfil, who is the object of your 
 affection?" "Mr Blifil!" repeated Sophia. "Sure it is im- 
 possible you can be in earnest ; if you are, I am the most miser- 
 able woman alive." Mrs Western now stood a few moments 
 silent, while sparks of fiery rage flashed from her eyes. At length, 
 collecting all her force of voice, she thundered forth in the follow- 
 ing articulate sounds : 
 
 "And is it possible you can think of disgracing your family by 
 allying yourself to a bastard ? Can the blood of the Westerns 
 submit to such contamination ? If you have not sense sufficient 
 to restrain such monstrous inclinations, I thought the pride of 
 our family would have prevented you from giving the least 
 encouragement to so base an affection ; much less did I imagine 
 you would ever have had the assurance to own it to my face." 
 
 "Madam," answered Sophia, trembling, "what I have said 
 you have extorted from me. I do not remember to have ever 
 mentioned the name of Mr Jones with approbation to any one 
 before ; nor should I now had I not conceived he had your appro- 
 bation. Whatever were my thoughts of that poor, unhappy 
 young man, I intended to have carried them with me to my grave 
 — to that grave where only now, I find, I am to seek repose." 
 Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in her tears, and, in 
 all the moving silence of unutterable grief, presented a spectacle 
 which must have affected almost the hardest heart. 
 
 All this tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in her 
 aunt. On the contrary, she now fell into the most violent rage. 
 
376 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 — "And I would rather," she cried, in a most vehement voice, 
 "follow you to your grave, than I would see you disgrace yourself 
 and your family by such a match. O Heavens ! could I have 
 ever suspected that I should live to hear a niece of mine declare 
 a passion for such a fellow ? You are the first — yes. Miss 
 Western, you are the first of your name who ever entertained so 
 grovelling a thought. A family so noted for the prudence of its 
 women" — here she ran on a full quarter of an hour, till, having 
 exhausted her breath rather than her rage, she concluded with 
 threatening to go immediately and acquaint her brother. 
 
 Sophia then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her 
 hands, begged her with tears to conceal what she had drawn from 
 her ; urging the violence of her father's temper, and protesting 
 that no inclinations of hers should ever prevail with her to do 
 anything which might offend him. 
 
 Mrs Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, having 
 recollected herself, said, "That on one consideration only she 
 would keep the secret from her brother ; and this was, that Sophia 
 should promise to entertain Mr Blihl that very afternoon as her 
 lover, and to regard him as the person who was to be her 
 husband." 
 
 Poor Sophia was too much in her aunt's power to deny her 
 anything positively ; she was obliged to promise that she would 
 see Mr Blifil, and be as civil to him as possible ; but begged her 
 aunt that the match might not be hurried on. She said, "Mr 
 Blifil was by no means agreeable to her, and she hoped her 
 father would be prevailed on not to make her the most wretched 
 of women." 
 
 Mrs Western assured her, "That the match was entirely 
 agreed upon, and that nothing could or should prevent it. I 
 must own," said she, "I looked on it as on a matter of indiffer- 
 ence; nay, perhaps, had some scruples about it before, which 
 were actually got over by my thinking it highly agreeable to 
 your own inclinations ; but now I regard it as the most eligible 
 thing in the world : nor shall there be, if I can prevent it, a 
 moment of time lost on the occasion." 
 
 Sophia replied, "Delay at least, madam, I may expect from 
 both your goodness and my father's. Surely you will give me 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 377 
 
 time to endeavour to get the better of so strong a disinclination 
 as I have at present to this person." 
 
 The aunt answered, "She knew too much of the world to be 
 so deceived ; that as she was sensible another man had her affec- 
 tions, she should persuade Mr Western to hasten the match as 
 much as possible. It would be bad politics, indeed," added she, 
 ''to protract a siege when the enemy's army is at hand, and in 
 danger of relieving it. No, no, Sophy," said she, "as I am con- 
 vinced you have a violent passion which you can never satisfy 
 with honour, I will do all I can to put your honour out of the care 
 of your family : for when you are married those matters will 
 belong only to the consideration of your husband. I hope, 
 child, you will always have prudence enough to act as becomes 
 you ; but if you should not, marriage hath saved many a woman 
 from ruin." 
 
 Sophia well understood what her aunt meant ; but did not 
 think proper to make her an answer. However, she took a 
 resolution to see Mr Blifil, and to behave to him as civilly as she 
 could, for on that condition only she obtained a promise from her 
 aunt to keep secret the liking which her ill fortune, rather than 
 any scheme of Mrs Western, had unhappily drawn from her. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 A Picture or Formal Courtship in Miniature, as it always 
 
 ought to be drawn, and a scene of a tenderer kind 
 
 Painted at full Length 
 
 It was well remarked by one (and perhaps by more) , that mis- 
 fortunes do not come single. This wise maxim was now verified 
 by Sophia, who was not only disappointed of seeing the man she 
 loved, but had the vexation of being obliged to dress herself out, 
 in order to receive a visit from the man she hated. 
 
 That afternoon Mr Western, for the first time, acquainted his 
 daughter with his intention ; telling her, he knew very well that 
 she had heard it before from her aunt. Sophia looked very 
 grave upon this, nor could she prevent a few pearls from stealing 
 into her eyes. "Come, come," says Western, "none of your 
 maidenish airs ; I know all; I assure you sister hath told me all." 
 
378 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 " Is it possible," says Sophia, " that my aunt can have betrayed 
 me already?" — "Ay, ay," says Western; "betrayed you! 
 ay. Why, you betrayed yourself yesterday at dinner. You 
 showed your fancy very plainly, I think. But you young girls 
 never know what you would be at. So you cry because I am 
 going to marry you to the man you are in love with ! Your 
 mother, I remember, whimpered and whined just in the same 
 manner; but it was all over within twenty-four hours after we 
 were married : Mr Blifil is a brisk young man, and will soon put 
 an end to your squeamishness. Come, chear up, chear up ; I 
 expect un every minute." 
 
 Sophia was now convinced that her aunt had behaved hon- 
 ourably to her : and she determined to go through that dis- 
 agreeable afternoon with as much resolution as possible, and 
 without giving the least suspicion in the world to her father. 
 
 Mr Blifil soon arrived ; and Mr Western soon after withdraw- 
 ing, left the young couple together. 
 
 Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued ; for 
 the gentleman who was to begin the conversation had all the 
 unbecoming modesty which consists in bashfulness. He often 
 attempted to speak, and as often suppressed his words just at the 
 very point of utterance. At last out they broke in a torrent of 
 far-fetched and high-strained compliments, which were answered 
 on her side by downcast looks, half bows, and civil monosyllables. 
 Blifil, from his inexperience in the ways of women, and from his 
 conceit of himself, took this behaviour for a modest assent to his 
 courtship ; and when, to shorten a scene which she could no longer 
 support, Sophia rose up and left the room, he imputed that, too, 
 merely to bashfulness, and comforted himself that he should 
 soon have enough of her company. 
 
 He was indeed perfectly well satisfied with his prospect of 
 success ; for as to that entire and absolute possession of the heart 
 of his mistress which romantic lovers require, the very idea of it 
 never entered his head. Her fortune and her person were the 
 sole objects of his wishes, of which he made no doubt soon to 
 obtain the absolute property; as Mr Western's mind was so 
 earnestly bent on the match ; and as he well knew the strict 
 obedience which Sophia was always ready to pay to her father's 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 379 
 
 will, and the greater still which her father would exact, if there 
 was occasion. This authority, therefore, together with the 
 charms which he fancied in his own person and conversation, 
 could not fail, he thought, of succeeding with a young lady, whose 
 inchnations were, he doubted not, entirely disengaged. 
 
 Of Jones he certainly had not even the least jealousy ; and I 
 have often thought it wonderful that he had not. Perhaps he 
 imagined the character which Jones bore all over the country 
 (how justly, let the reader determine), of being one of the wildest 
 fellows in England, might render him odious to a lady of the most 
 exemplary modesty. Perhaps his suspicions might be laid 
 asleep by the behaviour of Sophia, and of Jones himself, when 
 they were all in company together. Lastly, and indeed prin- 
 cipally, he was well assured there was not another self in the case. 
 He fancied that he knew Jones to the bottom, and had in reality 
 a great contempt for his understanding, for not being more 
 attached to his own interest. He had no apprehension that 
 Jones was in love with Sophia ; and as for any lucrative motives, 
 he imagined they would sway very httle with so silly a fellow. 
 BUfil, moreover, thought the affair of Molly Seagrim still went 
 on, and indeed beHeved it would end in marriage ; for Jones really 
 loved him from his childhood, and had kept no secret from him, 
 till his behaviour on the sickness of Mr Allworthy had entirely 
 aUenated his heart ; and it was by means of the quarrel which 
 had ensued on this occasion, and which was not yet recon- 
 ciled, that Mr Bhfil knew nothing of the alteration which had 
 happened in the affection which Jones had formerly borne 
 towards Molly. 
 
 From these reasons, therefore, Mr Blifil saw no bar to his 
 success with Sophia. He concluded her behaviour was like that 
 of all other young ladies on a first visit from a lover, and it had 
 indeed entirely answered his expectations. 
 
 Mr Western took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from his 
 mistress. He found him so elevated with his success, so enam- 
 oured with his daughter, and so satisfied with her reception of 
 him, that the old gentleman began to caper and dance about his 
 hall, and by many other antic actions to express the extravagance 
 of his joy ; for he had not the least command over any of his 
 
380 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 passions ; and that which had at any time the ascendant in his 
 mind hurried him to the wildest excesses. 
 
 As soon as Bhfil was departed, which was not till after many 
 hearty kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the 
 good squire went instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he no 
 sooner found than he poured forth the most extravagant rap- 
 tures, bidding her chuse what clothes and jewels she pleased ; 
 and declaring that he had no other use for fortune but to make 
 her happy. He then caressed her again and again with the ut- 
 most profusion of fondness, called her by the most endearing 
 names, and protested she was his only joy on earth. 
 
 Sophia perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she 
 did not absolutely know the reason of (for fits of fondness were 
 not unusual to him, though this was rather more violent than 
 ordinary) , thought she should never have a better opportunity of 
 disclosing herself than at present, as far at least as regarded Mr 
 Blifil ; and she too well foresaw the necessity which she should 
 soon be under of coming to a full explanation. After having 
 thanked the squire, therefore, for all his professions of kindness, 
 she added, with a look full of inexpressible softness, "And is it 
 possible my papa can be so good to place all his joy in his Sophy's 
 happiness?" which Western having confirmed by a great oath, 
 and a kiss ; she then laid hold of his hand, and, falhng on her 
 knees, after many warm and passionate declarations of affection 
 and duty, she begged him "not to make her the most miserable 
 creature on earth by forcing her to marry a man whom she 
 detested. This I entreat of you, dear sir," said she, "for your 
 sake, as well as my own, since you are so very kind to tell me 
 your happiness depends on mine." — "How! what!" says 
 Western, staring wildly. "Oh ! sir," continued she, "not only 
 your poor Sophy's happiness ; her very life, her being, depends 
 upon your granting her request. I cannot live with Mr Blifil. 
 To force me into this marriage would be killing me." — "You 
 can't live with Mr Blifil?" says Western. "No, upon my soul 
 I can't," answered Sophia. "Then die and be d— d," cries he, 
 spurning her from him. "Oh ! sir," cries Sophia, catching hold 
 of the skirt of his coat, " take pity on me, I beseech you. Don't 
 look and say such cruel Can you be unmoved while you see 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 381 
 
 your Sophy in this dreadful condition ? Can the best of fathers 
 break my heart ? Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel, 
 lingering death?" — "Pooh! pooh!" cries the squire; "all 
 stuff and nonsense ; all maidenish tricks. Kill you, indeed ! 
 Will marriage kill you ?" — "Oh ! sir," answered Sophia, "such a 
 marriage is worse than death. He is not even indifferent; I 
 hate and detest him." — "If you detest un never so much," cries 
 Western, "you shall ha'un." This he bound by an oath too 
 shocking to repeat ; and after many violent asseverations, con- 
 cluded in these words : " I am resolved upon the match, and unless 
 you consent to it I will not give you a groat, not a single farth- 
 ing ; no, though I saw you expiring with famine in the street, I 
 would not relieve you with a morsel of bread. This is my fixed 
 resolution, and so I leave you to consider on it." He then broke 
 from her with such violence, that her face dashed against the 
 floor ; and he burst directly out of the room, leaving poor Sophia 
 prostrate on the ground. 
 
 When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones ; who 
 seeing his friend looking wild, pale, and almost breathless, could 
 not forbear enquiring the reason of all these melancholy appear- 
 ances. Upon which the squire immediately acquainted him with 
 the whole matter, concluding with bitter denunciations against 
 Sophia, and very pathetic lamentations of the misery of all 
 fathers who are so unfortunate to have daughters. 
 
 Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in 
 favour of Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost struck dead 
 with this relation ; but recovering his spirits a little, mere despair, 
 as he afterwards said, inspired him to mention a matter to Mr 
 Western, which seemed to require more impudence than a human 
 forehead was ever gifted with. He desired leave to go to Sophia, 
 that he might endeavour to obtain her concurrence with her 
 father's inclinations. 
 
 If the squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable 
 for the contrary, passion might at present very well have blinded 
 him. He thanked Jones for offering to undertake the office, and 
 said, " Go, go, prithee, try what canst do ;" and then swore many 
 execrable oaths that he would turn her out of doors unless she 
 consented to the match. 
 
382 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The Meeting between Jones and Sophia 
 
 Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found 
 just risen from the ground, where her father had left her, with the 
 tears trickling from her eyes, and the blood running from her 
 lips. He presently ran to her, and with a voice full at once of 
 tenderness and terrour, cried, "O my Sophia, what means this 
 dreadful sight ?" She looked softly at him for a moment before 
 she spoke, and then said, ''Mr Jones, for Heaven's sake how 
 came you here? — Leave me, I beseech you, this moment." — 
 "Do not," says he, "impose so harsh a command upon me — my 
 heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily could 
 I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear blood." — "I 
 have too many obligations to you already," answered she, "for 
 sure you meant them such." Here she looked at him tenderly 
 almost a minute, and then bursting into an agony, cried, "Oh, 
 Mr Jones, why did you save my life ? my death would have been 
 happier for us both." — "Happier for us both!" cried he. 
 "Could racks or wheels kill me so painfully as Sophia's — I 
 cannot bear the dreadful sound. Do I live but for her ? " Both 
 his voice and looks were full of inexpressible tenderness when he 
 spoke these words ; and at the same time he laid gently hold on 
 her hand, which she did not withdraw from him ; to say the truth, 
 she hardly knew what she did or suffered. A few moments now 
 passed in silence between these lovers, while his eyes were eagerly 
 fixed on Sophia, and hers declining towards the ground : at 
 last she recovered strength enough to desire him again to leave 
 her, for that her certain ruin would be the consequence of their 
 being found together; adding, "Oh, Mr Jones, you know not, 
 you know not what hath passed this cruel afternoon." — "I 
 know all, my Sophia," answered he; "your cruel father hath 
 told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you." — "My 
 father sent you to me!" replied she: "sure you dream." — 
 "Would to Heaven," cries he, "it was but a dream! Oh, 
 Sophia, your father hath sent me to you, to be an advocate for 
 my odious rival, to solicit you in his favour. I took any means to 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 383 
 
 get access to you. O speak to me, Sophia ! comfort my bleeding 
 heart. Sure no one ever loved, ever doated like me. Do not 
 unkindly withhold this dear, this soft, this gentle hand — one 
 moment, perhaps, tears you for ever from me — nothing less 
 than this cruel occasion could, I believe, have ever conquered 
 the respect and awe with which you have inspired me." She 
 stood a moment silent, and covered with confusion ; then lifting 
 up her eyes gently towards him, she cried, "What would Mr 
 Jones have me say?" — "O do but promise," cries he, "that 
 you never will give yourself to Blifil." — "Name not," answered 
 she, "the detested sound. Be assured I never will give him 
 what is in my power to withhold from him." — "Now then," 
 cries he, "while you are so perfectly kind, go a little farther, and 
 add that I may hope." — "Alas !" says she, "Mr Jones, whither 
 will you drive me ? What hope have I to bestow ? You know 
 my father's intentions." — "But I know," answered he, "your 
 compliance with them cannot be compelled." — "What," says 
 she, "must be the dreadful consequence of my disobedience? 
 My own ruin is my last concern. I cannot bear the thoughts of 
 being the cause of my father's misery." — "He is himself the 
 cause," cries Jones, "by exacting a power over you which Nature 
 hath not given him. Think on the misery which I am to suffer if 
 I am to lose you, and see on which side pity will turn the balance." 
 — "Think of it !" replied she : "can you imagine I do not feel 
 the ruin which I must bring on you, should I comply with your 
 desire? It is that thought which gives me resolution to bid 
 you fly from me for ever, and avoid your own destruction." — 
 "I fear no destruction," cries he, "but the loss of Sophia. If 
 you would save me from the most bitter agonies, recall that 
 cruel sentence. Indeed, I can never part with you, indeed I 
 cannot." 
 
 The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being 
 unable to withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost as unable 
 to hold it ; when the scene, which I believe some of my readers 
 will think had lasted long enough, was interrupted by one of so 
 different a nature, that we shall reserve the relation of it for a 
 different chapter. 
 
384 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 Being of a much more Tempestuous Kind than the Former 
 
 Before we proceed with what now happened to our lovers, it 
 may be proper to recount what had past in the hall during their 
 tender interview. 
 
 Soon after Jones had left Mr Western in the manner above 
 mentioned, his sister came to him, and was presently infornied of 
 all that had passed between her brother and Sophia relating to 
 Blifil. 
 
 This behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an 
 absolute breach of the condition on which she had engaged to 
 keep her love for Mr Jones a secret. She considered herself, 
 therefore, at full liberty to reveal all she knew to the squire, which 
 she immediately did in the most explicit terms, and without any 
 ceremony or preface. 
 
 The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had 
 never once entered into the squire's head, either in the warmest 
 minutes of his affection towards that young man, or from sus- 
 picion, or on any other occasion. He did indeed consider a parity 
 of fortune and circumstances to be physically as necessary an 
 ingredient in marriage, as difference of sexes, or any other essen- 
 tial ; and had no more apprehension of his daughter's falling in 
 love with a poor man, than with any animal of a different species. 
 
 He became, therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister's 
 relation. He was, at first, incapable of making any answer, 
 having been almost deprived of his breath by the violence of the 
 surprize. This, however, soon returned, and, as is usual in other 
 cases after an intermission, with redoubled force and fury. 
 
 The first use he made of the power of speech, after his recovery 
 from the sudden effects of his astonishment, was to discharge a 
 round volley of oaths and imprecations. After which he pro- 
 ceeded hastily to the apartment where he expected to find the 
 lovers, and murmured, or rather indeed roared forth, intentions 
 of revenge every step he went. 
 
 As when two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Strephon 
 and Phyllis (for that comes nearest to the mark) are retired into 
 some pleasant solitary grove, to enjoy the delightful conversation 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 385 
 
 of Love, that bashful boy, who cannot speak in public, and is 
 never a good companion to more than two at a time ; here, while 
 every object is serene, should hoarse thunder burst suddenly 
 through the shattered clouds, and rumbling roll along the sky, 
 the frightened maid starts from the mossy bank or verdant turf, 
 the pale livery of death succeeds the red regimentals in which 
 Love had before drest her cheeks, fear shakes her whole frame, 
 and her lover scarce s'upports her trembling tottering limbs. 
 
 Or as when two gentlemen, strangers to the wondrous wit of 
 the place, are cracking a bottle together at some inn or tavern at 
 Salisbury, if the great Dowdy, who acts the part of a madman as 
 well as some of his setters-on do that of a fool, should rattle his 
 chains, and dreadfully hum forth the grumbling catch along the 
 gallery ; the frighted strangers stand aghast ; scared at the horrid 
 sound, they seek some place of shelter from the approaching 
 danger; and if the well-barred windows did admit their exit, 
 would venture their necks to escape the threatening fury now 
 coming upon them. 
 
 So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of her 
 father, who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on swearing, 
 cursing, and vowing the destruction of Jones. To say the truth, 
 I believe the youth himself would, from some prudent considera- 
 tions, have preferred another place of abode at this time, had his 
 terror on Sophia's account given him liberty to reflect a moment 
 on what any otherways concerned himself, than as his love made 
 him partake whatever affected her. 
 
 And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld an 
 object which instantly suspended all his fury against Jones ; this 
 was the ghastly appearance of Sophia, who had fainted away in 
 her lover's arms. This tragical sight Mr Western no sooner 
 beheld, than all his rage forsook him ; he roared for help with 
 his utmost violence ; ran first to his daughter, then back to the 
 door calling for water, and then back again to Sophia, never con- 
 sidering in whose arms she then was, nor perhaps once recollecting 
 that there was such a person in the world as Jones ; for indeed I 
 believe the present circumstances of his daughter were now the 
 sole consideration which employed his thoughts. 
 
 Mrs Western and a great number of servants soon came to the 
 
386 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 assistance of Sophia with water, cordials, and everything neces- 
 sary on those occasions. These were apphed with such success, 
 that Sophia in a very few minutes began to recover, and all the 
 symptoms of Hfe to return. Upon which she was presently led 
 off by her own maid and Mrs Western : nor did that good lady 
 depart without leaving some wholesome admonitions with her 
 brother, on the dreadful effects of his passion, or, as she pleased 
 to call it, madness. 
 
 The squire, perhaps, did not understand this good advice, as 
 it was delivered in obscure hints, shrugs, and notes of admiration : 
 at least, if he did understand it, he profited very little by it; 
 for no sooner was he cured of his immediate fears for his daughter, 
 than he relapsed into his former frenzy, which must have pro- 
 duced an immediate battle with Jones, had not parson Supple, 
 who was a very strong man, been present, and by mere force 
 restrained the squire from acts of hostility. 
 
 The moment Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very 
 suppliant manner to Mr Western, whom the parson held in his 
 arms, and begged him to be pacified ; for that, while he con- 
 tinued in such a passion, it would be impossible to give him 
 any satisfaction. 
 
 "I wull have satisfaction o' thee," answered the squire; "so 
 doff thy clothes. At unt half a man, and I'll lick thee as well as 
 wast ever licked in thy life." He then bespattered the youth 
 with abundance of that language which passes between country 
 gentlemen who embrace opposite sides of the question ; with 
 frequent applications to him to salute that part which is generally 
 introduced into all controversies that arise among the lower 
 orders of the English gentry at horse-races, cock-matches, and 
 other public places. Allusions to this part are likewise often 
 made for the sake of the jest. And here, I believe, the wit is 
 generally misunderstood. In reality, it lies in desiring another 
 
 to kiss your a for having just before threatened to kick his ; 
 
 for I have observed very accurately, that no one ever desires you 
 to kick that which belongs to himself, nor offers to kiss this part 
 in another. 
 
 It may likewise seem surprizing that in the many thousand 
 kind invitations of this sort, which every one who hath conversed 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 387 
 
 with country gentlemen must have heard, no one, I believe, hath 
 ever seen a single instance where the desire hath been complied 
 with ; — a great instance of their want of politeness ; for in town 
 nothing can be more common than for the finest gentlemen to 
 perform this ceremony every day to their superiors, without 
 having that favour once requested of them. 
 
 To all such wit, Jones very calmly answered, "Sir, this usage 
 may perhaps cancel every other obligation you have conferred 
 on me ; but there is one you can never cancel ; nor will I be pro- 
 voked by your abuse to lift my hand against the father of Sophia." 
 
 At these words the squire grew still more outrageous than 
 before ; so that the parson begged Jones to retire ; saying, "You 
 behold, sir, how he waxeth wrath at your abode here ; therefore 
 let me pray you not to tarry any longer. His anger is too much 
 kindled for you to commune with him at present. You had 
 better, therefore, conclude your visit, and refer what matters 
 you have to urge in your behalf to some other opportunity." 
 
 Jones accepted this advice with thanks, and immediately 
 departed. The squire now regained the liberty of his hands, 
 a;id so much temper as to express some satisfaction in the re- 
 straint which had been laid upon him ; declaring that he should 
 certainly have beat his brains out; and adding, "It would have 
 vexed one confoundedly to have been hanged for such a rascal." 
 
 The parson now began to triumph in the success of his peace- 
 making endeavours, and proceeded to read a lecture against 
 anger, which might perhaps rather have tended to raise than to 
 quiet that passion in some hasty minds. This lecture he en- 
 riched with many valuable quotations from the antients, partic- 
 ularly from Seneca; who hath indeed so well handled this 
 passion, that none but a very angry man can read him without 
 great pleasure and profit. The doctor concluded this harangue 
 with the famous story of Alexander and Clitus ; but as I find that 
 entered in my common-place under title Drunkenness, I shall 
 not insert it here. 
 
 The squire took no notice of this story, nor perhaps of anything 
 he said ; for he interrupted him before he had finished, by calling 
 for a tankard of beer ; observing (which is perhaps as true as any 
 observation on this fever of the mind) that anger makes a man dry. 
 
388 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 No sooner had the squire swallowed a large draught than he 
 renewed the discourse on Jones, and declared a resolution of going 
 the next morning early to acquaint Mr Allworthy. His friend 
 would have dissuaded him from this, from the mere motive of 
 good-nature ; but his dissuasion had no other effect than to pro- 
 duce a large volley of oaths and curses, which greatly shocked 
 the pious ears of Supple; but he did not dare to remonstrate 
 against a privilege which the squire claimed as a freeborn Eng- 
 lishman. To say truth, the parson submitted to please his 
 palate at the squire's table, at the expense of suffering now and 
 then this violence to his ears. He contented himself with think- 
 ing he did not promote this evil practice, and that the squire 
 would not swear an oath the less, if he never entered within his 
 gates. However, though he was not guilty of ill manners by 
 rebuking a gentleman in his own house, he paid him off obliquely 
 in the pulpit : which had not, indeed, the good effect of working a 
 reformation in the squire himself ; yet it so far operated on his 
 conscience, that he put the laws very severely in execution against 
 others, and the magistrate was the only person in the parish 
 who could swear with impunity. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 In which Mr Western visits Mr Allworthy 
 
 Mr Allworthy was now retired from breakfast with his 
 nephew, well satisfied with the report of the young gentleman's 
 successful visit to Sophia (for he greatly desired the match, more 
 on account of the lady's character than of her riches), when Mr 
 Western broke abruptly in upon them, and without any ceremony 
 began as follows : — 
 
 "There, you have done a fine piece of work truly ! You have 
 brought up your bastard to a fine purpose ; not that I believe you 
 have had any hand in it neither, that is, as a man may say, 
 designedly : but there is a fine kettle-of-fish made on't up at our 
 house." "What can be the matter, Mr Western ? " said Allworthy. 
 "O, matter enow of all conscience; my daughter hath fallen in 
 love with your bastard, that's all ; but I won't ge her a hapeny, 
 not the twentieth part of a brass varden. I always thought what 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 389 
 
 would come o' breeding up a bastard like a gentleman, and letting 
 un come about to vok's houses. It's well vor un I could not get 
 at un : I'd a lick'd un ; I'd a spoil'd his caterwauling ; I'd a 
 taught the son of a whore to meddle with meat for his master. 
 He shan't ever have a morsel of meat of mine, or a varden to buy 
 it : if she will ha un, one smock shall be her portion. I'd sooner 
 ge my esteate to the zinking fund, that it may be sent to Hanover 
 to corrupt our nation with." "I am heartily sorry," cries 
 Allworthy. "Pox o' your sorrow," says Western; "it will do me 
 abundance of good when I have lost my only child, my poor 
 Sophy, that was the joy of my heart, and all the hope and com- 
 fort of my age ; but I am resolved I will turn her out o' doors ; 
 she shall beg, and starve, and rot in the streets. Not one hapeny, 
 not a hapeny shall she ever hae o' mine. The son of a bitch was 
 always good at finding a hare sitting, an be rotted to'n : I 
 little thought what puss he was looking after; but it shall be 
 the worst he ever vound in his Hfe. She shall be no better than 
 carrion : the skin o'er is all he shall ha, and z\i you may tell un." 
 " I am in amazement," cries Allworthy, " at what you tell me, after 
 what passed between my nephew and the young lady no longer 
 ago than yesterday." "Yes, sir," answered Western, "it was 
 after what passed between your nephew and she that the whole 
 matter came out. Mr Blifil there was no sooner gone than the 
 son of a whore came lurching about the house. Little did I 
 think when I used to love him for a sportsman that he was all 
 the while a poaching after my daughter." "Why truly," says 
 Allworthy, "I could wish you had not given him so many oppor- 
 tunities with her ; and you will do me the justice to acknowledge 
 that I have always been averse to his staying so much at your 
 house, though I own I had no suspicion of this kind." "Why, 
 zounds," cries Western, "who could have thought it ? What the 
 devil had she to do wi'n ? He did not come there a courting to 
 her ; he came there a hunting with me." "But was it possible," 
 says Allworthy, "that you should never discern any symptoms 
 of love between them, when you have seen them so often to- 
 gether?" "Never in my life, as I hope to be saved," cries 
 Western : "I never so much as zeed him kiss her in all my life ; 
 and so far from courting her, he used rather to be more silent 
 
390 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 when she was in company than at any other time ; and as for 
 the girl, she was always less civil to'n than to any young man that 
 came to the house. As to that matter, I am not more easy to be 
 deceived than another ; I would not have you think I am, neigh- 
 bour." AUworthy could scarce refrain laughter at this ; but he 
 resolved to do a violence to himself ; for he perfectly well knew 
 mankind, and had too much good-breeding and good-nature 
 to offend the squire in his present circumstances. He then asked 
 Western what he would have him do upon this occasion. To 
 which the other answered, "That he would have him keep the 
 rascal away from his house, and that he would go and lock up the 
 wench ; for he was resolved to make her marry Mr Blifil in spite 
 of her teeth." He then shook Blifil by the hand, and swore he 
 would have no other son-in-law. Presently after which he took 
 his leave ; saying, his house was in such disorder that it was 
 necessary for him to make haste home, to take care his daughter 
 did not give him the slip ; and as for Jones, he swore if he caught 
 him at his house, he would quaUfy him to run for the geldings' 
 plate. 
 
 When AUworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long 
 silence ensued between them ; all which interval the young gen- 
 tleman filled up with sighs, which proceeded partly from disap- 
 pointment, but more from hatred ; for the success of Jones was 
 much more grievous to him than the loss of Sophia. 
 
 At length his uncle asked him what he was determined to do, 
 and he answered in the following words : — ''Alas ! sir, can it be 
 a question what step a lover will take, when reason and passion 
 point different ways? I am afraid it is too certain he will, in 
 that dilemma, always follow the latter. Reason dictates to me, 
 to quit all thoughts of a woman who places her affections on 
 another ; my passion bids me hope she may in time change her 
 inclinations in my favour. Here, however, I conceive an objec- 
 tion may be raised, which, if it could not fully be answered, would 
 totally deter me from any further pursuit. I mean the injustice 
 of endeavouring to supplant another in a heart of which he seems 
 already in possession ; but the determined resolution of Mr 
 Western shows that, in this case, I shall, by so doing, promote 
 the happiness of every party ; not only that of the parent, who 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 391 
 
 will thus be preserved from the highest degree of misery, but of 
 both the others, who must be undone by this match. The lady, 
 I am sure, will be undone in every sense ; for, besides the loss of 
 most part of her own fortune, she will be not only married to a 
 beggar, but the little fortune which her father cannot withhold 
 from her will be squandered on that wench with whom I know 
 he yet converses. Nay, that is a trifle ; for I know him to be 
 one of the worst men in the world ; for had my dear uncle known 
 what I have hitherto endeavoured to conceal, he must have long 
 since abandoned so profligate a wretch." "How!" said All- 
 worthy; "hath he done anything worse than I already know? 
 Tell me, I beseech you ?" "No," replied Blifil ; "it is now past, 
 and perhaps he may have repented of it." "I command you, 
 on your duty," said Allworthy, "to tell me what you mean." 
 "You know, sir," says Blifil, "I never disobeyed you; but I am 
 sorry I mentioned it, since it may now look like revenge, whereas, 
 I thank Heaven, no such motive ever entered my heart ; and if 
 you oblige me to discover it, I must be his petitioner to you for 
 your forgiveness." "I will have no conditions," answered All- 
 worthy ; "I think I have shown tenderness enough towards him, 
 and more perhaps than you ought to thank me for." "More, 
 indeed, I fear, than he deserved," cries Blifil; "for in the very 
 day of your utmost danger, when myself and all the family were 
 in tears, he filled the house with riot and debauchery. He 
 drank, and sung, and roared ; and when I gave him a gentle hint 
 of the indecency of his actions, he fell into a violent passion, 
 swore many oaths, called me rascal, and struck me." "How !" 
 cries Allworthy; "did he dare to strike you?" "I am sure," 
 cries Blifil, "I have forgiven him that long ago. I wish I could 
 so easily forget his ingratitude to the best of benefactors ; and 
 yet even that I hope you will forgive him, since he must have 
 certainly been possessed with the devil : for that very evening, as 
 Mr Thwackum and myself were taking the air in the fields, and 
 exulting in the good symptoms which then first began to discover 
 themselves, we unluckily saw him engaged with a wench in a 
 manner not fit to be mentioned. Mr Thwackum, with more 
 boldness than prudence, advanced to rebuke him, when (I am 
 sorry to say it) he fell upon the worthy man, and beat him so 
 
392 
 
 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 outrageously that I wish he may have yet recovered the bruises. 
 Nor was I without my share of the effects of his mahce, while I 
 endeavoured to protect my tutor ; but that I have long forgiven ; 
 nay, I prevailed with Mr Thwackum to forgive him too, and 
 not to inform you of a secret which I feared might be fatal to him. 
 And now, sir, since I have unadvisedly dropped a hint of this 
 matter, and your commands have obliged me to discover the 
 whole, let me intercede with you for him." "O child!" said 
 All worthy, "I know not whether I should blame or applaud your 
 goodness, in concealing such villany a moment : but where is 
 Mr Thwackum ? Not that I want any confirmation of what 
 you say ; but I will examine all the evidence of this matter, to 
 justify to the world the example I am resolved to make of such 
 a monster." 
 
 Thwackum was now sent for, and presently appeared. He 
 corroborated every circumstance which the other had deposed ; 
 nay, he produced the record upon his breast, where the hand- 
 writing of Mr Jones remained very legible in black and blue. 
 He concluded with declaring to Mr Allworthy, that he should 
 have long since informed him of this matter, had not Mr Blifil, 
 by the most earnest interpositions, prevented him. "He is," 
 says he, "an excellent youth : though such forgiveness of enemies 
 is carrying the matter too far." 
 
 In reality, Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the 
 parson, and to prevent the discovery at that time ; for which he 
 had many reasons. He knew that the minds of men are apt to 
 be softened and relaxed from their usual severity by sickness. 
 Besides, he imagined that if the story was told when the fact 
 was so recent, and the physician about the house, who might 
 have unravelled the real truth, he should never be able to give 
 it the malicious turn which he intended. Again, he resolved to 
 hoard up this business, till the indiscretion of Jones should afford 
 some additional complaints ; for he thought the joint weight of 
 many facts falling upon him together, would be the most likely 
 to crush him ; and he watched, therefore, some such opportunity 
 as that with which fortune had now kindly presented him. 
 Lastly, by prevaihng with Thwackum to conceal the matter for a 
 time, he knew he should conlirm an opinion of his friendship 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 393 
 
 to Jones, which he had greatly laboured to estabHsh in Mr 
 Allworthy. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A Short Chapter; but which contains Sufficient Matter to 
 
 AFFECT THE GoOD-NATURED READER 
 
 It was Mr Allworthy's custom never to punish any one, not 
 even to turn away a servant, in a passion. He resolved there- 
 fore to delay passing sentence on Jones till the afternoon. 
 
 The poor young man attended at dinner, as usual ; but his 
 heart was too much loaded to suffer him to eat. His grief too 
 was a good deal aggravated by the unkind looks of Mr All- 
 worthy ; whence he concluded that Western had discovered the 
 whole affair between him and Sophia ; but as to Mr Blifil's 
 story, he had not the least apprehension ; for of much the greater 
 part he was entirely innocent; and for the residue, as he had 
 forgiven and forgotten it himself, so he suspected no remembrance 
 on the other side. When dinner was over, and the servants 
 departed, Mr Allworthy began to harangue. He set forth, in a 
 long speech, the many iniquities of which Jones had been guilty, 
 particularly those which this day had brought to light; and 
 concluded by teUing him, "That unless he could clear himself of 
 the charge, he was resolved to banish him his sight for ever." 
 
 Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his de- 
 fence ; nay, indeed, he hardly knew his accusation ; for as Mr 
 Allworthy, in recounting the drunkenness, &c., while he lay ill, 
 out of modesty sunk everything that related particularly to 
 himself, which indeed principally consituted the crime; Jones 
 could not deny the charge. His heart was, besides, almost 
 broken already ; and his spirits were so sunk, that he could say 
 nothing for himself; but acknowledged the whole, and, like a 
 criminal in despair, threw himself upon mercy; concluding, 
 "That though he must own himself guilty of many foUies and 
 inadvertencies, he hoped he had done nothing to deserve what 
 would be to him the greatest punishment in the world." 
 
 Allworthy answered, "That he had forgiven him too often 
 already, in compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his amend- 
 ment : that he now found he was an abandoned reprobate, and 
 
394 HENRY FIELDING 
 
 such as it would be criminal in any one to support and encourage. 
 Nay," said Mr Allworthy to him, ''your audacious attempt to 
 steal away the young lady, calls upon me to justify my own char- 
 acter in punishing you. The world who have already censured 
 the regard I have shown for you may think, with some colour at 
 least of justice, that I connive at so base and barbarous an action 
 — an action of which you must have known my abhorrence : and 
 which, had you had any concern for my ease and honour, as well 
 as for my friendship, you would never have thought of under- 
 taking. Fie upon it, young man ! indeed there is scarce any 
 punishment equal to your crimes, and I can scarce think myself 
 justifiable in what I am now going to bestow on you. However, 
 as I have educated you like a child of my own, I will not turn 
 you naked into the world. When you open this paper, therefore, 
 you will find something which may enable you, with industry, 
 to get an honest livelihood ; but if you employ it to worse pur- 
 poses, I shall not think myself obliged to supply you farther, 
 being resolved, from this day forward, to converse no more with 
 you on any account. I cannot avoid saying, there is no part of 
 your conduct which I resent more than your ill-treatment of 
 that good young man (meaning Blifil) who hath behaved with 
 so much tenderness and honour towards you." 
 
 These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swallowed. 
 A flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, and every 
 faculty of speech and motion seemed to have deserted him. It 
 was some time before he was able to obey Allworthy's peremp- 
 tory commands of departing ; which he at length did, having 
 first kissed his hands with a passion difficult to be affected, and 
 as difficult to be described. 
 
 The reader must be very weak, if, when he considers the light 
 in which Jones then appeared to Mr Allworthy, he should blame 
 the rigour of his sentence. And yet all the neighbourhood, 
 either from this weakness, or from some worse motive, condemned 
 this justice and severity as the highest cruelty. Nay, the very 
 persons who had before censured the good man for the kindness 
 and tenderness shown to a bastard (his own, according to the 
 general opinion), now cried out as loudly against turning his 
 own child out of doors. The women especially were unanimous 
 
THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, A FOUNDLING 395 
 
 in taking the part of Jones, and raised more stories on the 
 occasion than I have room, in this chapter, to set down. 
 
 One thing must not be omitted, that, in their censures on this 
 occasion, none ever mentioned the sum contained in the paper 
 which Allworthy gave Jones, which was no less than five hundred 
 pounds ; but all agreed that he was sent away penniless, and some 
 said naked, from the house of his inhuman father. 
 
THE LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY, 
 
 GENT. 
 
 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 BOOK II. CHAPTER XII 
 
 [My Uncle Toby and the Fly^] 
 
 My uncle Tohy was a man patient of injuries ; — not from want 
 of courage, — I have told you in a former chapter, " that he was 
 a man of courage:" — And will add here, that where just oc- 
 casions presented, or called it forth, — I know no man under 
 whose arm I would have sooner taken shelter ; — nor did this 
 arise from any insensibility or obtuseness of his intellectual 
 parts ; — for he felt this insult of my father's as feehngly as a 
 man could do ; — but he was of a peaceful, placid nature, — no 
 jarring element in it, — all was mixed up so kindly within him ; 
 my uncle Tohy had scarce a heart to retahate upon a fly. 
 
 — Go — says he, one day at dinner, to an over-grown one 
 which had buzzed about his nose, and tormented him cruelly 
 all dinner-time, — ■ and which after infinite attempts, he had 
 caught at last, as it flew by him ; — I'll not hurt thee, says my 
 uncle Tohy, rising from his chair, and going across the room, with 
 
 the -fly in his hand, I'll not hurt a hair of thy head : — Go, 
 
 says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to 
 let it escape ; — go, poor devil, get thee gone, why should I hurt 
 
 thee ? This world surely is wide enough to hold both thee 
 
 and me. 
 
 I was but ten years old when this happened : but whether it 
 was, that the action itself was more in unison to my nerves at 
 
 1 The fragmentary appearance of the excerpts from "Tristram Shandy" and "The Man 
 of Feeling " is due to the formlessness of the books themselves ; both of these novels illustrate 
 the breaking down of plot, one of the signs of decadence in the novel of the late eighteenth 
 century. The responsibility, therefore, for abrupt transition lies not with the editors, but 
 with the authors. 
 
 396 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 397 
 
 that age of pity, which instantly set my whole frame into one 
 vibration of most pleasurable sensation ; — or how far the man- 
 ner and expression of it might go towards it ; — or in what degree, 
 or by what secret magick, — a tone of voice and harmony of 
 movement, attuned by mercy, might find a passage to my heart, 
 I know not ; — this I know, that the lesson of universal good- 
 will then taught and imprinted by my uncle Tohy, has never since 
 been worn out of my mind : And tho' I would not depreciate 
 what the study of the LitercE humaniores, at the university, have 
 done for me in that respect, or discredit the other helps of an 
 expensive education bestowed upon me, both at home and 
 abroad since ; — yet I often think that I owe one half of my phil- 
 anthropy to that one accidental impression. 
 
 BOOK V. CHAPTER VII 
 [Corporal Trim and his Hat] 
 
 — Here is sad news. Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes 
 as Trim stepp'd into the kitchen, — master Bobby is dead and 
 buried — the funeral was an interpolation of Susannah's — we 
 shall have all to go into mourning, said Susannah. 
 
 I HOPE not, said Trim. — You hope not ! cried Susannah 
 earnestly. — The mourning ran not in Trim's head, whatever it 
 did in Susannah's. — I hope — said Trim, explaining himself, I 
 hope in God the news is not true. — I heard the letter read 
 with my own ears, answered Obadiah; and we shall have a 
 terrible piece of work of it in stubbing the Ox-moor. — Oh ! he's 
 dead, said Susannah. — As sure, said the scuUion, as I'm alive. 
 
 I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, 
 fetching a sigh. — Poor creature ! — poor boy ! — poor gentle- 
 man. 
 
 — He was alive last Whitsontide ! said the coachman. — Whit- 
 sontide ! alas ! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling 
 instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermon, 
 — what is Whitsontide, Jonathan (for that was the coachman's 
 name) , or Shrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this ? Are we 
 not here now, continued the corporal (striking the end of his 
 stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of 
 
398 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 health and stability) — and are we not — (dropping his hat upon 
 the ground) gone ! in a moment ! — 'Twas infinitely striking ! 
 Susannah burst into a flood of tears. — We are not stocks and 
 stones. — Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. — The 
 foolish fat sculHon herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon 
 her knees, was rous'd with it. — The whole kitchen crowded 
 about the corporal. 
 
 Now, as I perceive plainly, that the preservation of our con- 
 stitution in church and state, — and possibly the preservation 
 of the whole world — or what is the same thing, the distribution 
 and balance of its property and power, may in time to come 
 depend greatly upon the right understanding of this stroke of 
 the corporal's eloquence — I do demand your attention — your 
 worships and reverences, for any ten pages together, take them 
 where you will in any other part of the work, shall sleep for it 
 at your ease. 
 
 I said, "we were not stocks and stones" — 'tis very well. 
 I should have added, nor are we angels, I wish we were, — but 
 men clothed with bodies, and governed by our imaginations ; — 
 and what a junketing piece of work of it there is, betwixt these 
 and our seven senses, especially some of them, for my own part, 
 I own it, I am ashamed to confess. Let it suffice to affirm, that 
 of all the senses, the eye (for I absolutely deny the touch, though 
 most of your Barbati, I know, are for it) has the quickest com- 
 merce with the soul, — gives a smarter stroke, and leaves some- 
 thing more inexpressible upon the fancy, than words can either 
 convey — or sometimes get rid of. 
 
 — I've gone a little about — no matter, 'tis for health — let 
 us only carry it back in our mind to the mortality of Trim's hat. 
 — "Are we not here now, — and gone in a moment ?" — There 
 was nothing in the sentence — 'twas one of your self-evident 
 truths we have the advantage of hearing every day ; and if 
 Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head — he had 
 made nothing at all of it. 
 
 "Are we not here now;" continued the corporal, "and 
 
 are we not" — (dropping his hat plump upon the ground — 
 and pausing, before he pronounced the word) — "gone! in a 
 moment?" The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 399 
 
 clay had been kneeded into the crown of it. Nothing could 
 
 have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the 
 type and fore-runner, like it, — his hand seemed to vanish from 
 under it, — it fell dead, — the corporal's eye fixed upon it, as 
 upon a corpse, — • and Susannah burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 Now — Ten thousand, and ten thousand times ten thousand 
 (for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a 
 
 hat may be dropped upon the ground, without any effect. 
 
 Had he flung it, or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted 
 it, or let it slip or fall in any possible direction under heaven, — - 
 or in the best direction that could be given to it, — had he 
 dropped it like a goose — like a puppy — like an ass — or in 
 doing it, or even after he had done, had he looked Hke a fool — - 
 like a ninny — Hke a nincompoop — it had fail'd, and the efifect 
 upon the heart had been lost. 
 
 Ye who govern this mighty world and its mighty concerns 
 with the engines of eloquence, — who heat it, and cool it, and melt 
 it, and mollify it, and then harden it again to your purpose 
 
 Ye who wind and turn the passions with this great windlass, 
 and, having done it, lead the owners of them, whither ye think 
 meet — 
 
 Ye, lastly, who drive and why not, Ye also who are 
 
 driven, like turkeys to market with a stick and a red clout — 
 meditate — meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim's hat. 
 
 BOOK VI. CHAPTER VI 
 The Story of Le Fever 
 
 It was some time in the summer of that year in which Den- 
 dermond was taken by the allies, — which was about seven years 
 before my father came into the country, — and about as many, 
 after the time, that my uncle Toby and Trim had privately de- 
 camped from my father's house in town, in order to lay some 
 of the finest sieges to some of the finest fortified cities in Europe 
 
 when my uncle Toby was one evening getting his supper, 
 
 with Trim sitting behind him at a small sideboard, — I say, 
 sitting — for in consideration of the corporal's lame knee (which 
 
400 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 sometimes gave him exquisite pain) — - when my uncle Tdhy 
 dined or supped alone, he would never suffer the corporal to 
 stand ; and the poor fellow's veneration for his master was such, 
 that, with a proper artillery, my uncle Tohy could have taken 
 Dendermond itself, with less trouble than he was able to gain this 
 point over him ; for many a time when my uncle Toby supposed 
 the corporal's leg was at rest, he would look back, and detect 
 him standing behind him with the most dutiful respect : this bred 
 more little squabbles betwixt them, than all other causes for 
 five-and-twenty years together — But this is neither here nor 
 
 there — why do I mention it ? Ask my pen, — it governs 
 
 me, — I govern not it. 
 
 He was one evening sitting thus at his supper, when the land- 
 lord of a httle inn in the village came into the parlour, with an 
 empty phial in his hand, to beg a glass or two of sack ; 'Tis for a 
 poor gentleman, — I think, of the army, said the landlord, who 
 has been taken ill at my house four days ago, and has never held 
 up his head since, or had a desire to taste anything, till just now, 
 
 that he has a fancy for a glass of sack and a thin toast, / 
 
 think, says he, taking his hand from his forehead, it would com- 
 fort me. 
 
 — If I could neither beg, borrow, or buy such a thing — added 
 the landlord, — I would almost steal it for the poor gentleman, 
 he is so ill. — I hope in God he will still mend, continued he, 
 — we are all of us concerned for him. 
 
 Thou art a good-natured soul, I will answer for thee, cried 
 my uncle Toby; and thou shalt drink the poor gentleman's 
 health in a glass of sack thyself, — and take a couple of bottles 
 with my service, and tell him he is heartily welcome to them, 
 and to a dozen more if they will do him good. 
 
 Though I am persuaded, said my uncle Toby, as the landlord 
 shut the door, he is a very compassionate fellow — Trim, — yet 
 I cannot help entertaining a high opinion of his guest too ; there 
 must be something more than common in him, that in so short 
 
 a time should win so much upon the affections of his host ; 
 
 And of his whole family, added the corporal, for they are all 
 
 concerned for him. Step after him, said my uncle Toby, — 
 
 do. Trim, — and ask if he knows his name. 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 401 
 — I have quite forgot it truly, said the landlord, coming 
 
 back into the parlour with the corporal, — but I can ask his son 
 
 again : Has he a son with him then ? said my uncle Tohy. — 
 
 A boy, replied the landlord, of about eleven or twelve years of 
 age ; — but the poor creature has tasted almost as little as his 
 father ; he does nothing but mourn and lament for him night and 
 day : He has not stirred from the bed-side these two days. 
 
 My uncle Tohy laid down his knife and fork, and thrust his 
 plate from before him, as the landlord gave him the account; 
 and Trim, without being ordered, took away, without saying one 
 word, and in a few minutes after brought him his pipe and tobacco. 
 
 Stay in the room a little, said my uncle Tohy. 
 
 Trim ! said my uncle Tohy, after he lighted his pipe, and 
 
 smoak'd about a dozen whiffs. Trim came in front of his 
 
 master, and made his bow ; — my uncle Tohy smoak'd on, and 
 said no more. Corporal ! said my uncle Tohy the cor- 
 poral made his bow. My uncle Tohy proceeded no farther, 
 
 but finished his pipe. 
 
 Trim ! said my uncle Tohy, I have a project in my head, as 
 it is a bad night, of wrapping myself up warm in my roquelaure, 
 
 and paying a visit to this poor gentleman. Your honour's 
 
 roquelaure, replied the corporal, has not once been had on, 
 since the night before your honour received your wound, when 
 we mounted guard in the trenches before the gate of St. Nicolas ; 
 
 and besides, it is so cold and rainy a night, that what with 
 
 the roquelaure, and what with the weather, 'twill be enough to 
 give your honour your death, and bring on your honour's tor- 
 ment in your groin. I fear so, replied my uncle Tohy ; but I 
 am not at rest in my mind. Trim, since the account the landlord 
 
 has given me. I wish I had not known so much of this 
 
 affair, — added my uncle Tohy, — or that I had known more of 
 
 it : How shall we manage it ? Leave it, an't please your 
 
 honour, to me, quoth the corporal; I'll take my hat and stick 
 
 and go to the house and reconnoitre, and act accordingly ; and I 
 
 will bring your honour a full account in an hour. Thou shalt 
 
 go. Trim, said my uncle Tohy, and here's a shilling for thee to 
 
 drink with his servant. I shall get it all out of him, said the 
 
 corporal, shutting the door. 
 
402 
 
 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 My uncle Tohy filled his second pipe ; and had it not been, 
 that he now and then wandered from the point, with considering 
 whether it was not full as well to have the curtain of the tenaille 
 a straight line, as a crooked one, — he might be said to have 
 thought of nothing else but poor Le Fever and his boy the whole 
 time he smoaked it. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The Story of Le Fever Continued 
 
 It was not till my uncle Tohy had knocked the ashes out of his 
 third pipe, that corporal Trim returned from the inn, and gave 
 him the following account. 
 
 I despaired, at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring 
 back your honour any kind of intelligence concerning the poor 
 sick Heutenant — Is he in the army, then ? said my uncle Tohy 
 
 He is, said the corporal And in what regiment ? said 
 
 my uncle Tohy I'll tell your honour, replied the corporal, 
 
 everything straight forwards, as I learnt it. — Then, Trim, I'll fill 
 another pipe, said my uncle Tohy, and not interrupt thee till 
 thou hast done ; so sit down at thy ease, Trim, in the window- 
 seat, and begin thy story again. The corporal made his old bow, 
 which generally spoke as plain as a bow could speak it — Your 
 
 honour is good : And having done that, he sat down, as he 
 
 was ordered, — and began the story to my uncle Tohy over again 
 in pretty near the same words. 
 
 I despaired at first, said the corporal, of being able to bring 
 back any intelligence to your honour, about the lieutenant and 
 his son ; for when I asked where his servant was, from whom I 
 made myself sure of knowing everything which was proper to be 
 asked, — That's a right distinction. Trim, said my uncle Tohy — 
 I was answered, an' please your honour, that he had no servant 
 
 with him ; that he had come to the inn with hired horses, 
 
 which, upon finding himself unable to proceed (to join, I sup- 
 pose, the regiment), he had dismissed the morning after he came. 
 — If I get better, my dear, said he, as he gave his purse to his 
 
 son to pay the man, — we can hire horses from hence. But 
 
 alas ! the poor gentleman will never get from hence, said the 
 landlady to me, — for I heard the death-watch all night long ; — — 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 403 
 
 and when he dies, the youth, his son, will certainly die with him, 
 for he is broken-hearted already. 
 
 I was hearing this account, continued the corporal, when the 
 youth came into the kitchen, to order the thin toast the landlord 
 
 spoke of ; but I will do it for my father myself, said the 
 
 youth. Pray let me save you the trouble, young gentleman, 
 
 said I, taking up a fork for the purpose, and offering him my chair 
 
 to sit down upon by the fire, whilst I did it. 1 believe, Sir, 
 
 said he, very modestly, I can please him best myself. 1 am 
 
 sure, said I, his honour will not like the toast the worse for being 
 
 toasted by an old soldier. The youth took hold of my hand, 
 
 and instantly burst into tears. Poor youth ! said my uncle 
 
 Tohy, — he has been bred up from an infant in the army, and 
 the name of a soldier, Trim, sounded in his ears Uke the name of 
 a friend ; — I wish I had him here. 
 
 I never, in the longest march, said the corporal, had so 
 
 great a mind to my dinner, as I had to cry with him for company : 
 
 — What could be the matter with me, an' please your honour ? 
 Nothing in the world, Trim, said my uncle Tohy, blowing his 
 nose, — but that thou art a good-natured fellow. 
 
 When I gave him the toast, continued the corporal, I thought 
 it was proper to tell him I was captain Shandy^s servant, and 
 that your honour (though a stranger) was extremely concerned 
 for his father ; — and that if there was any thing in your house or 
 
 cellar (And thou might'st have added my purse too, said my 
 
 uncle Toby) he was heartily welcome to it : He made a 
 
 very low bow (which was meant to your honour), but no answer 
 
 — for his heart was full — so he went up stairs with the toast ; — 
 I warrant you, my dear, said I, as I opened the kitchen-door, 
 
 your father will be well again. Mr. Yorick's curate was 
 
 smoaking a pipe by the kitchen fire, — but said not a word good 
 
 or bad to comfort the youth. I thought it wrong ; added the 
 
 corporal I think so too, said my uncle Toby. 
 
 When the Heutenant had taken his glass of sack and toast, 
 he felt himself a little revived, and sent down into the kitchen, 
 to let me know, that in about ten minutes he should be glad if I 
 
 would step up stairs. I believe, said the landlord, he is going 
 
 to say his prayers, for there was a book laid upon the chair 
 
404 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 by his bed-side, and as I shut the door, I saw his son take up a 
 
 cushion. 
 
 I thought, said the curate, that you gentlemen of the army, 
 
 Mr. Trim, never said your prayers at all. 1 heard the poor 
 
 gentleman say his prayers last night, said the landlady, very 
 devoutly, and with my own ears, or I could not have believed 
 
 it. Are you sure of it ? replied the curate. A soldier, an' 
 
 please your reverence, said I, prays as often (of his own accord) 
 
 as a parson ; and when he is fighting for his king, and for his 
 
 own life, and for his honour too, he has the most reason to pray 
 
 to God of any one in the whole world 'Twas well said of thee. 
 
 Trim, said my uncle Toby. But when a soldier, said I, an' 
 
 please your reverence, has been standing for twelve hours to- 
 gether in the trenches, up to his knees in cold water, — or en- 
 gaged, said I, for months together in long and dangerous marches ; 
 
 — harassed, perhaps, in his rear to-day ; — harassing others 
 to-morrow ; — detached here ; — countermanded there ; — rest- 
 ing this night out upon his arms ; — beat up in his shirt the next ; 
 
 — benumbed in his joints ; — perhaps without straw in his tent 
 to kneel on ; — must say his prayers how and when he can. — I 
 believe, said I, — for I was piqued, quoth the corporal, for the 
 reputation of the army, — I believe, an' please your reverence, 
 said I, that when a soldier gets time to pray, — he prays as 
 heartily as a parson, — though not with all his fuss and hypoc- 
 risy. Thou shouldst not have said that. Trim, said my uncle 
 
 Toby, — for God only knows who is a hypocrite, and who is not : 
 
 At the great and general review of us all, corporal, at the 
 
 day of judgment (and not till then) — it will be seen who has 
 done their duties in this world, — and who has not ; and we shall 
 
 be advanced, Trim, accordingly. I hope we shall, said Trim. 
 
 It is in the Scripture, said my uncle Toby; and I will shew 
 
 it thee to-morrow : — In the mean time we may depend upon it, 
 Trim, for our comfort, said my uncle Toby, that God Almighty 
 is so good and just a governor of the world, that if we have but 
 done our duties in it, — it will never be enquired into, whether 
 
 we have done them in a red coat or a black one : I hope not, 
 
 said the corporal But go on, Trim, said my uncle Toby^ 
 
 with thy story. 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 405 
 
 When I went up, continued the corporal, into the lieutenant's 
 room, which I did not do till the expiration of the ten minutes, — 
 he was lying in his bed with his head raised upon his hand, with 
 his elbow upon the pillow, and a clean white cambrick handker- 
 chief beside it : The youth was just stooping down to take up 
 
 the cushion, upon which I supposed he had been kneeling, — the 
 book was laid upon the bed, — and, as he rose, in taking up the 
 cushion with one hand, he reached out his other to take it away 
 
 at the same time. Let it remain there, my dear, said the 
 
 lieutenant. 
 
 He did not offer to speak to me, till I had walked up close to 
 his bed-side : — If you are captain Shandy's servant, said he, 
 you must present my thanks to your master, with my little boy's 
 thanks along with them, for his courtesy to me ; — if he was of 
 Leven's — said the lieutenant. — I told him your honour was — 
 Then, said he, I served three campaigns with him in Flanders, 
 and remember him, — but 'tis most likely, as I had not the 
 honour of any acquaintance with him, that he knows nothing of 
 me. You will tell him, however, that the person his good- 
 nature has laid under obligations to him, is one Le Fever, a 
 
 lieutenant in Angus's but he knows me not, — said he, a 
 
 second time, musing ; possibly he may my story — added he 
 
 — pray tell the captain, I was the ensign at Breda, whose wife 
 was most unfortunately killed with a musket-shot, as she lay 
 
 in my arms in my tent. 1 remember the story, an't please 
 
 your honour, said I, very well. Do you so ? said he, wiping 
 
 his eyes with his handkerchief, — then well may I. — In saying 
 this, he drew a little ring out of his bosom, which seemed tied 
 
 with a black ribband about his neck, and kiss'd it twice 
 
 Here, Billy, said he, the boy flew across the room to the 
 
 bed-side, — and falling down upon his knee, took the ring in his 
 hand, and kissed it too, — then kissed his father^ and sat down 
 upon the bed and wept. 
 
 I wish, said my uncle Toby, with a deep sigh, — I wish, Trim, 
 I was asleep. 
 
 Your honour, replied the corporal, is too much concerned ; — 
 
 shall I pour your honour out a glass of sack to your pipe ? 
 
 Do, Trim, said my uncle Toby. 
 
4o6 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 I remember, said my uncle Tohy, sighing again, the story of 
 the ensign and his wife, with a circumstance his modesty omitted ; 
 
 — and particularly well that he, as well as she, upon some ac- 
 count or other (I forget what) was universally pitied by the 
 whole regiment ; — but finish the story thou art upon : — 'Tis 
 finished already, said the corporal, — for I could stay no longer, 
 
 — so wished his honour a good night ; young Le Fever rose from 
 off the bed, and saw me to the bottom of the stairs ; and as we 
 went down together, told me, they had come from Ireland, and 
 
 were on their route to join the regiment in Flanders. But 
 
 alas ! said the corporal, — the lieutenant's last day's march is 
 over. — Then what is to become of his poor boy ? cried my 
 uncle Tohy. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The Story of Le Fever Continued 
 
 Thou hast left this matter short, said my uncle Tohy to the 
 
 corporal, as he was putting him to bed, and I will tell thee 
 
 in what. Trim. In the first place, when thou madest an offer 
 
 of my services to Le Fever, as sickness and travelling are 
 
 both expensive, and thou knowest he was but a poor lieutenant, 
 with a son to subsist as well as himself out of his pay, — that 
 thou didst not make an offer to him of my purse ; because, had 
 he stood in need, thou knowest. Trim, he had been as welcome to 
 
 it as myself. Your honour knows, said the corporal, I had 
 
 no orders ; True, quoth my uncle Tohy, — thou didst very 
 
 right, Trim, as a soldier, — but certainly very wrong as a man. 
 
 In the second place, for which, indeed, thou hast the same 
 
 excuse, continued my uncle Tohy, when thou offeredst him 
 
 whatever was in my house, thou shouldst have offered him 
 
 my house too : A sick brother officer should have the best 
 
 quarters. Trim, and if we had him with us, — we could tend and 
 
 look to him : Thou art an excellent nurse thyself, Trim, — 
 
 and what with thy care of him, and the old woman's, and his 
 boy's, and mine together, we might recruit him again at once, 
 and set him upon his legs. 
 
 In a fortnight or three weeks, added my uncle Tohy, 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 407 
 
 smiling, he might march. He will never march ; an' 
 
 please your honour, in this world, said the corporal : He 
 
 will march ; said my uncle Toby, rising up, from the side of the 
 
 bed, with one shoe off : An' please your honour, said the 
 
 corporal, he will never march but to his grave : He shall 
 
 march, cried my uncle Toby, marching the foot which had a shoe 
 on, though without advancing an inch, — he shall march to his 
 
 regiment. He cannot stand it, said the corporal ; He 
 
 shall be supported, said my uncle Toby; He'll drop at last, 
 
 said the corporal, and what will become of his boy ? He 
 
 shall not drop, said my uncle Toby, firmly. A-well-o'-day, 
 
 — do what we can for him, said Trim, maintaining his point, — 
 the poor soul will die : — — He shall not die, by G — , cried my 
 uncle Toby. 
 
 — The ACCUSING SPIRIT, which flew up to heaven's chancery 
 with the oath, blush'd as he gave it in ; — and the recording 
 ANGEL, as he wrote it down, dropp'd a tear upon the word, and 
 blotted it out for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 My uncle Toby went to his bureau, — put his purse into 
 
 his breeches pocket, and having ordered the corporal to go early 
 in the morning for a physician, — he went to bed, and fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 The Story of Le Fever Continued 
 
 The sun looked bright the morning after, to every eye in the 
 village but Le Fever's and his afflicted son's ; the hand of death 
 
 press'd heavy upon his eye-lids, and hardly could the wheel 
 
 at the cistern turn round its circle, — when my uncle Toby, who 
 had rose up an hour before his wonted time, entered the lieu- 
 tenant's room, and without preface or apology, sat himself 
 down upon the chair by the bed-side, and, independently of all 
 modes and customs, opened the curtain in the manner an old 
 friend and brother officer would have done it, and asked him 
 how he did, — how he had rested in the night, — what was his 
 complaint, — where was his pain, — and what he could do to help 
 
4o8 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 him : and without giving him time to answer any one of the 
 
 enquiries, >vent on, and told him of the httle plan which he had 
 
 been concerting with the corporal the night before for him. 
 
 You shall go home directly, Le Fever, said my uncle Tohy, 
 
 to my house, — and we'll send for a doctor to see what's the 
 matter, — and we'll have an apothecary, — and the corporal 
 shall be your nurse ; and I'll be your servant, Le Fever. 
 
 There was a frankness in my uncle Tohy, — not the efect of 
 familiarity, — but the cause of it, — which let you at once into 
 his soul, and shewed you the goodness of his nature ; to this, 
 there was something in his looks, and voice, and manner, super- 
 added, which eternally beckoned to the unfortunate to come and 
 take shelter under him ; so that before my uncle Tohy had half 
 finished the kind offers he was making to the father, had the 
 son insensibly pressed up close to his knees, and had taken hold 
 
 of the breast of his coat, and was pulHng it towards him. 
 
 The blood and spirits of Le Fever, which were waxing cold and 
 slow within him, and were retreating to their last citadel, the 
 heart — ralHed back, — the film forsook his eyes for a moment, 
 — he looked up wishfully in my uncle Toby's face, — then cast 
 
 a look upon his boy, and that ligament, fine as it was, — 
 
 was never broken. 
 
 Nature instantly ebb'd again, — the film returned to its place, 
 
 — — the pulse fluttered stopp'd went on throbb'd 
 
 stopp'd again moved stopp'd shall I go on ? 
 
 No. 
 
 BOOK VI. CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 [A Dialogue between Mr. and Mrs. Shandy] 
 
 We should begin, said my father, turning himself half round 
 in bed, and shifting his pillow a little towards my mother's, 
 
 as he opened the debate We should begin to think, Mrs. 
 
 Shandy, of putting this boy into breeches. 
 
 We should so, — said my mother. We defer it, my dear, 
 
 quoth my father, shamefully. — — — ■ 
 
 I think we do, Mr. Shandy, — said my mother. 
 
 Not but the child looks extremely well, said my father 
 
 in his vests and tunicks. 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 409 
 
 He does look very well in them, — replied my 
 
 mother. 
 
 And for that reason it would be almost a sin, added my 
 
 father, to take him out of 'em. 
 
 It would so, — said my mother : But indeed he is 
 
 growing a very tall lad, — rejoined my father. 
 
 He is very tall for his age, indeed, — said my 
 
 mother. 
 
 1 can not (making two syllables of it) imagine, quoth my 
 
 father, who the deuce he takes after. 
 
 I cannot conceive, for my life, — said my mother. 
 
 Humph ! said my father. 
 
 (The dialogue ceased for a moment.) 
 
 I am very short myself, — continued my father gravely. 
 
 You are very short, Mr. Shandy, — said my mother. 
 
 Humph ! quoth my father to himself, a second time : in 
 muttering which, he plucked his pillow a little further from my 
 mother's — ■ and turning about again, there was an end of the 
 debate for three minutes and a half. 
 
 When he gets these breeches made, cried my father in a 
 
 higher tone, he'll look like a beast in 'em. 
 
 He will be very awkward in them at first, replied my 
 mother. 
 
 And 'twill be lucky, if that's the worst on't, added my 
 
 father. 
 
 It will be very lucky, answered my mother. 
 
 I suppose, replied my father, — making some pause first, — 
 he'll be e::?xtly like other people's children. 
 
 Exactly, said my mother. 
 
 Though I shall be sorry for that, added my father : and 
 
 so the debate stopp'd again. 
 
 They should be of leather, said my father, turning him 
 
 about again. — 
 
 They will last him, said my mother, the longest. 
 
 But he can have no linings to 'em, replied my father. 
 
 He cannot, said my mother. 
 
 'Twere better to have them of fustian, quoth my father. 
 
 Nothing can be better, quoth my mother. 
 
4IO LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 — Except dimity, — replied my father : 'Tis best of all, 
 
 — replied my mother. 
 
 One must not give him his death, however, — interrupted 
 
 my father. 
 
 By no means, said my mother : ■ — — and so the dialogue stood 
 still again. 
 
 I am resolved, however, quoth my father, breaking silence the 
 fourth time, he shall have no pockets in them. — 
 
 There is no occasion for any, said my mother. 
 
 I mean in his coat and waistcoat, — cried my father. 
 
 I mean so too, — replied my mother. 
 
 Though if he gets a gig or top Poor souls ! it is a 
 
 crown and a sceptre to them, — they should have where to se- 
 cure it. 
 
 Order it as you please, Mr. Shandy^ replied my mother. 
 
 But don't you think it right ? added my father, pressing 
 
 the point home to her. 
 
 Perfectly, said my mother, if it pleases you, Mr. Shandy. 
 
 There's for you ! cried my father, losing temper • 
 
 Pleases me ! You never will distinguish, Mrs. Shandy, nor 
 
 shall I ever teach you to do it, betwixt a point of pleasure and 
 a point of convenience. 
 
 BOOK VI. CHAPTER XXXIII 
 [In which we are given a Glimpse or the Author's Method] 
 
 I TOLD the Christian reader I say Christian hoping 
 
 he is one and if he is not, I am sorry for it and only 
 
 beg he will consider the matter with himself, and not lay the 
 blame entirely upon this book 
 
 I told him, Sir for in good truth, when a man is telling 
 
 a story in the strange way I do mine, he is obliged continually 
 to be going backwards and forwards to keep all tight together 
 
 in the reader's fancy which, for my own part, if I did not 
 
 take heed to do more than at first, there is so much unfixed and 
 equivocal matter starting up, with so many breaks and gaps 
 in it, — and so little service do the stars afford, which, neverthe- 
 less, I hang up in some of the darkest passages, knowing that 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 411 
 
 the world is apt to lose its way, with all the lights the sun itself 
 
 at noon-day can give it and now you see, I am lost 
 
 myself ! 
 
 But 'tis my father's fault ; and whenever my brains come 
 
 to be dissected, you will perceive, without spectacles, that he has 
 left a large uneven thread, as you sometimes see in an unsaleable 
 piece of cambrick, running along the whole length of the web, 
 and so untowardly, you cannot so much as cut out a * *, (here 
 I hang up a couple of lights again) or a fillet, or a thumb- 
 stall, but it is seen or felt. 
 
 Quanta id diligentius in liberis procreandis cavendum, sayeth 
 Cardan. All which being considered, and that you see 'tis 
 morally impracticable for me to wind this round to where I 
 set out 
 
 I begin the chapter over again. 
 
 BOOK VII. CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 [The Story of the Ass] 
 'TwAS by a poor ass, who had just turned in with a couple 
 
 of large panniers upon his back, to collect eleemosynary turnip- 
 tops and cabbage-leaves ; and stood dubious, with his two fore- 
 feet on the inside of the threshold, and with his two hinder feet 
 towards the street, as not knowing very well whether he was to 
 go in or no. 
 
 Now, 'tis an animal (be in what hurry I may) I cannot bear to 
 
 strike there is a patient endurance of sufferings, wrote so 
 
 unaffectedly in his looks and carriage, which pleads so mightily 
 for him, that it always disarms me ; and to that degree, that I 
 do not like to speak unkindly to him : on the contrary, meet him 
 where I will — whether in town or country — in cart or under 
 panniers — whether in liberty or bondage I have ever some- 
 thing civil to say to him on my part ; and as one word begets 
 
 another (if he has as little to do as I) 1 generally fall into 
 
 conversation with him ; and surely never is my imagination so 
 busy as in framing his responses from the etchings of his counte- 
 nance — and where those carry me not deep enough in flying 
 
 from my own heart into his, and seeing what is natural for an 
 
412 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 ass to think — as well as a man, upon the occasion. In truth, 
 it is the only creature of all the classes of beings below me, with 
 whom I can do this : for parrots, jackdaws, &c. — I never ex- 
 change a word with them nor with the apes, &c., for pretty 
 
 near the same reason ; they act by rote, as the others speak by 
 it, and equally make me silent : nay my dog and my cat, though 
 
 I value them both (and for my dog he would speak if he 
 
 could) — yet somehow or other, they neither of them possess 
 the talents for conversation I can make nothing of a dis- 
 course with them, beyond the proposition, the reply, and re- 
 joinder, which terminated my father's and my mother's conver- 
 sations, in his beds of justice and those utter'd there's 
 
 an end of the dialogue 
 
 — But with an ass, I can commune for ever. 
 
 Come, Honesty ! said I, seeing it was impracticable to 
 
 pass betwixt him and the gate art thou for coming in, or 
 
 going out ? 
 
 The ass twisted his head round to look up the street 
 
 Well — replied I — we'll wait a minute for thy driver : 
 
 He turned his head thoughtful about, and looked wist- 
 fully the opposite way 
 
 I understand thee perfectly, answered I If thou takest 
 
 a wrong step in this affair, he will cudgel thee to death Well ! 
 
 a minute is but a minute, and if it saves a fellow-creature a 
 drubbing, it shall not be set down as ill spent. 
 
 He was eating the stem of an artichoke as this discourse went 
 on, and in the little peevish contentions of nature betwixt hunger 
 and unsavouriness, had dropt it out of his mouth half a dozen 
 
 times, and pick'd it up again God help thee, Jack ! said I, 
 
 thou hast a bitter breakfast on't — and many a bitter day's 
 
 labour, — and many a bitter blow, I fear, for its wages 'tis 
 
 all — all bitterness to thee, whatever life is to others. And 
 
 now thy mouth, if one knew the truth of it, is as bitter, I dare 
 say, as soot — (for he had cast aside the stem) and thou hast not 
 a friend perhaps in all this world, that will give thee a macaroon. 
 
 In saying this, I pull'd out a paper of 'em, which I had just 
 
 purchased, and gave him one — and at this moment that I am 
 telling it, my heart smites me, that there was more of pleasantry 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 413 
 
 in the conceit, of seeing how an ass would eat a macaroon 
 
 than of benevolence in giving him one, which presided in the act. 
 When the ass had eaten his macaroon, I press'd him to come 
 
 in — the poor beast was heavy loaded his legs seem'd to 
 
 tremble under him he hung rather backwards, and as I 
 
 pull'd at hie halter, it broke short in my hand he look'd up 
 
 pensive in my face — "Don't thrash me with it — but if you 
 will, you may" If I do, said I, I'll be d d. 
 
 BOOK VIII. CHAPTER XXIV 
 [My Uncle Toby and the Widow Wadman] 
 
 I AM half distracted, captain Shandy, said Mrs. Wadman, 
 
 holding up her cambrick handkerchief to her left eye, as she 
 
 approach'd the door of my uncle Toby^s sentry-box a mote 
 
 or sand or something I know not what, has got 
 
 into this eye of mine do look into it it is not in the 
 
 white — 
 
 In saying which, Mrs. Wadman edged herself close in beside 
 my uncle Toby, and squeezing herself down upon the corner of 
 his bench, she gave him an opportunity of doing it without 
 rising up Do look into it — said she. 
 
 Honest soul ! thou didst look into it with as much innocency 
 of heart, as ever child look'd into a raree-shew-box ; and 'twere 
 as much a sin to have hurt thee. 
 
 If a man will be peeping of his own accord into things 
 
 of that nature I've nothing to say to it 
 
 My uncle Toby never did : and I will answer for him, that he 
 would have sat quietly upon a sofa from June to January (which, 
 you know, takes in both the hot and cold months), with an eye 
 as fine as the Thracian Rodope's beside him, without being able 
 to tell, whether it was a black or blue one. 
 
 The diflEiculty was to get my uncle Toby to look at one at all. 
 
 'Tis surmounted. And 
 
 I see him yonder with his pipe pendulous in his hand, and the 
 ashes falhng out of it — looking — ■ and looking — then rubbing 
 his eyes — and looking again, with twice the good-nature that 
 ever Gallileo look'd for a spot in the sun. 
 
414 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 In vain ! for by all the powers which animate the organ 
 
 Widow W adman's left eye shines this moment as lucid as 
 
 her right there is neither mote, or sand, or dust, or chaff, 
 
 or speck, or particle of opake matter floating in it — There is 
 nothing, my dear paternal uncle ! but one lambent deHcious 
 fire, furtively shooting out from every part of it, in all directions, 
 
 into thine 
 
 If thou lookest, uncle Toby, in search of this mote one 
 
 moment longer thou art undone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 An eye is for all the world exactly like a cannon, in this respect ; 
 That it is not so much the eye or the cannon, in themselves, as 
 
 it is the carriage of the eye and the carriage of the cannon, 
 
 by which both the one and the other are enabled to do so much 
 execution. I don't think the comparison a bad one ; However, 
 as 'tis made and placed at the head of the chapter, as much for 
 use as ornament, all I desire in return is, that whenever I speak 
 of Mrs. W adman's eyes (except once in the next period), that 
 you keep it in your fancy. 
 
 I protest, Madam, said my uncle Toby, I can see nothing what- 
 ever in your eye. 
 
 It is not in the wjiite ; said Mrs. W adman : my uncle Toby 
 look'd with might and main into the pupil 
 
 Now of all the eyes which ever were created — — from your 
 own, Madam, up to those of Venus herself, which certainly were 
 
 as venereal a pair of eyes as ever stood in a head there never 
 
 was an eye of them all, so fitted to rob my uncle Toby of his 
 
 repose, as the very eye, at which he was looking it was not, 
 
 Madam, a rolling eye a romping or a wanton one — nor was 
 
 it an eye sparkling — petulant or imperious — of high claims and 
 terrifying exactions, which would have curdled at once that 
 milk of human nature, of which my uncle Toby was made up 
 
 but 'twas an eye full of gentle salutations and soft 
 
 responses speaking not like the trumpet stop of some 
 
 ill-made organ, in which many an eye I talk to, holds coarse 
 converse but whispering soft Uke the last low accent of 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 415 
 
 an expiring saint "How can you live comfortless, captain 
 
 Shandy, and alone, without a bosom to lean your head on or 
 
 trust your cares to ?" 
 
 It was an eye 
 
 But I shall be in love with it myself, if I say another word 
 about it. 
 
 It did my uncle Toby's business. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 The world is ashamed of being virtuous My uncle Toby 
 
 knew little of the world ; and therefore when he felt he was in 
 love with widow Wadman, he had no conception that the thing 
 was any more to be made a mystery of, than if Mrs. Wadman 
 had given him a cut with a gap'd knife across his finger : Had 
 
 it been otherwise yet as he ever look'd upon Trim as a 
 
 humble friend ; and saw fresh reasons every day of his Ufe, to 
 
 treat him as such it would have made no variation in the 
 
 manner in which he informed him of the affair. 
 
 "I am in love, corporal !" quoth my uncle Toby. 
 
 BOOK IX. CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 [The Story of Maria] 
 
 For my uncle Toby's amours running all the way in my 
 
 head, they had the same effect upon me as if they had been my 
 
 own I was in the most perfect state of bounty and good-will ; 
 
 and felt the kindliest harmony vibrating within me, with every 
 oscillation of the chaise alike ; so that whether the roads were 
 rough or smooth, it made no difference ; everything I saw or 
 had to do with, touch'd upon some secret spring either of senti- 
 ment or rapture. 
 
 They were the sweetest notes I ever heard ; and I in- 
 stantly let down the fore-glass to hear them more distinctly 
 
 'Tis Maria; said the postillion, observing I was listening 
 
 Poor Maria, continued he (leaning his body on one side to let me 
 see her, for he was in a line betwixt us), is sitting upon a bank 
 playing her vespers upon her pipe, with her little goat beside 
 her. 
 
4i6 LAURENCE STERNE 
 
 The young fellow utter'd this with an accent and a look so 
 perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, 
 I would give him a four-and-twenty sous piece, when I got to 
 Moulins 
 
 And who is poor Maria? said I. 
 
 The love and piety of all the villages around us; said the 
 
 postilHon it is but three years ago, that the sun did not 
 
 shine upon so fair, so quick-witted and amiable a maid; and 
 better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her Banns forbid, 
 by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published 
 them 
 
 He was going on, when Maria, who had made a short pause, 
 
 put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again they 
 
 were the same notes ; yet were ten times sweeter : It is the 
 
 evening service to the Virgin, said the young man but who 
 
 has taught her to play it — or how she came by her pipe, no one 
 knows ; we think that heaven has assisted her in both ; for ever 
 since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only con- 
 solation she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, 
 
 but plays that service upon it almost night and day. 
 
 The postillion delivered this with so much discretion and 
 natural eloquence, that I could not help decyphering some- 
 thing in his face above his condition, and should have sifted 
 out his history, had not poor Maria taken such full possession 
 of me. 
 
 We had got up by this time almost to the bank where Maria 
 was sitting : she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all 
 but two tresses, drawn up into a silk-net, with a few olive leaves 
 twisted a httle fantastically on one side — — ■ she was beautiful ; 
 and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heart-ache, it was the 
 moment I saw her 
 
 God help her ! poor damsel ! above a hundred masses, 
 
 said the postillion, have been said in the several parish churches 
 
 and convents around, for her, but without effect ; we have 
 
 still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin 
 at last will restore her to herself ; but her parents, who know her 
 best, are hopeless upon that score, and think her senses are lost 
 for ever. 
 
LIFE AND OPINIONS OF TRISTRAM SHANDY 417 
 
 As the postillion spoke this, Maria made a cadence so melan- 
 choly, so tender and querulous, that I sprung out of the chaise 
 to help her, and found myself sitting betwixt her and her goat 
 before I relapsed from my enthusiasm. 
 
 Maria look'd wistfully for some time at me, and then at her 
 
 goat and then at me and then at her goat again, and 
 
 so on, alternately 
 
 Well, Maria, said I softly What resemblance do you 
 
 find? 
 
 I do entreat the candid reader to believe me, that it was from 
 
 the humblest conviction of what a Beast man is, that I 
 
 asked the question ; and that I would not have let fallen an 
 unseasonable pleasantry in the venerable presence of Misery, to 
 
 be entitled to all the wit that ever Rabelais scatter'd and 
 
 yet I own my heart smote me, and that I so smarted at the very 
 idea of it, that I swore I would set up for Wisdom, and utter grave 
 
 sentences the rest of my days and never — never attempt 
 
 again to commit mirth with man, woman, or child, the longest 
 day I had to Hve. 
 
 As for writing nonsense to them 1 believe, there was 
 
 a reserve — but that I leave to the world. 
 
 Adieu, Maria ! — adieu, poor hapless damsel ! some time, 
 
 but not now, I may hear thy sorrows from thy own lips but 
 
 I was deceived ; for that moment she took her pipe and told 
 me such a tale of woe with it, that I rose up, and with broken 
 and irregular steps walk'd softly to my chaise. 
 
 What an excellent inn at Moulins ! 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 
 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 To Sir Watkin Phillips, Bart., of Jesus College, Oxon. 
 
 Dear Phillips, 
 As I have nothing more at heart than to convince you I am in- 
 capable of forgetting or neglecting the friendship I made at col- 
 lege, I now begin that correspondence by letters which you and I 
 agreed, at parting, to cultivate. I begin it sooner than I in- 
 tended, that you may have it in your power to refute any idle 
 reports which may be circulated to my prejudice at Oxford, 
 touching a foolish quarrel, in which I have been involved on 
 account of my sister, who had been some time settled here in a 
 boarding-school. When I came hither with my uncle and aunt 
 (who are our guardians) to fetch her away, I found her a fine, tall 
 girl, of seventeen, with an agreeable person ; but remarkably 
 simple, and quite ignorant of the world. This disposition, and 
 want of experience, had exposed her to the addresses of a person 
 (I know not what to call him) who had seen her at a play, and, 
 with a confidence and dexterity peculiar to himself, found means 
 to be recommended to her acquaintance. It was by the greatest 
 accident I intercepted one of his letters. As it was my duty to 
 stifle this correspondence in its birth, I made it my business to 
 find him out, and tell him very freely my sentiments of the matter. 
 The spark did not like the style I used, and behaved with abun- 
 dance of mettle. Though his rank in life (which, by the by, I am 
 ashamed to declare) did not entitle him to much deference ; yet, 
 as his behaviour was remarkably spirited, I admitted him to the 
 privilege of a gentleman ; and something might have happened, 
 had not we been prevented. In short, the business took air, I 
 know not how, and made abundance of noise. Recourse was 
 had to justice : I was obliged to give my word and honour, &c. ; 
 and to-morrow morning we set out for Bristol Wells, where I 
 
 418 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 419 
 
 expect to hear from you by the return of the post. I have got 
 into a family of originals, whom I may one day attempt to de- 
 scribe for your amusement. My aunt, Mrs. Tabitha Bramble, is 
 a maiden of forty-five, exceedingly starched, vain, and ridiculous. 
 My uncle is an odd kind of humorist, always on the fret, and so 
 unpleasant in his manner, that, rather than be obliged to keep 
 him company, I'd resign all claim to the inheritance of his estate. 
 Indeed, his being tortured by the gout may have soured his 
 temper ; and perhaps I may like him better on farther acquaint- 
 ance. Certain it is, all his servants and neighbours in the coun- 
 try are fond of him, even to a degree of enthusiasm ; the reason 
 of which I cannot as yet comprehend. Remember me to Griffy 
 Price, Gwyn, Mansel, Basset, and all the rest of my old Cam- 
 brian companions. Salute the bed-maker in my name ; give my 
 service to the cook ; and pray take care of poor Ponto, for the 
 sake of his old master ; who is, and ever will be. 
 
 Dear Phillips, 
 Your affectionate friend, and humble servant, 
 Gloucester, April 2. Jer. Melford. 
 
 To Mrs. Jermyn, at her House in Gloucester 
 
 Dear Madam, 
 Having no mother of my own, I hope you will give me leave 
 to disburden my poor heart to you, who have always acted the 
 part of a kind parent to me, ever since I was put under your care. 
 Indeed, and inde'ed, my worthy governess may believe me, when 
 I assure her, that I never harboured a thought that was otherwise 
 than virtuous ; and, if God will give me grace, I shall never be- 
 have so as to cast a reflection on the care you have taken in my 
 education. I confess I have given just cause of offence, by my 
 want of prudence and experience. I ought not to have listened to 
 what the young man said ; and it was my duty to have told you 
 all that passed ; but I was ashamed to mention it : and then he 
 behaved so modest and respectful, and seemed to be so melan- 
 choly and timorous, that I could not find in my heart to do any 
 thing that should make him miserable and desperate. As for 
 familiarities, I do declare I never once allowed him the favour of 
 
420 TOBIAS SMOLLET 
 
 a salute ; and as to the few letters that passed between us, they 
 are all in my uncle's hands, and I hope they contain nothing con- 
 trary to innocence and honour. I am still persuaded that he is 
 not what he appears to be : but time will discover. Meanwhile, 
 I will endeavour to forget a connexion which is so displeasing to 
 my family. I have cried without ceasing, and have not tasted 
 any thing but tea, since I was hurried away from you ; nor did 
 I once close my eyes for three nights running. My aunt con- 
 tinues to chide me severely when we are by ourselves ; but I 
 hope to soften her in time by humility and submission. My 
 uncle, who was so dreadfully passionate in the beginning, has 
 been moved by my tears and distress, and is now all tenderness 
 and compassion ; and my brother is reconciled to me, on my 
 promising to break off all correspondence with that unfortunate 
 youth : but, notwithstanding all their indulgence, I shall have 
 no peace of mind till I know my dear and ever-honoured governess 
 has forgiven her poor, disconsolate, forlorn, 
 
 Affectionate humble servant, till death, 
 Clifton, April 6. Lydia Melford. 
 
 To Miss Laetitia Willis, at Gloucester 
 
 My dearest Letty, 
 I AM in such a fright, lest this should not come safe to hand 
 by the conveyance of Jarvis the carrier, that I beg you will write 
 me on the receipt of it, directing to me, under cover, to Mrs. 
 Winifred Jenkins, my aunt's maid, who is a good girl, and has 
 been so kind to me in my affliction, that I have made her my con- 
 fidante. As for Jarvis, he was very shy of taking charge of my 
 letter and the little parcel, because his sister Sally had like to have 
 lost her place on my account. Indeed, I cannot blame the man 
 for his caution, but I have made it worth his while. My dear 
 companion and bed-fellow, it is a grievous addition to my other 
 misfortunes that I am deprived of your agreeable company and 
 conversation, at a time when I need so much the comfort of your 
 good humour and good sense : but, I hope, the friendship we 
 contracted at boarding-school will last for life. I doubt not but 
 on my side it will daily increase and improve, as I gain experience, 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 421 
 
 and learn to know the value of a true friend. O my dear Letty ! 
 what shall I say about poor Mr. Wilson ! I have promised to 
 break off all correspondence, and, if possible, to forget him ; but, 
 alas ! I begin to perceive that will not be in my power. As it is 
 by no means proper that the picture should remain in my hands, 
 lest it should be the occasion of more mischief, I have sent it to 
 you by this opportunity, begging you will either keep it safe till 
 better times, or return it to Mr. Wilson himself, who, I suppose, 
 will make it his business to see you at the usual place. If he 
 should be low-spirited at my sending back his picture, you may 
 tell him I have no occasion for a picture, while the original con- 
 tinues engraved on my — . But no ; I would not have you tell 
 him that neither, because there must be an end of our corre- 
 spondence.- I wish he may forget me, for the sake of his own 
 peace ; and yet if he should, he must be a barbarous — . But it 
 is impossible ! Poor Wilson cannot be false and inconstant ! 
 I beseech him not to write to me, nor attempt to see me for some 
 time ; for, considering the resentment and passionate temper 
 of my brother Jerry, such an attempt might be attended with 
 consequences which would make us all miserable for life. Let 
 us trust to time and the chapter of accidents ; or rather to that 
 Providence which will not fail, sooner or later, to reward those 
 that walk in the paths of honour ann virtue. I would offer my 
 love to the young ladies ; but it is not fit that any of them should 
 know you have received this letter. If we go to Bath, I shall 
 send you my simple remarks upon that famous centre of polite 
 amusement, and every other place we may chance to visit ; and 
 I flatter myself that my dear Miss WilHs will be punctual in 
 answering the letters of 
 
 Her affectionate 
 Clifton, April 6. Lydia Melford. 
 
 To Miss Lydia Melford 
 
 Miss Willis has pronounced my doom ! You are going away, 
 dear Miss Melford ! you are going to be removed, I know not 
 whither ! What shall I do ? Which way shall I turn for con- 
 solation ? I know not what I say ! All night long have I been 
 
422 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 tossed in a sea of doubts and fears, uncertainty and distraction, 
 without being able to connect my thoughts, much less to form 
 any consistent plan of conduct. I was even tempted to wish that 
 I had never seen you ; or that you had been less amiable, or less 
 compassionate to your poor Wilson : and yet it would be detest- 
 able ingratitude in me to form such a wish, considering how much 
 I am indebted to your goodness, and the ineffable pleasure I have 
 derived from your indulgence and approbation. Good God ! I 
 never heard your name mentioned without emotion! The most 
 distant prospect of being admitted to your company, filled my 
 whole soul with a kind of pleasing alarm! As the time ap- 
 proached, my heart beat with redoubled force, and every nerve 
 thrilled with a transport of expectation : but when I found my- 
 self actually in your presence — when I heard you speak — when 
 I saw you smile — when I beheld your charming eyes turned 
 favourably upon me — my breast was filled with such tumults 
 of delight, as wholly deprived me of the power of utterance, and 
 wrapped me in a delirium of joy! Encouraged by your sweet- 
 ness of temper and affability, I ventured to describe the feelings 
 of my heart. Even then you did not check my presumption ; 
 you pitied my sufferings, and gave me leave to hope — you put 
 a favourable, perhaps too favourable, a construction on my ap- 
 pearance. Certain it is, I am no player in love. I speak the 
 language of my own heart, and have no prompter but Nature. 
 Yet there is something in this heart, which I have not yet dis- 
 closed. I flattered myself — But, I will not — ^I must not pro- 
 ceed. Dear Miss Liddy! for Heaven's sake, contrive, if pos- 
 sible, some means of letting me speak to you before you leave 
 Gloucester; otherwise, I know not what will — But I begin to 
 rave again — I will endeavour to bear this trial with fortitude. 
 While I am capable of reflecting upon your tenderness and truth, 
 I surely have no cause to despair ; yet I am strangely affected. 
 The sun seems to deny me light, a cloud hangs over me, and there 
 is a dreadful weight upon my spirits! While you stay in this 
 place, I shall continually hover about your lodgings, as the 
 parted soul is said to linger about the grave where its mortal 
 consort lies. I know, if it is in your power, you will task your 
 humanity — your compassion — shall I add, your affection? — 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 423 
 
 in order to assuage the almost intolerable disquiet that torments 
 the heart of 
 
 Your afflicted 
 Gloucester, March 31. Wilson. 
 
 To Dr. Lewis 
 
 Bath, April 23. 
 Dear Doctor, 
 
 If I did not know that the exercise of your profession has 
 habituated you to the hearing of complaints, I should make a 
 conscience of troubling you with my correspondence, which may 
 be truly called The Lamentations of Matthew Bramble. Yet I 
 cannot help thinking I have some right to discharge the over- 
 flowings of my spleen upon you, whose province it is to remove 
 those disorders that occasioned it ; and, let me tell you, it is no 
 small alleviation of my grievances that I have a sensible friend, 
 to whom I can communicate my crusty humours ; which, by 
 retention, would grow intolerably acrimonious. 
 
 You must know, I find nothing but disappointment at Bath ; 
 which is so altered, that I can scarce believe it is the same place 
 that I frequented about thirty years ago. Methinks I hear you 
 say — "altered it is, without all doubt ; but then it is altered for 
 the better : a truth which, perhaps, you would own without 
 hesitation, if you yourself was not altered for the worse." The 
 reflection may, for aught I know, be just. The inconveniences 
 which I overlooked in the high-day of health, will naturally 
 strike with exaggerated impression on the irritable nerves of an 
 invalid, surprised by premature old age, and shattered with long 
 suffering. But, I believe, you will not deny that this place, 
 which Nature and Providence seem to have intended as a re- 
 source from distemper and disquiet, is become the very centre of 
 racket and dissipation. Instead of that peace, tranquillity, and 
 ease, so necessary to those who labour under bad health, weak 
 nerves, and irregular spirits, here we have nothing but noise, 
 tumult, and hurry ; with the fatigue and slavery of maintaining 
 a ceremonial, more stiff, formal, and oppressive, than the etiquette 
 of a German elector. A national hospital it may be ; but one 
 would imagine that none but lunatics are admitted ; and, truly, 
 I will give you leave to call me so, if I stay much longer at Bath. 
 
424 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 But I shall take another opportunity to explain my sentiments 
 at greater length on this subject. I was impatient to see the 
 boasted improvements in architecture, for which the upper parts 
 of the town have been so much celebrated ; and t'other day I 
 made a circuit of all the new buildings. The Square, though 
 irregular, is, on the whole, pretty well laid out, spacious, open, 
 and airy ; and in my opinion, by far the most wholesome and 
 agreeable situation in Bath, especially the upper side of it ; but 
 the avenues to it are mean, dirty, dangerous, and indirect. Its 
 communication with the baths is through the yard of an inn, 
 where the poor trembling valetudinarian is carried in a chair 
 betwixt the heels of a double row of horses, wincing under the 
 curry-combs of grooms and postillions, over and above the hazard 
 of being obstructed, or overturned, by the carriages which are 
 continually making their exit or their entrance. I suppose, 
 after some chairman shall have been maimed, and a few lives 
 lost by those accidents, the corporation will think, in earnest, 
 about providing a more safe and commodious passage. The Cir- 
 cus is a pretty bauble, contrived for show, and looks like Ves- 
 pasian's amphitheatre turned outside in. If we consider it in 
 point of magnificence, the great number of small doors belonging 
 to the separate houses, the inconsiderable height of the different 
 orders, the affected ornaments of the architrave, which are both 
 childish and misplaced, and the areas projecting into the street, 
 surrounded with iron rails, destroy a good part of its effect upon 
 the eye. And perhaps we shall find it still more defective, if we 
 view it in the light of convenience. The figure of each separate 
 dwelling-house, being the segment of a circle, must spoil the 
 symmetry of the rooms, by contracting them towards the street 
 windows, and leaving a larger sweep in the space behind. If, 
 instead of the areas and iron rails, which seem to be of very little 
 use, there had been a corridore with arcades all round, as in 
 Covent Garden, the appearance of the whole would have been 
 more magnificent and striking : those arcades would have af- 
 forded an agreeable covered walk, and sheltered the poor chair- 
 men and their carriages from the rain, which is here almost per- 
 petual. At present, the chairs stand soaking in the open street, 
 from morning to night, till they become so many boxes of wet 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 425 
 
 leather, for the benefit of the gouty and rheumatic, who are 
 transported in them from place to place. Indeed, this is a 
 shocking inconvenience, that extends over the whole city; and 
 I am persuaded it produces infinite mischief to the delicate and 
 infirm : even the close chairs contrived for the sick, by standing 
 in the open air, have their frize linings impregnated, like so 
 many sponges, with the moisture of the atmosphere ; and those 
 cases of cold vapour must give a charming check to the per- 
 spiration of a patient, piping hot from the bath, with all his 
 pores wide open. 
 
 But to return to the Circus. It is inconvenient from its situa- 
 tion, at so great a distance from all the markets, baths, and places 
 of public entertainment. The only entrance to it, through Gay- 
 street, is so difficult, steep, and slippery, that in wet weather it 
 must be exceedingly dangerous, both for those that ride in car- 
 riages, and those that walk afoot ; and when the street is covered 
 with snow, as it was for fifteen days successively this very winter, 
 I don't see how any individual could go either up or down, with- 
 out the most imminent hazard of broken bones. In blowing 
 weather, I am told, most of the houses in this hill are smothered 
 with smoke, forced down the chimneys by the gusts of wind re- 
 verberated from the hill behind, which (I apprehend likewise) 
 must render the atmosphere here more humid and unwholesome 
 than it is in the square below : for the clouds, formed by the 
 constant evaporation from the baths and rivers in the bottom, 
 will, in their ascent this way, be first attracted and detained by 
 the hill that rises close behind the Circus, and load the air with a 
 perpetual succession of vapours. This point, however, may be 
 easily ascertained by means of an hygrometer, or a paper of salt 
 of tartar exposed to the action of the atmosphere. The same 
 artist who planned the Circus, has likewise projected a Crescent : 
 when that is finished, we shall probably have a Star ; and those 
 who are living thirty years hence, may, perhaps, see all the signs 
 of the Zodiac exhibited in architecture at Bath. These, however 
 fantastical, are still designs that denote some ingenuity and knowl- 
 edge in the architect ; but the rage of building has laid hold on 
 such a number of adventurers, that one sees new houses starting 
 up in every outlet and every corner of Bath, contrived without 
 
426 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 judgment, executed without solidity, and stuck together with 
 so httle regard to plan and propriety, that the different lines 
 of the new rows and buildings interfere with and intersect one 
 another in every different angle of conjunction. They look Hke 
 the wreck of streets and squares disjointed by an earthquake, 
 which hath broken the ground into a variety of holes and hil- 
 locks ; or, as if some Gothic devil had stuffed them all together 
 in a bag, and left them to stand higgledy-piggledy, just as chance 
 directed. What sort of a monster Bath will become in a few 
 years, with those growing excrescences, may be easily con- 
 ceived. But the want of beauty and proportion is not the worst 
 effect of these new mansions ; they are built so slight, with the 
 soft crumbling stone found in this neighbourhood, that I should 
 never sleep quietly in one of them, when it blowed (as the sailors 
 say) a cap-full of wind : and I am persuaded, that my hind, 
 Roger Williams, or any man of equal strength, would be able to 
 push his foot through the strongest part of their walls, without 
 any great exertion of his muscles. All these absurdities arise 
 from the general tide of luxury, which hath overspread the 
 nation, and swept away all, even the very dregs of the people. 
 Every upstart of fortune, harnessed in the trappings of the 
 mode, presents himself at Bath, as in the very focus of obser- 
 vation. Clerks and factors from the East-Indies, loaded with 
 the spoil of plundered provinces ; planters, negro-drivers, and 
 hucksters, from our American plantations, enriched they know 
 not how; agents, commissaries, and contractors, who have 
 fattened, in two successive wars, on the blood of the nation ; 
 usurers, brokers, and jobbers of every kind ; men of low birth 
 and no breeding, have found themselves suddenly translated 
 into a state of affluence, unknown to former ages : and no wonder 
 that their brains should be intoxicated with pride, vanity, and 
 presumption. Knowing no other criterion of greatness but the 
 ostentation of wealth, they discharge their affluence, without 
 taste or conduct, through every channel of the most absurd ex- 
 travagance ; and all of them hurry to Bath, because here, with- 
 out any further qualification, they can mingle with the princes 
 and nobles of the land. Even the wives and daughters of low 
 tradesmen, who, like shovel-nosed sharks, prey upon the blubber 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 427 
 
 of those uncouth whales of fortune, are infected with the same 
 rage of displaying their importance ; and the slightest indisposi- 
 tion serves them for a pretext to insist upon being conveyed to 
 Bath, where they may hobble country-dances and cotillons 
 among lordhngs, squires, counsellors, and clergy. These deli- 
 cate creatures from Bedfordbury, Butcher-row, Crutched-friars, 
 and Botolph-lane, cannot breathe in the gross air of the Lower 
 Town, or conform to the vulgar rules of a common lodging-house ; 
 the husband, therefore, must provide an entire house, or elegant 
 apartments in the new buildings. Such is the composition of 
 what is called the fashionable company at Bath ; where a very 
 inconsiderable proportion of genteel people are lost in a mob of 
 impudent plebeians, who have neither understanding nor judg- 
 ment, nor the least idea of propriety and decorum ; and seem to 
 enjoy nothing so much as an opportunity of insulting their 
 betters. 
 
 Thus the number of people and the number of houses continue 
 to increase ; and this will ever be the case, till the streams that 
 swell this irresistible torrent of folly and extravagance shall either 
 be exhausted, or turned into other channels, by incidents and 
 events which I do not pretend to foresee. This, I own, is a sub- 
 ject on which I cannot write with any degree of patience ; for the 
 mob is a monster I never could abide, either in its head, tail, 
 midriff, or members ; I detest the whole of it, as a mass of ig- 
 norance, presumption, malice, and brutality : and in this term 
 of reprobation I include, without respect of rank, station, or 
 quality, all those, of both sexes, who affect its manners and court 
 its society. 
 
 But I have written till my fingers are cramped, and my nausea 
 begins to return. By your advice, I sent to London a few days 
 ago for half a pound of gengzeng ; though I much doubt whether 
 that which comes from America is equally efficacious with what 
 is brought from the East Indies. Some years ago, a friend 
 of mine paid sixteen guineas for two ounces of it ; and in six 
 months after, it was sold in the same shop for five shillings 
 the pound. In short, we live in a vile world of fraud and 
 sophistication ; so that I know nothing of equal value with the 
 genuine friendship of a sensible man : a rare jewel, which I 
 
428 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 cannot help thinking myself in possession of, while I repeat the 
 old declaration, that 
 
 I am, as usual, dear Lewis, your affectionate, 
 
 M. Bramble. 
 
 After having been agitated in a short hurricane, on my first 
 arrival, I have taken a small house in Milsham-street, where I 
 am tolerably well lodged, for five guineas a week. I was yester- 
 day at the pump-room, and drank about a pint of the water, 
 which seems to agree with my stomach ; and to-morrow morning 
 I shall bathe, for the first time ; so that in a few posts you may 
 expect farther trouble : rneanwhile, I am glad to find that the 
 inoculation has succeeded so well with poor Joyce, and that her 
 face will be but Httle marked. If my friend Sir Thomas was a 
 single man, I would not trust such a handsome wench in his 
 family ; but, as I have recommended her, in a particular manner, 
 to the protection of Lady G — , who is one of the best women in 
 the world, she may go thither without hesitation, as soon as she 
 is quite recovered, and fit for service. Let her mother have 
 money to provide her with necessaries ; and she may ride behind 
 her brother on Bucks : but you must lay strong injunctions on 
 Jack to take particular care of the trusty old veteran, who has 
 faithfully earned his present ease by his past services. 
 
 To Miss Willis, at Gloucester 
 
 Bath, April 26. 
 My dearest companion. 
 
 The pleasure I received from yours, which came to hand yes- 
 terday, is not to be expressed. Love and friendship are, without 
 doubt, charming passions ; which absence serves only to heighten 
 and improve. Your kind present of the garnet bracelets I shall 
 keep as carefully as I preserve my own life ; and I beg you will 
 accept, in return, of my heart-housewife, with the tortoise- 
 shell memorandum-book, as a trifling pledge of my unalterable 
 affection. 
 
 Bath is to me a new world : all is gaiety, good-humour, and 
 diversion : the eye is continually entertained with the splendour 
 of dress and equipage ; and the ear with the sound of coaches, 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 
 
 429 
 
 chaises, chairs, and other carriages. The merry hells ring round 
 from morn till night. Then we are welcomed by the city-waits 
 in our own lodgings; we have music in the pump-room every 
 morning ; cotillons every forenoon in the rooms ; balls twice a 
 week ; and concerts every other night ; besides private assem- 
 blies and parties without number. As soon as we were settled 
 in lodgings, we were visited by the master of the ceremonies ; a 
 pretty little gentleman, so sweet, so fine, so civil, and polite, 
 that in our country he might pass for the Prince of Wales : then 
 he talks so charming, both in verse and prose, that you would be 
 delighted to hear him discourse : for, you must know, he is a 
 great writer, and has got five tragedies ready for the stage. He 
 did us the favour to dine with us, by my uncle's invitation ; and 
 next day squired my aunt and me to every part of Bath ; which, 
 to be sure, is an earthly paradise. The Square, the Circus, and 
 the Parades, put you in mind of the sumptuous palaces repre- 
 sented in prints and pictures ; and the new buildings, such as 
 Prince's Row, Harlequin's Row, Bladud's Row, and twenty 
 other rows, look like so many enchanted castles raised on hang- 
 ing terraces. 
 
 At eight in the morning we go in dishabille to the pump-room, 
 which is crowded like a Welsh fair ; and there you see the highest 
 quality and the lowest trades-folk jostling each other, without 
 ceremony, hail fellow well met. The noise of the music playing 
 in the gallery, the heat and flavour of such a crowd, and the hum 
 and buz of their conversation, gave me the head-ache and vertigo 
 the first day ; but afterwards, all these things became familiar, 
 and even agreeable. Right under the pump-room windows is 
 the King's bath ; a huge cistern, where you see the patients up 
 to their necks in hot water. The ladies wear jackets and petti- 
 coats of brown linen, with chip hats, in which they fix their 
 handkerchiefs to wipe the sweat from their faces : but, truly, 
 whether it is owing to the steam that surrounds them, or the 
 heat of the water, or the nature of the dress, or all these causes 
 together, they look so flushed, and so frightful, that I always 
 turn my eyes another way. My aunt, who says every person of 
 fashion should make her appearance in the bath, as well as in 
 the abbey church, contrived a cap with cherry-coloured ribbons 
 
430 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 to suit her complexion, and obliged Win to attend her yesterday 
 morning in the water. But, really, her eyes were so red, that 
 they made mine water as I viewed her from the pump-room ; and 
 as for poor Win, who wore a hat trimmed with blue, what be- 
 twixt her wan complexion and her fear, she looked Hke the ghost 
 of some pale maiden, who had drowned herself for love. When 
 she came out of the bath, she took asafoetida drops, and was 
 fluttered all day ; so that we could hardly keep her from going 
 into hysterics ; but her mistress says it will do her good ; and 
 poor Win curtsies with the tears in her eyes. For my part, 
 I content myself with drinking about half a pint of water 
 every morning. 
 
 The pumper, with his wife and servant, attend within a bar ; 
 and the glasses, of different sizes, stand ranged in order before 
 them ; so you have nothing to do but to point at that which you 
 choose, and it is filled immediately, hot and sparkling from the 
 pump. It is the only hot water I could ever drink without being 
 sick. Far from having that effect, it is rather agreeable to the 
 taste, grateful to the stomach, and reviving to the spirits. You 
 cannot imagine what wonderful cures it performs. My uncle 
 began with it the other day ; but he made wry faces in drinking ; 
 and I am afraid he will leave it off. The first day we came to 
 Bath, he fell into a violent passion ; beat two black-a-moors, 
 and I was afraid he would have fought with their master ; but 
 the stranger proved a peaceable man. To be sure, the gout had 
 got into his head, as my aunt observed : but, I beHeve, his 
 passion drove it away ; for he has been remarkably well ever 
 since. It is a thousand pities he should ever be troubled with 
 that ugly distemper ; for when he is free from pain, he is the 
 best-tempered man upon earth ; so gentle, so generous, so chari- 
 table, that every body loves him ; and so good to me, in partic- 
 ular, that I shall never be able to show the deep sense I have of 
 his tenderness and affection. 
 
 Hard by the pump-room is a coffee-house for the ladies ; but 
 my aunt says young girls are not admitted, inasmuch as the con- 
 versation turns upon politics, scandal, philosophy, and other sub- 
 jects above our capacity : but we are allowed to accompany 
 them to the booksellers' shops, which are charming places of 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 431 
 
 resort ; where we read novels, plays, pamphlets, and newspapers, 
 for so small a subscription as a crown a quarter : and in these 
 offices of intelligence (as my brother calls them) all the reports 
 of the day, and all the private transactions of the Bath, are first 
 entered and discussed. From the bookseller's shop we make a 
 tour through the milliners and toymen ; and commonly stop at 
 Mr. Gill's, the pastry-cook, to take a jelly, a tart, or a small 
 basin of vermicelli. There is, moreover, another place of en- 
 tertainment on the other side of the water, opposite to the Grove ; 
 to which the company cross over in a boat : it is called Spring 
 Garden ; a sweet retreat, laid out in walks and ponds and par- 
 terres of flowers ; and there is a long-room for breakfasting and 
 dancing. As the situation is low and damp, and the season has 
 been remarkably wet, my uncle won't suffer me to go thither, 
 lest I should catch cold : but my aunt says it is all a vulgar 
 prejudice ; and, to be sure, a great many gentlemen and ladies 
 of Ireland frequent the place, without seeming to be the worse 
 for it. They say, dancing at Spring Gardens, when the air is 
 moist, is recommended to them as an excellent cure for the 
 rheumatism. I have been twice at the play; where, notwith- 
 standing the excellence of the performers, the gaiety of the 
 company, and the decorations of the theatre, which are very 
 fine, I could not help reflecting, with a sigh, upon our poor 
 homely representations at Gloucester. But this, in confidence 
 to my dear Willis. You know my heart, and will excuse its 
 weakness. 
 
 After all, the great scenes of entertainment at Bath are the 
 two public rooms, where the company meet alternately every 
 evening : they are spacious, lofty, and, when lighted up, appear 
 very striking. They are generally crowded with well-dressed 
 people, who drink tea in separate parties, play at cards, walk, or 
 sit and chat together just as they are disposed. Twice a week 
 there is a ball ; the expense of which is defrayed by a voluntary 
 subscription among the gentlemen ; and every subscriber has 
 three tickets. I was there on Friday last with my aunt, under 
 the care of my brother, who is a subscriber ; and Sir Ulic Mac- 
 killigut recommended his nephew. Captain O'Donaghan, to me 
 as a partner ; but Jerry excused himself, by saying I had got 
 
432 
 
 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 the head-ache ; and, indeed, it was really so, though I can't 
 imagine how he knew it. The place was so hot, and the smell so 
 different from what we are used to in the country, that I was quite 
 feverish when we came away. Aunt says it is the effect of a 
 vulgar constitution, reared among woods and mountains ; and 
 that, as I become accustomed to genteel company, it will wear 
 off. Sir UHc was very complaisant, made her a great many 
 high-flown compliments, and, when we retired, handed her with 
 great ceremony to her chair. The captain, I beheve, would 
 have done me the same favour; but my brother, seeing him 
 advance, took me under his arm, and wished him good-night. 
 The captain is a pretty man, to be sure ; tall and straight, and 
 well-made ; with light grey eyes, and a Roman nose : but there 
 is a certain boldness in his look and manner that puts one out of 
 countenance. But I am afraid I have put you out of all patience 
 with this long unconnected scrawl ; which I shall therefore con- 
 clude with assuring you, that neither Bath nor London, nor all 
 the diversions of life, shall ever be able to efface the idea of my 
 dear Letty, from the heart of 
 
 Her ever affectionate 
 
 Lydia Melford. 
 
 To Mrs. Mary Jones, at Brambleton Hall 
 
 Dear Molly Jones, 
 Heaving got a frank, I now return your fever, which I received 
 by Mr. Higgins, at the Hot Well, together with the stockings 
 which his wife footed for me ; but now they are of no survice. 
 Nobody wears such things in this place. O Molly ! you that Kve 
 in the country have no deception of our doings at Bath. Here is 
 such dressing, and fiddling, and dancing, and gadding, and 
 courting, and plotting ! O gracious ! if God had not given me a 
 good stock of discretion, what a power of things might not I reveal 
 consarning old mistress and young mistress ! Jews with beards, 
 that were no Jews, but handsome Christians, without a hair upon 
 their sin, strolling with spectacles, to get speech of Miss Liddy. 
 But she's a dear sweet soul, as innocent as the child unborn. 
 She has tould me all her inward thoughts, and disclosed her 
 passion for Mr. Wilson ; and that's not his name neither : and 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 433 
 
 thof he acted among the player-men, he is meat for their mas- 
 ters ; and she has gi'en me her yellow trollopea : which Mrs. 
 Drab, the manty-maker, says will look very well when it is 
 scowred and smoaked with silfur. You knows as how, y allow 
 fitts my fizzogmony. God he knows what havock I shall make 
 among the mail sex, when I make my first appearance in this 
 killing collar, with a full soot of gaze, as good as new, that I 
 bought last Friday of Madam Friponeau, the French mullaner. 
 Dear girl, I have seen all the fine shows of Bath ; the Prades, the 
 Squires, and the CircHs ; the Crasint, the Hottogon, and Bloody 
 Buildings, and Harry King's Row : and I have been twice in the 
 bath with mistress, and na'r a smoak upon our backs, hussy. 
 The first time I was mortally afraid, and flustered all day ; and 
 afterwards made believe that I had got the heddick ; but mistress 
 said, if I didn't go I should take a dose of bumtaffy; and so, 
 remembering how it worked Mrs. Gwyllim a pennorth, I chose 
 rather to go again with her into the bath ; and then I met with 
 an axident. I dropt my petticoat, and could not get it up from 
 the bottom. But what did that signify? They mought laff, 
 but they could see nothing ; for I was up to the sin in water. To 
 be sure, it threw me into such a gumbustion, that I know not 
 what I said, nor what I did, nor how they got me out, and rapt 
 me in a blanket. Mrs. Tabitha scoulded a little when we got 
 home ; but she knows as I know what's what. Ah, Laud help 
 you ! There is Sir Yury Michgut, of Balnaclinch, in the cunty 
 of Kalloway. I took down the name from his gentleman, Mr. 
 O'Frizzle, and he has got an estate of fifteen hundred a-year. 
 I am sure he is both rich and generous. But you nose, Molly, 
 I was always famous for keeping secrets ; and so he was very 
 safe in trusting me with his flegm for mistress ; which, to be sure, 
 is very honourable ; for Mr. O'Frizzle assures me, he values 
 not her portion a brass varthing. And, indeed, what's poor ten 
 thousand pounds to a baron knight of his fortune ? And, truly, 
 I told Mr. O'Frizzle that was all she had to trust to. As for 
 John Thomas, he's a morass fellor. I Vow, I thought he would 
 a fit with Mr. O'Frizzle, because he axed me to dance with him 
 at Spring Garden. But God he knows I have no thoughts eyther 
 of wan or t'other. 
 
434 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 As for house news, the worst is, Chowder has fallen off greatly 
 from his stomick ; he eats nothing but white-meats, and not 
 much of that ; and wheezes, and seems to be much bloated. The 
 doctors think he is threatened with a dropsy. Parson Marrofat, 
 who has got the same disorder, finds great benefit from the 
 waters : but Chowder seems to Kke them no better than the squire ; 
 and mistress says, if his case don't take a favourable turn, she 
 will sartinly carry him to Aberga'nny, to drink goat's-whey. To 
 be sure the poor dear honymil is lost for want of axercise ; for 
 which reason she intends to give him an airing once a-day upon 
 the Downs, in a postchaise. I have already made very credi- 
 able correxions in this here place ; where, to be sure, we have 
 the very squintasense of satiety. Mrs. Patcher, my Lady 
 Kilmacullock's woman, and I, are sworn sisters. She has shown 
 me all her secrets, and learned me to wash gaze, and refrash 
 rusty silks and bumbeseens, by boiling them with winegar, cham- 
 berlye, and stale beer. My short sack and apron luck as good 
 as new from the shop, and my pumpydoor as fresh as a rose, by 
 the help of turtle-water. But this is all Greek and Latten to you, 
 Molly. If we should come to Aberga'nny, you'll be within a 
 day's ride of us ; and then we shall see wan another, please 
 God. If not, remember me in your prayers, as I shall do by you 
 in mine ; and take care of my kitten, and give my kind sarvice 
 to Sail ; and this is all at present from 
 
 Your beloved friend and sarvent, 
 
 Bath, April 26. Winifred Jenkins. 
 
 To Sir Watkin Phillips, or Jesus College, Oxon. 
 
 Dear Phillips, 
 Without waiting for your answer to my last, I proceed to give 
 you an account of our journey to London, which has not been 
 wholly barren of adventure. Tuesday last, the squire took his 
 place in a hired coach and four, accompanied by his sister and 
 mine, and Mrs. Tabby's maid, Winifred Jenkins, whose province it 
 was to support Chowder on a cushion in her lap. I could scarce 
 refrain from laughing, when I looked into the vehicle, and saw that 
 animal sitting opposite to my uncle, like any other passenger. 
 The squire, ashamed of his situation, blushed to the eyes ; and 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 435 
 
 calling to the postillions to drive on, pulled the glass up in my face. 
 I, and his servant John Thomas, attended them on horseback. 
 
 Nothing worth mentioning occurred till we arrived on the 
 edge of Marlborough Downs. There one of the fore horses 
 fell, in going down hill at a round trot ; and the postillion behind, 
 endeavouring to stop the carriage, pulled it on one side into a 
 deep rut, where it was fairly overturned. I had rode on about 
 two hundred yards before ; but, hearing a loud scream, galloped 
 back and dismounted, to give what assistance was in my power. 
 When I looked into the coach, I could see nothing distinctly. 
 All of a sudden, my uncle thrust up his bare pate, and bolted 
 through the window as nimble as a grasshopper . . . [and] pulling 
 the door ofif its hinges with a jerk, laid hold on Liddy's arm, and 
 brought her to the hght; very much frighted, but httle hurt. 
 It fell to my share to deliver our aunt Tabitha, who had lost her 
 cap in the struggle; and, being rather more than half frantic 
 with rage and terror, was no bad representation of one of the 
 sister Furies that guard the gates of hell : she expressed no sort 
 of concern for her brother, who ran about in the cold, without 
 his perriwig, and worked with the most astonishing agility in 
 helping to disentangle the horses from the carriage ; but she 
 cried in a tone of distraction, "Chowder! Chowder! my dear 
 Chowder ! my poor Chowder is certainly killed !" 
 
 This was not the case : Chowder, after having tore my uncle's 
 leg in the confusion of the fall, had retreated under the seat, and 
 from thence the footman drew him by the neck ; for which good 
 office, he bit his fingers to the bone. The fellow, who is naturally 
 surly, was so provoked at this assault, that he saluted his ribs 
 with a hearty kick, exclaiming, "Damn the nasty son of a bitch, 
 and them he belongs to !" a benediction, which was by no means 
 lost upon the implacable virago his mistress. Her brother, how- 
 ever, prevailed upon her to retire into a peasant's house, near 
 the scene of action, where his head and hers were covered, and 
 poor Jenkins had a fit. Our next care was to apply some stick- 
 ing-plaster to the wound in his leg, which exhibited the impres- 
 sion of Chowder's teeth ; but he never opened his lips against 
 the delinquent. Mrs. Tabby, alarmed at this scene; "You 
 say nothing. Matt," cried she; "but I know your mind: I 
 
436 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 know the spite you have to that poor unfortunate animal ! I 
 know you intend to take his hfe away !" "You are mistaken, 
 upon my honour!" replied the squire, with a sarcastic smile; 
 "I should be incapable of harbouring any such cruel design 
 against an object so amiable and inoffensive, even if he had not 
 the happiness to be your favourite." 
 
 John Thomas was not so delicate. The fellow, whether really 
 alarmed for his life, or instigated by the desire of revenge, came 
 in, and bluntly demanded that the dog should be put to death ; 
 on the supposition, that if ever he should run mad hereafter, 
 he, who had been bit by him, would be infected. My uncle 
 calmly argued upon the absurdity of his opinion, observing, that 
 he himself was in the same predicament, and would certainly 
 take the precaution he proposed, if he was not sure he ran no 
 risk of infection. Nevertheless, Thomas continued obstinate ; 
 and at length declared, that if the dog was not shot immediately, 
 he himself would be his executioner. This declaration opened 
 the flood-gates of Tabby's eloquence, which would have shamed 
 the first-rate oratress of Billingsgate. The footman retorted 
 in the same style ; and the squire dismissed him from his ser- 
 vice, after having prevented me from giving him a good horse- 
 whipping for his insolence. 
 
 The coach being adjusted, another difficulty occurred : Mrs. 
 Tabitha absolutely refused to enter it again, unless another driver 
 could be found to take the place of the postillion ; who, she 
 affirmed, had overturned the carriage from malice aforethought. 
 After much dispute, the man resigned his place to a shabby 
 country-fellow, who undertook to go as far as Marlborough, 
 where they could be better provided ; and at that place we 
 arrived about one o'clock, without farther impediment. Mrs. 
 Bramble, however, found new matter of offence ; which, indeed, 
 she had a particular genius for extracting at will from almost 
 every incident in life. We had scarce entered the room at Marl- 
 borough, where we staid to dine, when she exhibited a formal 
 complaint against the poor fellow who had superseded the pos- 
 tillion. She said, he was such a beggarly rascal, that he had 
 ne'er a shirt to his back : for which act of indelicacy he deserved 
 to be set in the stocks. 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 437 
 
 "This is a heinous offence, indeed," cried my uncle; "let 
 us hear what the fellow has to say in his own vindication." He 
 was accordingly summoned, and made his appearance, which 
 was equally queer and pathetic. He seemed to be about twenty 
 years of age, of a middling size, with bandy legs, stooping shoul- 
 ders, high forehead, sandy locks, pinking eyes, flat nose, and long 
 chin ; but his complexion was of a sickly yellow : his looks de- 
 noted famine ; and the rags that he wore could hardly conceal 
 what decency requires to be covered. My uncle, having sur- 
 veyed him attentively, said, with an ironical expression in his 
 countenance, "A'n't you ashamed, fellow, to ride postillion 
 without a shirt to cover you?" "Yes, I am, an please your 
 noble honour," answered the man; "but necessity has no law, 
 as the saying is." "You're an impudent varlet," cried Mrs. 
 Tabby, "for presuming to ride before persons of fashion with- 
 out a shirt." "I am so, an please your worthy ladyship," said 
 he ; "but I'm a poor Wiltshire lad. I ha'n't a shirt in the world, 
 that I can call my own, nor a rag of clothes, an please your 
 ladyship, but what you see. I have no friend nor relation upon 
 earth to help me out. I have had the fever and ague these six 
 months, and spent all I had in the world upon doctors, and to 
 keep soul and body together ; and, saving you ladyship's good 
 presence, I ha'n't broke bread these four-and-twenty hours." 
 
 Mrs. Bramble, turning from him, said, she had never seen 
 such a filthy tatterdemalion, and bid him be gone ; observing, 
 that he would fill the room full of vermin. Her brother darted a 
 significant glance at her, as she retired with Liddy into another 
 apartment ; and then asked the man if he was known to any 
 person in Marlborough ? when he answered, that the landlord 
 of the inn had known him from his infancy. Mine host was 
 immediately called ; and, being interrogated on the subject, 
 declared that the young fellow's name was Humphry Clinker : 
 that he had been a love-begotten babe, brought up in the work- 
 house, and put out apprentice by the parish to a country black- 
 smith, who died before the boy's time was out ; that he had for 
 some time worked under his ostler, as a helper and extra postil- 
 lion, till he was taken ill of the ague, which disabled him from 
 getting his bread : that, having sold or pawned every thing he 
 
438 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 had in the world for his cure and subsistence, he became so mis- 
 erable and shabby, that he disgraced the stable, and was dis- 
 missed ; but that he never heard any thing to the prejudice of 
 his character in other respects. "So that the fellow being sick 
 and destitute," said my uncle, "you turned him out to die in the 
 streets." "I pay the poors' rate," replied the other, "and I 
 have no right to maintain idle vagrants, either in sickness or 
 health ; besides, such a miserable object would have brought a 
 discredit upon my house." 
 
 "You perceive," said the squire, turning to me, "our landlord 
 is a Christian of bowels. Who shall presume to censure the 
 morals of the age, when the very publicans exhibit such examples 
 of humanity ? Hark ye, Clinker, you are a most notorious 
 offender. You stand convicted of sickness, hunger, wretched- 
 ness, and want. But, as it does not belong to me to punish crim- 
 inals, I will only take upon me the task of giving you a word of 
 advice : Get a shirt with all convenient despatch, that your naked- 
 ness may not henceforward give offence to travelHng gentle- 
 women, especially maidens in years." 
 
 So saying, he put a guinea into the hand of the poor fellow, 
 who stood staring at him in silence, with his mouth wide open, 
 till the landlord pushed him out of the room. 
 
 In the afternoon, as our aunt stept into the coach, she ob- 
 served, with some marks of satisfaction, that the postillion, who 
 rode next to her, was not a shabby wretch, like the raggamuffin 
 who had drove them into Marlborough. Indeed the difference 
 was very conspicuous : this was a smart fellow, with a narrow- 
 brimmed hat with gold cording, a cut bob, a decent blue jacket, 
 leather breeches, and a clean linen shirt, puffed above the waist- 
 band. When we arrived at the Castle on Spin Hill, where we 
 lay, this new postillion was remarkably assiduous in bringing 
 in the loose parcels ; and, at length, displayed the individual 
 countenance of Humphry Clinker, who had metamorphosed 
 himself in this manner by reHeving from pawn part of his own 
 clothes with the money he had received from Mr. Bramble. 
 
 Howsoever pleased the rest of the company were with such a 
 favourable change in the appearance of this poor creature, it 
 soured on the stomach of Mrs. Tabby, who had not yet digested 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 439 
 
 . . . [his] affront: she tossed her nose in disdain, saying, she 
 supposed her brother had taken him into favour, because he had 
 insulted her ; that a fool and his money were soon parted ; but 
 that if Matt intended to take the fellow with him to London, 
 she would not go a foot farther that way. My uncle said noth- 
 ing with his tongue, though his looks were sufficiently expressive ; 
 and next morning Clinker did not appear, so that we proceeded 
 without farther altercation to Salt Hill, where we proposed to 
 dine. There the first person that came to the side of the coach, 
 and began to adjust the foot-board, was no other than Humphry 
 Clinker. When I handed out Mrs. Bramble, she eyed him with 
 a furious look, and passed into the house. My uncle was em- 
 barrassed, and asked him peevishly, what had brought him 
 hither ? The fellow said, his honour had been so good to him, 
 that he had not the heart to part with him ; that he would fol- 
 low him to the world's end, and serve him all the days of his life 
 without fee or reward. 
 
 Mr. Bramble did not know whether to chide or laugh at this 
 declaration. He foresaw much contradiction on the side of 
 Tabby ; and, on the other hand, he could not but be pleased 
 with the gratitude of Clinker, as well as with the simplicity of 
 his character. *' Suppose I was inclined to take you into my ser- 
 vice," said he, '' what are your qualifications ? what are you good 
 for?" "An please your honour," answered this original, "I 
 can read and write, and do the business of the stable indifferent 
 well. I can dress a horse, and shoe him, and bleed and rowel 
 him : and as for the practice of sow-gelding, I won't turn my 
 back on e'er a he in the county of Wilts. Then I can make hog's- 
 puddings and hob-nails, mend kettles, and tin sauce-pans." 
 Here uncle burst out a laughing ; and inquired what other accom- 
 plishments he was master of. "I know something of single- 
 stick, and psalmody," proceeded Clinker. "I can play upon the 
 Jew's-harp, sing Black-eyed Susan, Arthur-O'Bradley, and 
 divers other songs ; I can dance a Welsh jig, and Nancy Dawson ; 
 wrestle a fall with any lad of my inches, when I'm in heart; 
 and, under correction, I can find a hare, when your honour 
 wants a bit of game." "Foregad ! thou art a complete fellow," 
 cried my uncle, still laughing. *'I have a good mind to take 
 
440 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 thee into my family. Pr'ythee, go and try if thou canst make 
 peace with my sister." 
 
 Clinker accordingly followed us into the room, cap in hand, 
 where, addressing himself to Mrs. Tabitha, "May it please your 
 ladyship's worship," cried he, "to pardon and forgive my offences. 
 Do, pray, good, sweet, beautiful lady, take compassion on a poor 
 sinner. God bless your noble countenance ! I am sure you are 
 too handsome and generous to bear malice. I will serve you on 
 my bended knees, by night and by day, by land and by water ; 
 and all for the love and pleasure of serving such an excellent lady." 
 
 This compliment and humiliation had some effect upon Tabby ; 
 but she made no reply ; and Clinker, taking silence for consent, 
 gave his attendance at dinner. The fellow's natural awkward- 
 ness, and the flutter of his spirits, were productive of repeated 
 blunders in the course of his attendance. At length, he spilt 
 part of a custard upon her right shoulder; and, starting back, 
 trod upon Chowder, who set up a dismal howl. Poor Humphry 
 was so disconcerted at this double mistake, that he dropt the 
 china dish, which broke into a thousand pieces; then falKng 
 down upon his knees, remained in that posture gaping, with a 
 most ludicrous aspect of distress. Mrs. Bramble flew to the dog, 
 and, snatching him in her arms, presented him to her brother, 
 saying, "This is all a concerted scheme against this unfortunate 
 animal, whose only crime is its regard for me. Here it is : kill 
 it at once; and then you'll be satisfied." 
 
 Clinker, hearing these words, and taking them in the literal 
 acceptation, got up in some hurry, and seizing a knife from the 
 side-board, cried, "Not here, an please your ladyship: it will 
 daub the room. Give him to me, and I'll carry him to the ditch 
 by the road side." To this proposal he received no other answer 
 than a hearty box on the ear, that made him stagger to the other 
 side of the room. "What !" said she to her brother, "am I to 
 be affronted by every mangy hound that you pick up in the high- 
 way ? I insist upon your sending this rascallion about his busi- 
 ness immediately." "For God's sake, sister, compose yourself," 
 said my uncle, "and consider that the poor fellow is innocent of 
 any intention to give you offence." "Innocent as the babe 
 unborn," cried Humphry. " I see it plainly," exclaimed this 
 
HUMPHRY CLINKER 441 
 
 implacable maiden, "he acts by your direction; and you are 
 resolved to support him in his impudence. This is a bad return 
 for all the services I have done you ; for nursing you in your sick- 
 ness, managing your family, and keeping you from ruining your- 
 self by your own imprudence. But now you shall part with 
 that rascal or me, upon the spot, without farther loss of time ; 
 and the world shall see whether you have more regard for your 
 own flesh and blood, or for a beggarly foundling, taken from the 
 dunghill." 
 
 Mr. Bramble's eyes began to glisten, and his teeth to chatter. 
 ''If stated fairly," said he, raising his voice, "the question is, 
 whether I have spirit to shake off an intolerable yoke, by one effort 
 of resolution, or meanness enough to do an act of cruelty and 
 injustice, to gratify the rancour of a capricious woman. Hark 
 ye, Mrs. Tabitha Bramble, I will now propose an alternative in 
 my turn : Either discard your four-footed favourite, or give me 
 leave to bid you eternally adieu : for I am determined that he 
 and I shall live no longer under the same roof ; and now ' to dinner 
 with what appetite you may.'" Thunderstruck at this declara- 
 tion, she sat down in a corner ; and, after a pause of some min- 
 utes, "Sure I don't understand you. Matt !" said she. "And 
 yet I spoke in plain English," answered the squire, with 
 a peremptory look. "Sir," resumed this virago, effectually 
 humbled, "it is your prerogative to command, and my duty to 
 obey. I can't dispose of the dog in this place ; but if you'll 
 allow him to go in the coach to London, I give you my word he 
 shall never trouble you again." 
 
 Her brother, entirely disarmed by this mild reply, declared, 
 she could ask him nothing in reason that he would refuse; 
 adding, "I hope, sister, you have never found me deficient in 
 natural affection." Mrs. Tabitha immediately rose, and, throw- 
 ing her arms about his neck, kissed him on the cheek : he re- 
 turned her embrace with great emotion. Liddy sobbed. Win 
 Jenkins cackled, Chowder capered, and Clinker skipped about, 
 rubbing his hands for joy of this reconciliation. 
 
 Concord being thus restored, we finished our meal with com- 
 fort ; and in the evening arrived at London, without having met 
 with any other adventure. My aunt seems to be much mended 
 
442 TOBIAS SMOLLETT 
 
 by the hint she received from her brother. She has been gra- 
 ciously pleased to remove her displeasure from Clinker, who is 
 now retained as a footman ; and in a day or two will make his 
 appearance in a new suit of livery ; but as he is little acquainted 
 with London, we have taken an occasional valet, whom I intend 
 hereafter to hire as my own servant. We lodge in Golden-square, 
 at the house of one Mrs. Norton, a decent sort of a woman, 
 who takes great pains to make us all easy. My uncle proposes 
 to make a circuit of all the remarkable scenes of this metropolis, 
 for the entertainment of his pupils ; but as you and I are already 
 acquainted with most of those he will visit, and with some others 
 he little dreams of, I shall only communicate what will be in 
 some measure new to your observation. Remember me to our 
 Jesuitical friends, and believe me ever. 
 
 Dear knight. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 London, May 24. J. Melford. 
 
EVELINA 
 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 LETTER I 
 Lady Howard to the Rev. Mr. Villars 
 
 Howard Grove, Kent. 
 
 Can any thing, my good Sir, be more painful to a friendly 
 mind than a necessity of communicating disagreeable intelli- 
 gence ? Indeed, it is sometimes difficult to determine, whether 
 the relater or the receiver of evil tidings is most to be 
 pitied. 
 
 I have just had a letter from Madame Duval ; she is totally 
 at a loss in what manner to behave ; she seems desirous to repair 
 the wrongs she has done, yet wishes the world to believe her 
 blameless. She would fain cast upon another the odium of those 
 misfortunes for which she alone is answerable. Her letter is 
 violent, sometimes abusive, and that of you I — you, to whom 
 she is under obligations which are greater even than her faults, 
 but to whose advice she wickedly imputes all the sufferings of 
 her much-injured daughter, the late Lady Belmont. The chief 
 purport of her writing I will acquaint you with ; the letter itself 
 is not worthy your notice. 
 
 She tells me that she has, for many years past, been in con- 
 tinual expectation of making a journey to England, which pre- 
 vented her writing for information concerning this melancholy 
 subject, by giving her hopes of making personal enquiries ; but 
 family occurrences have still detained her in France, which 
 country she now sees no prospect of quitting. She has, there- 
 fore, lately used her utmost endeavours to obtain a faithful 
 account of whatever related to her ill-advised daughter ; the 
 result of which giving her some reason to apprehend that, upon 
 
 443 
 
444 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 her death-bed, she bequeathed an infant orphan to the world, 
 she most graciously says, that if you, with whom she understands 
 the child is placed, will procure authentic proofs of its relation- 
 ship to her, you may send it to Paris, where she will properly 
 provide for it. 
 
 This woman is, undoubtedly, at length, self-convicted of her 
 most unnatural behaviour : it is evident, from her writing, that 
 she is still as vulgar and illiterate as when her first husband, 
 Mr. Evelyn, had the weakness to marry her ; nor does she at all 
 apologise for addressing herself to me, though I was only once in 
 her company. 
 
 Her letter has excited in my daughter Mirvan, a strong desire 
 to be informed of the motives which induced Madame Duval to 
 abandon the unfortunate Lady Belmont, at a time when a 
 mother's protection was peculiarly necessary for her peace and 
 her reputation. Notwithstanding I was personally acquainted 
 with all the parties concerned in that affair, the subject always 
 appeared of too delicate a nature to be spoken of with the princi- 
 pals; I cannot, therefore, satisfy Mrs. Mirvan otherwise than 
 by applying to you. 
 
 By saying that you may send the child, Madame Duval 
 aims at conferring, where she most owes obUgation. I pretend 
 not to give you advice ; you, to whose generous protection this 
 helpless orphan is indebted for every thing, are the best and only 
 judge of what she ought to do ; but I am much concerned at the 
 trouble and uneasiness which this unworthy woman may occa- 
 sion you. 
 
 My daughter and my grandchild join with me in desiring to 
 be most kindly remembered to the amiable girl ; and they bid 
 me remind you, that the annual visit to Howard Grove, which 
 we were formerly promised, has been discontinued for more 
 than four years. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, with great regard, 
 
 Your most obedient friend and servant, 
 
 M. Howard. 
 
EVELINA 445 
 
 LETTER II 
 Mr. Villars to Lady Howard 
 
 Berry Hill, Dorsetshire. 
 
 Your Ladyship did but too well foresee the perplexity and 
 uneasiness of which Madame Duval's letter has been productive. 
 However, I ought rather to be thankful that I have so many 
 years remained unmolested, than repine at my present embar- 
 rassment ; since it proves, at least, that this wretched woman is 
 at length awakened to remorse. 
 
 In regard to my answer, I must humbly request your Lady- 
 ship to write to this effect : " that I would not, upon any account, 
 intentionally offend Madame Duval, but that I have weighty, 
 nay unanswerable reasons for detaining her grand-daughter 
 at present in England ; the principal of which is, that it was 
 the earnest desire of one to whose Will she owes implicit duty. 
 Madame Duval may be assured that she meets with the utmost 
 attention and tenderness ; that her education, however short 
 of my wishes, almost exceeds my abilities ; and I flatter myself, 
 when the time arrives that she shall pay her duty to her grand- 
 mother, Madame Duval will find no reason to be dissatisfied 
 with what has been done for her." 
 
 Your Ladyship will not, I am sure, be surprised at this an- 
 swer. Madame Duval is by no means a proper companion or 
 guardian for a young woman : she is at once uneducated and 
 unprincipled ; ungentle in temper, and unamiable in her manners. 
 I have long known that she has persuaded herself to harbour an 
 aversion for me — Unhappy woman ! I can only regard her as 
 an object of pity ! 
 
 I dare not hesitate at a request from Mrs. Mirvan, yet, in 
 complying with it, I shall, for her own sake, be as concise as I 
 possibly can ; since the cruel transactions which preceded the 
 birth of my ward, can afford no entertainment to a mind so 
 humane as her's. 
 
 Your Ladyship may probably have heard, that I had the 
 honour to accompany Mr. Evelyn, the grandfather of my young 
 charge, when upon his travels, in the capacity of tutor. His 
 unhappy marriage, immediately upon his return to England, 
 
446 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 with Madame Duval, then a waiting-girl at a tavern, contrary 
 to the advice and entreaties of all his friends, among whom I 
 was myself the most urgent, induced him to abandon his native 
 land, and hx his abode in France. Thither he was followed by 
 shame and repentance ; feehngs which his heart was not framed 
 to support : for, notwithstanding he had been too weak to resist 
 the allurements of beauty, which nature, though a niggard to 
 her of every other boon, had with a lavish hand bestowed on his 
 wife; yet he was a young man of excellent character, and, till 
 thus unaccountably infatuated, of unblemished conduct. He 
 survived this ill-judged marriage but two years. Upon his 
 death-bed, with an unsteady hand, he wrote me the following 
 note : 
 
 "My friend ! forget your resentment, in favour of your human- 
 ity ; — a father, trembling for the welfare of his child, bequeaths 
 her to your care. — O Villars ! hear ! pity ! and relieve me !" 
 
 Had my circumstances permitted me, I should have answered 
 these words by an immediate journey to Paris ; but I was 
 obliged to act by the agency of a friend, who was upon the spot, 
 and present at the opening of the will. 
 
 Mr. Evelyn left to me a legacy of a thousand pounds, and the 
 sole guardianship of his daughter's person till her eighteenth 
 year, conjuring me, in the most affectionate terms, to take the 
 charge of her education till she was able to act with propriety 
 for herself ; but in regard to fortune, he left her wholly dependent 
 on her mother, to whose tenderness he earnestly recommended 
 her. 
 
 Thus, though he would not, to a woman low-bred and illiberal 
 as Mrs. Evelyn, trust the conduct and morals of his daughter, 
 he nevertheless thought proper to secure to her the respect and 
 duty which, from her own child, were certainly her due ; but, 
 unhappily, it never occurred to him that the mother, on her 
 part, could fail in affection or justice. 
 
 Miss Evelyn, Madam, from the second to the eighteenth year 
 of her life, was brought up under my care, and, except when at 
 school, under my roof. I need not speak to your Ladyship of 
 the virtues of that excellent young creature. She loved me as 
 her father ; nor was Mrs. Villars less valued by her ; while to 
 
EVELINA 
 
 447 
 
 me she became so dear, that her loss was httle less afflicting 
 than that which I have since sustained of Mrs. Villars 
 herself. 
 
 At that period of her life we parted ; her mother, then married 
 to Monsieur Duval, sent for her to Paris. How often have I 
 since regretted that I did not accompany her thither ! protected 
 and supported by me, the misery and disgrace which awaited 
 her, might, perhaps, have been avoided. But — to be brief, 
 Madame Duval, at the instigation of her husband, earnestly, 
 or rather tyrannically, endeavoured to effect a union between 
 Miss Evelyn and one of his nephews. And, when she found 
 her power inadequate to her attempt, enraged at her non-com- 
 pliance, she treated her with the grossest unkindness, and 
 threatened her with poverty and ruin. 
 
 Miss Evelyn, to whom wrath and violence had hitherto been 
 strangers, soon grew weary of such usage ; and rashly, and 
 without a witness, consented to a private marriage with Sir 
 John Belmont, a very profligate young man, who had but too 
 successfully found means to insinuate himself into her favour. 
 He promised to conduct her to England — he did. — O, Madam, 
 you know the rest ! — Disappointed of the fortune he expected, 
 by the inexorable rancour of the Duvals, he infamously burnt 
 the certificate of their marriage, and denied that they had ever 
 been united ! 
 
 She flew to me for protection. With what mixed transports 
 of joy and anguish did I again see her! By my advice, she 
 endeavoured to procure proofs of her marriage ; — but in vain : 
 her credulity had been no match for his art. 
 
 Everybody beheved her innocent, from the guiltless tenor of 
 her unspotted youth, and from the known Kbertinism of her 
 barbarous betrayer. Yet her sufferings were too acute for her 
 tender frame, and the same moment that gave birth to her 
 infant, put an end at once to the sorrows and the life of its 
 mother. 
 
 The rage of Madame Duval at her elopement, abated not 
 while this injured victim of cruelty yet drew breath. She prob- 
 ably intended, in time, to have pardoned her, but time was not 
 allowed. When she was informed of her death, I have been 
 
448 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 told, that the agonies of grief and remorse, with which she was 
 seized, occasioned her a severe fit of illness. But, from the time 
 of her recovery to the date of her letter to your Ladyship, I had 
 never heard that she manifested any desire to be made acquainted 
 with the circumstances which attended the death of Lady Bel- 
 mont, and the birth of her helpless child. 
 
 That child. Madam, shall never, while life is lent me, know the 
 loss she has sustained. I have cherished, succoured, and sup- 
 ported her from her earHest infancy to her sixteenth year ; and 
 so amply has she repaid my care and affection, that my fondest 
 wish is now circumscribed by the desire of bestowing her on one 
 who may be sensible of her worth, and then sinking to eternal 
 rest in her arms. 
 
 Thus it has happened that the education of the father, daughter, 
 and grand-daughter, has devolved on me. What infinite misery 
 have the two first caused me ! Should the fate of the dear sur- 
 vivor be equally adverse, how wretched will be the end of my 
 cares — the end of my days ! 
 
 Even had Madame Duval merited the charge she claims, I 
 fear my fortitude would have been unequal to such a parting ; 
 but, being such as she is, not only my affection, but my humanity 
 recoils, at the barbarous idea of deserting the sacred trust reposed 
 in me. Indeed, I could but ill support her former yearly visits 
 to the respectable mansion at Howard Grove ; pardon me, dear 
 Madam, and do not think me insensible of the honour which 
 your Ladyship's condescension confers upon us both ; but so 
 deep is the impression which the misfortunes of her mother have 
 made on my heart, that she does not, even for a moment, quit 
 my sight without exciting apprehensions and terrors which 
 almost overpower me. Such, Madam, is my tenderness, and 
 such my weakness ! — But she is the only tie I have upon earth, 
 and I trust to your Ladyship's goodness not to judge of my feel- 
 ings with severity. 
 
 I beg leave to present my humble respects to Mrs. and Miss 
 Mirvan ; and have the honour to be. 
 
 Madam, your Ladyship's most obedient 
 and most humble servant, 
 
 Arthur Villars. 
 
EVELINA 449 
 
 LETTER III 
 
 [Written some months ajter the last.] 
 
 Lady Howard to the Rev. Mr. Villars 
 
 Howard Grove, March 8. 
 
 Dear and Rev. Sir, — Your last letter gave me infinite 
 pleasure : after so long and tedious an illness, how grateful to 
 yourself and to your friends must be your returning health ! 
 You have the hearty wishes of every individual of this place for 
 its continuance and increase. 
 
 Will you not think I take advantage of your acknowledged 
 recovery, if I once more venture to mention your pupil and 
 Howard Grove together ? Yet you must remember the patience 
 with which we submitted to your desire of not parting with her 
 during the bad state of your health, though it was with much 
 reluctance we forbore to soHcit her company. My grand- 
 daughter, in particular, has scarce been able to repress her 
 eagerness to again meet the friend of her infancy ; and for my 
 own part, it is very strongly my wish to manifest the regard I 
 had for the unfortunate Lady Belmont, by proving serviceable 
 to her child ; which seems to me the best respect that can be 
 paid to her memory. Permit me, therefore, to lay before you 
 a plan which Mrs. Mirvan and I have formed, in consequence 
 of your restoration to health. 
 
 I would not frighten you ; — but do you think you could 
 bear to part with your young companion for two or three months ? 
 Mrs. Mirvan proposes to spend the ensuing spring in London, 
 whither, for the first time, my grandchild will accompany her. 
 Now, my good friend, it is very earnestly their wish to enlarge 
 and enliven their party by the addition of your amiable ward, 
 who would share, equally with her own daughter, the care and 
 attention of Mrs. Mirvan. Do not start at this proposal ; it is 
 time that she should see something of the world. When young 
 people are too rigidly sequestered from it, their lively and roman- 
 tic imaginations paint it to them as a paradise of which they 
 have been beguiled ; but when they are shown it properly, and in 
 due time, they see it such as it really is, equally shared by pain 
 and pleasure, hope and disappointment. 
 
450 
 
 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 You have nothing to apprehend from her meeting Sir John 
 Belmont, as that abandoned man is now abroad, and not expected 
 home this year. 
 
 Well, my good Sir, what say you to our scheme ? I hope it 
 will meet with your approbation ; but if it should not, be assured 
 I can never object to any decision of one who is so much re- 
 spected and esteemed as Mr. Villars, by 
 
 His most faithful humble servant, 
 M. Howard. 
 
 LETTER IV 
 Mr. Villars to Lady Howard 
 
 Berry Hill, March 12. 
 
 I AM grieved. Madam, to appear obstinate, and I blush to 
 incur the imputation of selfishness. In detaining my young 
 charge thus long with myself in the country, I consulted not 
 solely my own inclination. Destined, in all probabiHty, to 
 possess a very moderate fortune, I wished to contract her views 
 to something within it. The mind is but too naturally prone 
 to pleasure, but too easily yielded to dissipation : it has been 
 my study to guard her against their delusions, by preparing her 
 to expect, — and to despise them. But the time draws on for 
 experience and observation to take the place of instruction : 
 if I have, in some measure, rendered her capable of using one 
 with discretion, and making the other with improvement, I shall 
 rejoice myself with the assurance of having largely contributed 
 to her welfare. She is now of an age that happiness is eager to 
 attend, — let her then enjoy it ! I commit her to the protec- 
 tion of your Ladyship, and only hope she may be found worthy 
 half the goodness I am satisfied she will meet with at your hos- 
 pitable mansion. 
 
 Thus far. Madam, I chearfuUy submit to your desire. In 
 confiding my ward to the care of Lady Howard, I can feel no 
 uneasiness from her absence, but what will arise from the loss 
 of her company, since I shall be as well convinced of her safety, 
 as if she were under my own roof ; — but, can your Ladyship 
 be serious in proposing to introduce her to the gaieties of a Lon- 
 don life ? Permit me to ask, for what end, or what purpose ? 
 
EVELINA 451 
 
 A youthful mind is seldom totally free from ambition ; to curb 
 that, is the first step to contentment, since to diminish expec- 
 tation, is to increase enjoyment. I apprehend nothing more 
 than too much raising her hopes and her views, which the natu- 
 ral vivacity of her disposition would render but too easy to effect. 
 The town acquaintance of Mrs. Mirvan are all in the circle of 
 high Hfe ; this artless young creature, with too much beauty to 
 escape notice, has too much sensibility to be indifferent to it ; 
 but she has too little wealth to be sought with propriety by men 
 of the fashionable world. 
 
 Consider, Madam, the peculiar cruelty of her situation ; only 
 child of a wealthy Baronet, whose person she has never seen, 
 whose character she has reason to abhor, and whose name she 
 is forbidden to claim ; entitled as she is to lawfully inherit his 
 fortune and estate, is there any probabihty that he will properly 
 own her ? And while he continues to persevere in disavowing 
 his marriage with Miss Evelyn, she shall never, at the expence 
 of her mother's honour, receive a part of her right, as the dona- 
 tion of his bounty. 
 
 And as to Mr. Evelyn's estate, I have no doubt but that 
 Madame Duval and her relations will dispose of it among 
 themselves. 
 
 It seems, therefore, as if this deserted child, though legally 
 heiress of two large fortunes, must owe all her rational expec- 
 tations to adoption and friendship. Yet her income will be 
 such as may make her happy, if she is disposed to be so in pri- 
 vate Hfe ; though it will by no means allow her to enjoy the 
 luxury of a London fine lady. 
 
 Let Miss Mirvan, then. Madam, shine in all the splendour 
 of high Hfe ; but suffer my child still to enjoy the pleasures of 
 humble retirement, with a mind to which greater views are 
 unknown. 
 
 I hope this reasoning will be honoured with your approbation ; 
 and I have yet another motive which has some weight with me ; 
 I would not willingly give offence to any human being, and surely 
 Madame Duval might accuse me of injustice, if, while I refuse 
 to let her grand-daughter wait upon her, I consent that she 
 should join a party of pleasure to London. 
 
452 
 
 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 In sending her to Howard Grove, not one of these scruples 
 arise; and therefore Mrs. Clinton, a most worthy woman, 
 formerly her nurse, and now my housekeeper, shall attend her 
 thither next week. 
 
 Though I have always called her by the name of Anville, and 
 reported in this neighbourhood, that her father, my intimate 
 friend, left her to my guardianship, yet I have thought it neces- 
 sary she should herself be acquainted with the melancholy cir- 
 cumstances attending her birth : for, though I am very desirous 
 of guarding her from curiosity and impertinence, by conceaHng 
 her name, family, and story, yet I would not leave it in the power 
 of chance, to shock her gentle nature with a tale of so much 
 sorrow. 
 
 You must not. Madam, expect too much from my pupil. She 
 is quite a Kttle rustic, and knows nothing of the world; and 
 though her education has been the best I could bestow in this 
 retired place, to which Dorchester, the nearest town, is seven 
 miles distant, yet I shall not be surprised if you should discover 
 in her a thousand deficiencies of which I have never dreamt. 
 She must be very much altered since she was last at Howard 
 Grove, — but I will say nothing of her ; I leave her to your 
 Ladyship's own observations, of which I beg a faithful relation ; 
 and am, 
 
 Dear Madam, with great respect. 
 
 Your obedient and most humble servant, 
 
 Arthur Villars. 
 
 letter viii 
 
 Evelina to the Eev. Mr. Villars 
 
 Howard Grove, March 26. 
 This house seems to be the house of joy ; every face wears 
 a smile, and a laugh is at every body's service. It is quite amus- 
 ing to walk about, and see the general confusion ; a room lead- 
 ing to the garden is fitting up for Captain Mirvan's study. Lady 
 Howard does not sit a moment in a place ; Miss Mirvan is mak- 
 ing caps ; every body so busy ! — such flying from room to room ! 
 — so many orders given, and retracted, and given again ! — 
 nothing but hurry and perturbation. 
 
EVELINA 453 
 
 Well but, my dear Sir, I am desired to make a request to you. 
 I hope you will not think me an incroacher ; Lady Howard 
 insists upon my writing ! — yet I hardly know how to go on ; 
 a petition implies a want, — and have you left me one ? No, 
 indeed. 
 
 I am half ashamed of myself for beginning this letter. But 
 these dear ladies are so pressing — I cannot, for my life, resist 
 wishing for the pleasures they ofier me, — provided you do not 
 disapprove of them. 
 
 They are to make a very short stay in town. The Captain 
 will meet them in a day or two. Mrs. Mirvan and her sweet 
 daughter both go ; — what a happy party ! Yet I am not very 
 eager to accompany them : at least, I shall be contented to re- 
 main where I am, if you desire that I should. 
 
 Assured, my dearest Sir, of your goodness, your bounty, and 
 your indulgent kindness, ought I to form a wish that has not 
 your sanction ? Decide for me, therefore, without the least 
 apprehension that I shall be uneasy, or discontented. While 
 I am yet in suspense, perhaps I may hope, but I am most certain, 
 that when you have once determined, I shall not repine. 
 
 They tell me that London is now in full splendour. Two 
 Play-houses are open, — the Opera House, — Ranelagh, — and 
 the Pantheon. — You see I have learned all their names. How- 
 ever, pray don't suppose that I make any point of going, for I 
 shall hardly sigh to see them depart without me ; though I shall 
 probably never meet with such another opportunity. And, in- 
 deed, their domestic happiness will be so great, — it is natural 
 to wish to partake of it. 
 
 I believe I am bewitched ! I made a resolution when I began, 
 that I would not be urgent ; but my pen — or rather my thoughts, 
 will not suffer me to keep it — for I acknowledge, I must acknowl- 
 edge, I cannot help wishing for your permission. 
 
 I almost repent already that I have made this confession ; 
 pray forget that you have read it, if this journey is displeasing 
 to you. But I will not write any longer ; for the more I think 
 of this affair, the less indifferent to it I find myself. 
 
 Adieu, my most honoured, most reverenced, most beloved 
 father 1 for by what other name can I call you ? I have no 
 
454 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 happiness or sorrow, no hope or fear, but what your kindness 
 bestows, or your displeasure may cause. You will not, I am sure, 
 send a refusal without reasons unanswerable, and therefore I 
 shall chearfully acquiesce. Yet I hope — I hope you will be 
 able to permit me to go ! 
 
 I am, with the utmost affection. 
 Gratitude, and duty, your 
 
 Evelina . 
 
 I cannot to you sign Anville, and what other name may I 
 claim ? 
 
 LETTER X 
 
 Evelina to the Rev. Mr. Villars 
 
 Queen- Ann-Street, London, Saturday, April 2. 
 
 This moment arrived. Just going to Drury-Lane Theatre. 
 The celebrated Mr. Garrick performs Ranger. I am quite in 
 extacy. So is Miss Mirvan. How fortunate, that he should 
 happen to play ! We would not let Mrs. Mirvan rest till she 
 consented to go ; her chief objection was to our dress, for we have 
 had no time to Londonize ourselves ; but we teized her into com- 
 pliance, and so we are to sit in some obscure place, that she may 
 not be seen. As to me, I should be alike unknown in the most 
 conspicuous or most private part of the house. 
 
 I can write no more now. I have hardly time to breathe — 
 only just this, the houses and streets are not quite so superb as 
 I expected. However, I have seen nothing yet, so I ought not 
 to judge. 
 
 Well, adieu, my dearest Sir, for the present ; I could not for- 
 bear writing a few words instantly on my arrival ; though I 
 suppose my letter of thanks for your consent is still on the road. 
 
 Saturday night. 
 
 O my dear Sir, in what raptures am I returned ! Well may 
 Mr. Garrick be so celebrated, so universally admired — I had 
 not any idea of so great a performer. 
 
 Such ease ! such vivacity in his manner ! such grace in his 
 motions ! such fire and meaning in his eyes ! — I could hardly 
 believe he had studied a written part, for every word seemed 
 to be uttered from the impulse of the moment. 
 
EVELINA 
 
 455 
 
 His action — at once so graceful and so free ! — his voice — 
 so clear, so melodious, yet so wonderfully various in its tones 
 — such animation ! — every look speaks ! 
 
 I would have given the world to have had the whole play 
 acted over again. And when he danced — O how I envied 
 Clarinda ! I almost wished to have jumped on the stage and 
 joined them. 
 
 I am afraid you will think me mad, so I won't say any more ; 
 yet I really believe Mr. Garrick would make you mad too, if 
 you could see him. I intend to ask Mrs. Mirvan to go to the 
 play every night while we stay in town. She is extremely kind 
 to me, and Maria, her charming daughter, is the sweetest girl 
 in the world. 
 
 I shall write to you every evening all that passes in the day, 
 and that in the same manner as, if I could see, I should tell you. 
 
 Sunday. 
 
 This morning we went to Portland chapel, and afterwards we 
 walked in the Mall of St. James's Park, which by no means 
 answered my expectations : it is a long straight walk, of dirty 
 gravel, very uneasy to the feet ; and at each end, instead of an 
 open prospect, nothing is to be seen but houses built of brick. 
 When Mrs. Mirvan pointed out the Palace to me — I think I 
 was never much more surprised. 
 
 However, the walk was very agreeable to us ; everybody 
 looked gay, and seemed pleased, — and the ladies were so much 
 dressed, that Miss Mirvan and I could do nothing but look at 
 them. Mrs. Mirvan met several of her friends. No wonder, 
 for I never saw so many people assembled together before. I 
 looked about for some of my acquaintance, but in vain, for I saw 
 not one person that I knew, which is very odd, for all the world 
 seemed there. 
 
 Mrs. Mirvan says we are not to walk in the Park again next 
 Sunday, even if we should be in town, because there is better 
 company in Kensington Gardens. But really, if you had seen 
 how much everybody was dressed, you would not think that 
 possible. 
 
456 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 Monday. 
 
 We are to go this evening to a private ball, given by Mrs. 
 Stanley, a very fashionable lady of Mrs. Mirvan's acquaintance. 
 
 We have been a shopping, as Mrs. Mirvan calls it, all this 
 morning, to buy silks, caps, gauzes, and so forth. 
 
 The shops are really very entertaining, especially the mercers ; 
 there seem to be six or seven men belonging to each shop, and 
 every one took care, by bowing and smirking, to be noticed ; 
 we were conducted from one to another, and carried from room 
 to room, with so much ceremony, that at first I was almost 
 afraid to go on. 
 
 I thought I should never have chosen a silk, for they produced 
 so many, I knew not which to fix upon, and they recommended 
 them all so strongly, that I fancy they thought I only wanted 
 persuasion to buy everything they shewed me. And, indeed, they 
 took so much trouble, that I was almost ashamed I could not. 
 
 At the milliners, the ladies we met were so much dressed, that 
 I should rather have imagined they were making visits than 
 purchases. But what most diverted [me] was, that we were 
 more frequently served by men than by women ; and such men ! 
 so finical, so affected ! they seemed to understand every part of 
 a woman's dress better than we do ourselves ; and they recom- 
 mended caps and ribbands with an air of so much importance, 
 that I wished to ask them how long they had left off wearing 
 them ! 
 
 The dispatch with which they work in these great shops is 
 amazing, for they have promised me a compleat suit of linen 
 against the evening. 
 
 I have just had my hair dressed. You can't think how oddly 
 my head feels ; full of powder and black pins, and a great cushion 
 on the top of it. I believe you would hardly know me, for my 
 face looks quite different to what it did before my hair was 
 dressed. When I shall be able to make use of a comb for myself 
 I cannot tell, for my hair is so much entangled, frizled they call 
 it, that I fear it will be very difficult. 
 
 I am half afraid of this ball to-night, for, you know, I have 
 never danced but at school ; however, Miss Mirvan says there 
 is nothing in it. Yet I wish it was over. 
 
EVELINA 457 
 
 Adieu, my dear Sir ; pray excuse the wretched stuff I write, 
 perhaps I may improve by being in this town, and then my 
 letters will be less unworthy your reading. Meantime I am, 
 Your dutiful and affectionate, though unpohshed, 
 
 Evelina. 
 
 Poor Miss Mirvan cannot wear one of the caps she made, 
 because they dress her hair too large for them. 
 
 LETTER XI 
 
 Evelina in continuation 
 
 Queen- Ann-Street, April 5, Tuesday Morning. 
 
 I HAVE a vast deal to say, and shall give all this morning to 
 my pen. As to my plan of writing every evening the adventures 
 of the day, I find it impracticable ; for the diversions here are 
 so very late, that if I begin my letters after them, I could not 
 go to bed at all. 
 
 We past a most extraordinary evening. A private ball this 
 was called, so I expected to have seen about four or five couple ; 
 but Lord ! my dear Sir, I believe I saw half the world ! Two very 
 large rooms were full of company ; in one, were cards for the 
 elderly ladies, and in the other, were the dancers. My mamma 
 Mirvan, for she always calls me her child, said she would sit 
 with Maria and me till we were provided with partners, and 
 then join the card-players. 
 
 The gentlemen, as they passed and repassed, looked as if 
 they thought we were quite at their disposal, and only waiting 
 for the honour of their commands ; and they sauntered about, 
 in a careless indolent manner, as if with a view to keep us in 
 suspense. I don't speak of this in regard to Miss Mirvan and 
 myself only, but to the ladies in general ; and I thought it so 
 provoking, that I determined, in my own mind, that, far from 
 humouring such airs, I would rather not dance at all, than with 
 any one who should seem to think me ready to accept the first 
 partner who would condescend to take me. 
 
 Not long after, a young man, who had for some time looked 
 at us with a kind of negligent impertinence, advanced, on tip- 
 toe, towards me ; he had a set smile on his face, and his dress 
 
458 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 was so foppish, that I really believe he even wished to be stared 
 at ; and yet he was very ugly. 
 
 Bowing almost to the ground, with a sort of swing, and waving 
 his hand with the greatest conceit, after a short and silly pause, 
 he said, "Madam — may I presume?" — and stopt, offering 
 to take my hand. I drew it back, but could scarce forbear 
 laughing. "Allow me, Madam," (continued he, affectedly 
 breaking off every half moment) "the honour and happiness — 
 if I am not so unhappy as to address you too late — to have the 
 happiness and honour — " 
 
 Again he would have taken my hand, but, bowing my head, 
 I begged to be excused, and turned to Miss Mirvan to conceal 
 my laughter. He then desired to know if I had already engaged 
 myself to some more fortunate man ? I said No, and that I 
 believed I should not dance at all. He would keep himself, he 
 told me, disengaged, in hopes I should relent ; and then, uttering 
 some ridiculous speeches of sorrow and disappointment, though 
 his face still wore the same invariable smile, he retreated. 
 
 It so happened, as we have since recollected, that during this 
 little dialogue, Mrs. Mirvan was conversing with the lady of the 
 house. And very soon after another gentleman, who seemed 
 about six-and-twenty years old, gayly, but not foppishly, dressed, 
 and indeed extremely handsome, with an air of mixed politeness 
 and gallantry, desired to know if I was engaged, or would honour 
 him with my hand. So he was pleased to say, though I am sure 
 I know not what honour he could receive from me ; but these 
 sort of expressions, I find, are used as words of course, without 
 any distinction of persons, or study of propriety. 
 
 Well, I bowed, and I am sure I coloured ; for indeed I was 
 frightened at the thoughts of dancing before so many people, all 
 strangers, and, which was worse, with a stranger ; however, that 
 was unavoidable, for though I looked round the room several 
 times, I could not see one person that I knew. And so, he took 
 my hand, and led me to join in the dance. 
 
 The minuets were over before we arrived, for we were kept late 
 by the milliners making us wait for our things. 
 
 He seemed very desirous of entering into conversation with 
 me ; but I was seized with such a panic, that I could hardly speak 
 
EVELINA 
 
 459 
 
 a word, and nothing but the shame of so soon changing my mind, 
 prevented my returning to my seat, and declining to dance at 
 all. 
 
 He appeared to be surprised at my terror, which I believe was 
 but too apparent : however, he asked no questions, though I 
 fear he must think it very strange ; for I did not choose to tell 
 him it was owing to my never before dancing but with a school- 
 girl. 
 
 His conversation was sensible and spirited ; his air and ad- 
 dress were open and noble; his manners gentle, attentive, and 
 infinitely engaging ; his person is all elegance, and his counte- 
 nance, the most animated and expressive I have ever seen. 
 
 In a short time we were joined by Miss Mirvan, who stood 
 next couple to us. But how was I startled, when she whispered 
 me that my partner was a nobleman ! This gave me a new 
 alarm ; how will he be provoked, thought I, when he finds what 
 a simple rustic he has honoured with his choice ! one whose 
 ignorance of the world makes her perpetually fear doing some- 
 thing wrong ! 
 
 That he should be so much my superior every way, quite dis- 
 concerted me ; and you will suppose my spirits were not much 
 raised, when I heard a lady, in passing us, say, "This is the most 
 difficult dance I ever saw." 
 
 "O dear, then," cried Maria to her partner, "with your leave, 
 I'll sit down till the next." 
 
 "So will I too, then," cried I, "for I am sure I can hardly 
 stand." 
 
 "But you must speak to your partner first," answered she; 
 for he had turned aside to talk with some gentlemen. However, 
 I had not sufficient courage to address him, and so away we all 
 three tript, and seated ourselves at another end of the room. 
 
 But, unfortunately for me, Miss Mirvan soon after suffered 
 herself to be prevailed upon to attempt the dance ; and just as 
 she rose to go, she cried, "My dear, yonder is your partner. Lord 
 Orville, walking about the room in search of you." 
 
 "Don't leave me then, dear girl!" cried I; but she was 
 obliged to go. And now I was more uneasy than ever ; I would 
 have given the world to have seen Mrs. Mirvan, and begged 
 
46o FANNY BURNEY 
 
 of her to make my apologies ; for what, thought I, can I pos- 
 sibly say to him in excuse for running away ? he must either 
 conclude me a fool, or half mad ; for any one brought up in the 
 great world, and accustomed to its ways, can have no idea of 
 such sort of fears as mine. 
 
 My confusion encreased when I observed that he was every 
 where seeking me, with apparent perplexity and surprise ; but 
 when, at last, I saw him move towards the place where I sat, 
 I was ready to sink with shame and distress. I found it abso- 
 lutely impossible to keep my seat, because I could not think of 
 a word to say for myself, and so I rose^ and walked hastily 
 towards the card-room, resolving to stay with Mrs. Mirvan the 
 rest of the evening, and not to dance at all. But before I could 
 find her, Lord Orville saw and approached me. 
 
 He begged to know if I was not well ? You may easily imagine 
 how much I was embarrassed. I made no answer, but hung 
 my head, like a fool, and looked on my fan. 
 
 He then, with an air the most respectfully serious, asked if he 
 had been so unhappy as to offend me ? 
 
 "No, indeed!" cried I: and, in hopes of changing the dis- 
 course, and preventing his further inquiries, I desired to know 
 if he had seen the young lady who had been conversing with me ? 
 
 No ; — but would I honour him with any commands to her ? 
 
 "O, by no means !" 
 
 Was there any other person with whom I wished to speak? 
 
 I said no, before I knew I had answered at all. 
 
 Should he have the pleasure of bringing me any refreshment ? 
 
 I bowed, almost involuntarily. And away he flew. 
 
 I was quite ashamed of being so troublesome, and so much 
 above myself as these seeming airs made me appear ; but indeed 
 I was too much confused to think or act with any consistency. 
 
 If he had not been swift as lightning, I don't know whether 
 I should not have stolen away again ; but he returned in a 
 moment. When I had drunk a glass of lemonade, he hoped, he 
 said, that I would again honour him with my hand as a new dance 
 was just begun. I had not the presence of mind to say a single 
 word, and so I let him once more lead me to the place I had left. 
 
 Shocked to find how silly, how childish a part I had acted, 
 
EVELINA 461 
 
 my former fears of dancing before such a company, and with 
 such a partner, returned more forcibly than ever. I suppose he 
 perceived my uneasiness, for he intreated me to sit down again, 
 if dancing was disagreeable to me. But I was quite satisfied 
 with the folly I had already shewn, and therefore decHned his 
 offer, tho' I was really scarce able to stand. 
 
 Under such conscious disadvantages, you may easily imagine, 
 my dear Sir, how ill I acquitted myself. But, though I both 
 expected and deserved to find him very much mortified and dis- 
 pleased at his ill fortune in the choice he had made, yet, to my 
 very great relief, he appeared to be even contented, and very 
 much assisted and encouraged me. These people in high life 
 have too much presence of mind, I believe, to seem disconcerted, 
 or out of humour, however they may feel : for had I been the 
 person of the most consequence in the room, I could not have 
 met with more attention and respect. 
 
 When the dance was over, seeing me still very much flurried, 
 he led me to a seat, saying that he would not suffer me to fatigue 
 myself from poHteness. 
 
 And then, if my capacity, or even if my spirits had been better, 
 in how animated a conversation might I have been engaged ! 
 It was then I saw that the rank of Lord Orville was his least 
 recommendation, his understanding and his manners being far 
 more distinguished. His remarks upon the company in general 
 were so apt, so just, so hvely, I am almost surprised myself that 
 they did not re-animate me ; but indeed I was too well convinced 
 of the ridiculous part I had myself played before so nice an 
 observer, to be able to enjoy his pleasantry : so self-compassion 
 gave me feeling for others. Yet I had not the courage to attempt 
 either to defend them, or to rally in my turn, but hstened to him 
 in silent embarrassment. 
 
 When he found this, he changed the subject, and talked of 
 public places, and public performers ; but he soon discovered 
 that I was totally ignorant of them. 
 
 He then, very ingeniously, turned the discourse to the amuse- 
 ments and occupations of the country. 
 
 It now struck me, that he was resolved to try whether or 
 not I was capable of talking upon any subject. This put so great 
 
462 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 a constraint upon my thoughts, that I was unable to go further 
 than a monosyllable, and not even so far, when I could possibly 
 avoid it. 
 
 We were sitting in this manner, he conversing with all gaiety, 
 I looking down with all foolishness, when that fop who had 
 first asked me to dance, with a most ridiculous solemnity, ap- 
 proached, and after a profound bow or two, said, "I humbly beg 
 pardon, Madam, — and of you too, my Lord, — for breaking 
 in upon such agreeable conversation — which must, doubtless, 
 be much more delectable — than what I have the honour to 
 offer — but— " 
 
 I interrupted him — I blush for my folly, — ■ with laughing ; 
 yet I could not help it, for, added to the man's stately foppish- 
 ness, (and he actually took snuff between every three words) 
 when I looked round at Lord Orville, I saw such extreme surprise 
 in his face, — the cause of which appeared so absurd, that I 
 could not for my life preserve my gravity. 
 
 I had not laughed before from the time I had left Miss Mirvan, 
 and I had much better have cried then ; Lord Orville actually 
 stared at me ; the beau, I know not his name, looked quite 
 enraged. "Refrain — Madam," (said he, with an important 
 air), "a few moments refrain! — I have but a sentence to 
 trouble you with. — - May I know to what accident I must attrib- 
 ute not having the honour of your hand ?" 
 
 "Accident, Sir!" repeated I, much astonished. 
 
 "Yes, accident. Madam — for surely, — I must take the 
 liberty to observe — pardon me. Madam, — it ought to be no 
 common one — that should tempt a lady — so young a one too, 
 — to be guilty of ill-manners." 
 
 A confused idea now for the first time entered my head, of 
 something I had heard of the rules of an assembly ; but I was 
 never at one before, — I have only danced at school, — and so 
 giddy and heedless I was, that I had not once considered the 
 impropriety of refusing one partner, and afterwards accepting 
 another. I was thunderstruck at the recollection : but while 
 these thoughts were rushing into my head, Lord Orville, with 
 some warmth, said, "This lady. Sir, is incapable of meriting such 
 an accusation !" 
 
EVELINA 463 
 
 The creature — for I am very angry with him — made a low 
 bow, and with a grin the most mahcious I ever saw, "My Lord," 
 said he, "far be it from me to accuse the lady, for having the dis- 
 cernment to distinguish and prefer — the superior attractions 
 of your Lordship." 
 
 Again he bowed, and walked off. 
 
 Was ever anything so provoking ? I was ready to die with 
 shame. "What a coxcomb!" exclaimed Lord Orville ; while 
 I, without knowing what I did, rose hastily, and moving off, 
 "I can't imagine," cried I, "where Mrs. Mirvan has hid 
 herself!" 
 
 "Give me leave to see," answered he. I bowed and sat down 
 again, not daring to meet his eyes; for what must he think of 
 me, between my blunder, and the supposed preference ? 
 
 He returned in a moment, and told me that Mrs. Mirvan was 
 at cards, but would be glad to see me ; and I went immediately. 
 There was but one chair vacant, so, to my great relief, Lord Or- 
 ville presently left us. I then told Mrs. Mirvan my disasters, 
 and she good-naturedly blamed herself for not having better 
 instructed me, but said she had taken it for granted that I must 
 know such common customs. However, the man may, I think, 
 be satisfied with his pretty speech, and carry his resentment 
 no farther. 
 
 LETTER XXI 
 Evelina in continuation 
 
 I HAVE a volume to write, of the adventures of yesterday. 
 
 In the afternoon, — at Berry Hill, I should have said the 
 evening, for it was almost six o'clock, — while Miss Mirvan and 
 I were dressing for the opera, and in high spirits, from the expec- 
 tation of great entertainment and pleasure, we heard a carriage 
 stop at the door, and concluded that Sir Clement Willoughby, 
 with his usual a-ssiduity, was come to attend us to the Haymarket ; 
 but, in a few moments, what was our surprise, to see our chamber 
 door flung open, and the two Miss Branghtons enter the room ! 
 They advanced to me with great familiarity, saying, "How do 
 
464 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 you do, Cousin ? — so we've caught you at the glass ! — well, 
 I'm determined I'll tell my brother of that !" 
 
 Miss Mirvan, who had never before seen them, and could 
 not, at first, imagine who they were, looked so much astonished, 
 that I was ready to laugh myself, till the eldest said, "We're 
 come to take you to the opera, Miss ; papa and my brother are 
 below, and we are to call for your grandmama as we go along." 
 
 "I am very sorry," answered I, "that you should have taken 
 so much trouble, as I am engaged already." 
 
 "Engaged ! Lord, Miss, nevermind that," cried the youngest ; 
 "this young lady will make your excuses, I dare say; it's only 
 doing as one would be done by, you know." 
 
 "Indeed, Ma'am," said Miss Mirvan, "I shall myself be very 
 sorry to be deprived of Miss Anville's company this evening." 
 
 "Well, Miss, that is not so very good-natured in you," said 
 Miss Branghton, "considering we only come to give our cousin 
 pleasure ; it's no good to us ; it's all upon her account ; for we 
 came, I don't know how much round about to take her up." 
 
 "I am extremely obliged to you," said I, "and very sorry you 
 have lost so much time ; but I cannot possibly help it, for I 
 engaged myself without knowing you would call." 
 
 "Lord, what signifies that?" said Miss Polly, "you're no old 
 maid, and so you need n't be so very formal : besides, I dare 
 say those you are engaged to, a'n't half so near related to you 
 as we are." 
 
 "I must beg you not to press me any further, for I assure you 
 it is not in my power to attend you." 
 
 "Why, we came all out of the city on purpose : besides, your 
 grandmama expects you ; — and pray, what are we to say to 
 her?" 
 
 "Tell her, if you please, that I am much concerned, — but 
 that I am pre-engaged." 
 
 "And who to ?" demanded the abrupt Miss Branghton. 
 
 "To Mrs. Mirvan, — and a large party." 
 
 "And, pray, what are you all going to do, that it would be such 
 a mighty matter for you to come along with us ? " 
 
 "We are all going to — to the opera." 
 
 "O dear, if that be all, why can't we go all together ?" 
 
EVELINA 465 
 
 I was extremely disconcerted at this forward and ignorant 
 behaviour, and yet their rudeness very much lessened my concern 
 at refusing them. Indeed, their dress was such as would have 
 rendered their scheme of accompanying our party impracticable, 
 even if I had desired it ; and this, as they did not themselves find 
 out, I was obUged, in terms the least mortifying I could think of, 
 to tell them. 
 
 They were very much chagrined, and asked where I should sit. 
 
 "In the pit," answered I. 
 
 "In the pit !" repeated Miss Branghton, "well, really, I must 
 own I should never have supposed that my gown was not good 
 enough for the pit : but come, Polly, let's go ; if Miss does not 
 think us fine enough for her, why to be sure she may chuse." 
 
 Surprised at this ignorance, I would have explained to them 
 that the pit at the opera required the same dress as the boxes ; 
 but they were so much affronted, they would not hear me, and, 
 in great displeasure, left the room, saying they would not have 
 troubled me, only they thought I should not be so proud with 
 my own relations, and that they had at least as good a right to 
 my company as strangers. 
 
 I endeavoured to apologize, and would have sent a long message 
 to Madame Duval ; but they hastened away without listening 
 to me ; and I could not follow them down stairs, because I was 
 not dressed. The last words I heard them say, were, "Well, 
 her grandmama will be in a fine passion, that's one good thing." 
 
 Though I was extremely mad at this visit, yet I so heartily 
 rejoiced at their going, that I would not suffer myself to think 
 gravely about it. 
 
 Soon after Sir Clement actually came, and we all went down 
 stairs. Mrs. Mirvan ordered tea ; and we were engaged in a very 
 lively conversation, when the servant announced Madame Duval, 
 who instantly followed him into the room. 
 
 Her face was the colour of scarlet, and her eyes sparkled with 
 fury. She came up to me with a hasty step, saying, "So, Miss, 
 you refuse to come to me, do you ? And pray who are you, to 
 dare to disobey me?" 
 
 I was quite frightened ; — I made no answer ; — I even at- 
 tempted to rise, and could not, but sat still, mute and motionless. 
 
466 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 Every body, but Miss Mirvan, seemed in the utmost astonish- 
 ment ; and the Captain, rising and approaching Madame Duval, 
 with a voice of authority, said, "Why how now, Mrs. Turkey 
 Cock, what's put you into this here fluster ?" 
 
 "It's nothing to you," answered she, "so you may as well 
 hold your tongue, for I sha'n't be called to no account by you, I 
 assure you." 
 
 "There you're out. Madam Fury," returned he, "for you must 
 know I never suffer anybody to be in a passion in my house, but 
 myself." 
 
 "But you shall,''' cried she in a great rage, "for I'll be in as 
 great a passion as ever I please, without asking your leave, 
 so don't give yourself no more airs about it. And as for you, 
 Miss," again advancing to me, "I order you to follow me this 
 moment, or else I'll make you repent it all your life." And, 
 with these words, she flung out of the room. 
 
 I was in such extreme terror, at being addressed and 
 threatened in a manner to which I am so wholly unused, that 
 I almost thought I should have fainted. 
 
 "Don't be alarmed, my love," cried Mrs. Mirvan, "but stay 
 where you are, and I will follow Madame Duval, and try to bring 
 her to reason." 
 
 Miss Mirvan took my hand, and most kindly endeavoured to 
 raise my spirits : Sir Clement, too, approached me, with an air 
 so interested in my distress, that I could not but feel myself 
 obliged to him; and, taking my other hand, said, "For 
 Heaven's sake, my dear Madam, compose yourself; surely 
 the violence of such a wretch ought merely to move your con- 
 tempt : she can have no right, I imagine, to lay her commands 
 upon you, and I only wish that you would allow me to speak 
 to her." 
 
 "O no ! not for the world ! — indeed, I believe, — I am afraid 
 — I had better follow her." 
 
 "Follow her ! Good God, my dear Miss Anville, would you 
 trust yourself with a mad woman ? for what else can you call a 
 creature whose passions are so insolent ? No, no ; send her word 
 at once to leave the house, and tell her you desire that she will 
 never see you again." 
 
EVELINA 467 
 
 *'0 Sir! you don't know who you talk of! — it would ill 
 become me to send Madame Duval such a message." 
 
 "But why,'" cried he (looking very inquisitive,) "w/?y should 
 you scruple to treat her as she deserves ? " 
 
 I then found that his aim was to discover the nature of her 
 connection with me ; but I felt so much ashamed of my near 
 relationship to her, that I could not persuade myself to answer 
 him, and only entreated that he would leave her to Mrs. Mirvan, 
 who just then entered the room. 
 
 Before she could speak to me, the Captain called out, "Well, 
 Goody, what have you done with Madame French ? is she cooled 
 a httle ? cause if she be n't, I've just thought of a most excellent 
 device so bring her to." 
 
 "My dear Evelina," said Mrs. Mirvan, "I have been vainly 
 endeavouring to appease her ; I pleaded your engagement, and 
 promised your future attendance : but I am sorry to say, my 
 love, that I fear her rage will end in a total breach (which I 
 think you had better avoid) if she is any further opposed." 
 
 "Then I will go to her. Madam," cried I, "and, indeed, it is 
 now no matter, for I should not be able to recover my spirits 
 sufficiently to enjoy much pleasure any where this evening." 
 
 Sir Clement began a very warm expostulation and entreaty, 
 that I would not go ; but I begged him to desist, and told him, 
 very honestly, that, if my compliance were not indispensably 
 necessary, I should require no persuasion to stay. He then took 
 my hand, to lead me down stairs ; but the Captain desired him 
 to be quiet, saying he would 'squire me himself, "because," he 
 added, (exultingly rubbing his hands) "I have a wipe ready 
 for the old lady, which may serve her to chew as she goes 
 along." 
 
 We found her in the parlour. "O, you're come at last. Miss, 
 are you ? — fine airs you give yourself, indeed ! ma foi, if you 
 had n't come, you might have stayed, I assure you, and have been 
 a beggar for your pains." 
 
 "Heyday, Madam," cried the Captain (prancing forward, 
 with a look of great glee), "what, a'n't you got out of that there 
 passion yet ? why then, I'll tell you what to do to cool yourself, 
 call upon your old friend, Monseer Slippery, who was with you at 
 
468 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 Ranelagh, and give my service to him, and tell him, if he sets 
 any store by your health, that I desire he'll give you such another 
 souse as he did before : he'll know what I mean, and I'll warrant 
 you he'll do 't for my sake." 
 
 "Let him, if he dares !" cried Madame Duval ; ''but I sha'n't 
 stay to answer you no more ; you are a vulgar fellow, — and so, 
 child, let us leave him to himself." 
 
 "Hark ye. Madam," cried the Captain, "you'd best not call 
 names, because, d'ye see, if you do, I shall make bold to show 
 you the door." 
 
 She changed colour, and, saying "Pardi, I can shew it myself," 
 hurried out of the room, and I followed her into a hackney-coach. 
 But before we drove off, the Captain, looking out of the parlour 
 window, called out, "D'ye hear, Madam, — don't forget my 
 message to Monseer.^' 
 
 You will believe our ride was not the most agreeable in the 
 world ; indeed, it would be difficult to say which was least pleased, 
 Madame Duval or me, though the reasons of our discontent 
 were so different : however, Madame Duval soon got the start of 
 me ; for we had hardly turned out of Queen- Ann-Street, when a 
 man, running full speed, stopt the coach. He came up to the 
 window, and I saw he was the Captain's servant. He had a 
 broad grin on his face, and panted for breath. Madame Duval 
 demanded his business; "Madam," answered he, "my master 
 desires his compliments to you, and — and — and he says he 
 wishes it well over with you. He ! he ! he !" — 
 
 Madame Duval instantly darted forward, and gave him a 
 violent blow on the face; "Take that back for your answer, 
 sirrah," cried she, "and learn to grin at your betters another 
 time. Coachman, drive on !" 
 
 The servant was in a violent passion, and swore terribly ; 
 but we were soon out of hearing. 
 
 The rage of Madame Duval was greater than ever ; and she 
 inveighed against the Captain with such fury, that I was even 
 apprehensive she would have returned to his house, purposely to 
 reproach him, which she repeatedly threatened to do ; nor would 
 she, I believe have hesitated a moment, but that, notwithstand- 
 ing her violence, he has really made her afraid of him. 
 
EVELINA 469 
 
 When we came to her lodgings, we found all the Branghtons 
 in the passage, impatiently waiting for us with the door open. 
 
 "Only see, here's Miss !" cried the brother. 
 
 "Well, I declare I thought as much!" said the younger 
 sister. 
 
 "Why, Miss," said Mr. Branghton, "I think you might as 
 well have come with your cousins at once ; it's throwing money 
 in the dirt, to pay two coaches for one fare." 
 
 "Lord, father," cried the son, "make no words about that; 
 for I'll pay for the coach that Miss had." 
 
 "O, I know very well," answered Mr. Branghton, "that you're 
 always more ready to spend than to earn." 
 
 I then interfered, and begged that I might myself be allowed 
 to pay the fare, as the expence was incurred upon my account ; 
 they all said no, and proposed that the same coach should carry 
 us to the opera. 
 
 While this passed, the Miss Branghtons were examining my 
 dress, which, indeed, was very improper for my company; 
 and, as I was extremely unwilling to be so conspicuous amongst 
 them, I requested Madame Duval to borrow a hat or bonnet for 
 me of the people of the house. But she never wears either her- 
 self, and thinks them very English and barbarous ; therefore she 
 insisted that I should go full dressed, as I had prepared myself 
 for the pit, though I made many objections. 
 
 We were then all crowded into the same carriage ; but when we 
 arrived at the opera-house, I contrived to pay the coachman. 
 They made a great many speeches ; but Mr.Branghton's reflection 
 had determined me not to be indebted to him. 
 
 If I had not been too much chagrined to laugh, I should have 
 been extremely diverted at their ignorance of whatever belongs 
 to an opera. In the first place, they could not tell at what door 
 we ought to enter, and we wandered about for some time, without 
 knowing which way to turn : they did not chuse to apply to me, 
 though I was the only person of the party who had ever before 
 been at an opera ; because they were unwilling to suppose that 
 their country cousin, as they were pleased to call me, should be 
 better acquainted with any London public place than themselves. 
 I was very indifferent and careless upon this subject, but not a 
 
470 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 little uneasy at- finding that my dress, so different from that of 
 the company to which I belonged, attracted general notice and 
 observation. 
 
 In a short time, however, we arrived at one of the doorkeepers' 
 bars. Mr. Branghton demanded for what part of the house they 
 took money ? They answered the pit, and regarded us all with 
 great earnestness. The son then advancing, said, "Sir, if you 
 please, I beg that I may treat Miss." 
 
 "We'll settle that another time," answered Mr. Branghton, 
 and put down a guinea. 
 
 Two tickets of admission were given to him. 
 
 Mr. Branghton, in his turn, now stared at the door-keeper, 
 and demanded what he meant by giving him only two tickets 
 for a guinea ? 
 
 "Only two, Sir!" said the man; "why don't you know that 
 the tickets are half-a-guinea each?" 
 
 " Half-a-guinea each!" repeated Mr. Branghton, "why I 
 never heard of such a thing in my Kfe ! And pray, Sir, how many 
 will they admit?" 
 
 "Just as usual, Sir, one person each." 
 
 "But one person for half-a-guinea ! — why I only want to sit 
 in the pit, friend." 
 
 "Had not the Ladies better sit in the gallery, Sir, for they'll 
 hardly chuse to go into the pit with their hats on ? " 
 
 "O, as to that," cried Miss Branghton, "if our hats are too 
 high, we'll take them off when we get in. I sha'n't mind it, 
 for I did my hair on purpose." 
 
 Another party then approaching, the door-keeper could no 
 longer attend to Mr. Branghton, who, taking up the guinea, told 
 him it should be long enough before he'd see it again, and walked 
 away. 
 
 The young ladies, in some confusion, expressed their surprise, 
 that their papa should not know the Opera prices, which, for 
 their parts, they had read in the papers a thousand times. 
 
 "The price of stocks," said he, "is enough for me to see after; 
 and I took it for granted it was the same thing here as at the 
 play-house." 
 
 "I knew well enough what the price was," said the son, "but 
 
EVELINA 471 
 
 I would not speak, because I thought perhaps they'd take less, 
 as we're such a large party." 
 
 The sisters both laughed very contemptuously at this idea, 
 and asked him if he ever heard of people's abating any thing at a 
 public place ? 
 
 "I don't know whether I have or no," answered he ; "but I am 
 sure if they would, you'd like it so much the worse." 
 
 "Very true, Tom," cried Mr. Branghton; "tell a woman that 
 any thing is reasonable, and she'll be sure to hate it." 
 
 "Well," said Miss Polly, "I hope that aunt and Miss will be 
 of our side, for Papa always takes part with Tom." 
 
 "Come, come," cried Madame Duval, "if you stand talking 
 here, we sha'n't get no place at all." 
 
 Mr. Branghton then enquired the way to the gallery, and, 
 when we came to the door-keeper, demanded what was to pay. 
 
 "The usual price, Sir," said the man. 
 
 "Then give me change," cried Mr. Branghton, again putting 
 down his guinea. 
 
 "For how many. Sir?" 
 
 "Why — let's see, — for six." 
 
 "For six. Sir ? why, you've given me but a guinea." 
 
 ^^ But a guinea ! why, how much would you have ? I suppose 
 it i'n't half-a-guinea apiece here too?" 
 
 "No, Sir, only five shillings." 
 
 Mr. Branghton again took up his unfortunate guinea, 
 and protested he would submit to no such imposition. I then 
 proposed that we should return home, but Madame Duval 
 would not consent, and we were conducted, by a woman who sells 
 books of the Opera, to another gallery-door, where, after some 
 disputing, Mr. Branghton at last paid, and we all went up stairs. 
 
 Madame Duval complained very much of the trouble of going 
 so high, but Mr Branghton desired her not to hold the place too 
 cheap, "for, whatever you may think," cried he, "I assure you 
 I paid pit price ; so don't suppose I come here to save my money." 
 
 "Well, to be sure," said Miss Branghton, "there's no judging 
 of a place by the outside, else, I must needs say, there's nothing 
 very extraordinary in the stair-case." 
 
 But, when we entered the gallery, their amazement and dis- 
 
472 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 appointment became general. For a few instants, they looked 
 at one another without speaking, and then they all broke silence 
 at once. 
 
 "Lord, Papa," exclaimed Miss Polly, "why you have brought 
 us to the one-shilling gallery !" 
 
 "I'll be glad to give you two shillings, though," answered he, 
 "to pay. I was never so fooled out of my money before, since 
 the hour of my birth. Either the door-keeper's a knave, or this 
 is the greatest imposition that ever was put upon the public." 
 
 '^Mafoi,'' cried Madame Duval, "I never sat in such a mean 
 place in all my life ; — why it's as high ! — we sha'n't see noth- 
 ing." 
 
 "I thought at the time," said Mr. Branghton, "that three 
 shillings was an exorbitant price for a place in the gallery, 
 but as we'd been asked so much more at the other doors, why I 
 paid it without many words ; but then, to be sure, thinks I, 
 it can never be like any other gallery, — we shall see some 
 crinkum crankum or other for our money ; — but I find it's as 
 arrant a take-in as ever I met with." 
 
 "Why it's as like the twelve-penny gallery at Drury-Lane," 
 cried the son, "as two peas are to one another. I never knew 
 father so bit before." 
 
 "Lord," said Miss Branghton, "I thought it would have been 
 quite a fine place, — all over I don't know what, — and done 
 quite in taste." 
 
 In this manner they continued to express their dissatisfaction 
 till the curtain drew up ; after which, their observations were 
 very curious. They made no allowance for the customs, or even 
 for the language of another country, but formed all their remarks 
 upon comparisons with the English theatre. 
 
 Notwithstanding my vexation at having been forced into a 
 party so very disagreeable, and that, too, from one so much — so 
 very much the contrary — yet, would they have suffered me to 
 listen, I should have forgotten every thing unpleasant, and felt 
 nothing but delight, in hearing the sweet voice of Signor Millico, 
 the first singer ; but they tormented me with continual talking. 
 
 "What a jabbering they make!" cried Mr. Branghton; 
 "there's no knowing a word they say. Pray what's the reason 
 
EVELINA 473 
 
 they can't as well sing in English ? — but I suppose the fine 
 folks would not like it, if they could understand it." 
 
 "How unnatural their action is!" said the son; "why now 
 who ever saw an Enghshman put himself in such out-of-the-way 
 postures?" 
 
 "For my part," said Miss Polly, "I think it's very pretty, 
 only I don't know what it means." 
 
 "Lord, what does that signify?" cried her sister; "may n't 
 one like a thing without being so very particular ? — You may 
 see that Miss likes it, and I don't suppose she knows more of the 
 matter than we do." 
 
 A gentleman, soon after, was so obliging as to make room in 
 the front row for Miss Branghton and me. We had no sooner 
 seated ourselves, than Miss Branghton exclaimed, "Good 
 gracious ! only see ! — - why, Polly, all the people in the pit are 
 without hats, dressed like anything!" 
 
 "Lord, so they are," cried Miss Polly, "well, I never saw the 
 Hke ! — it's worth coming to the Opera if one saw nothing else." 
 
 I was then able to distinguish the happy party I had left ; 
 and I saw that Lord Orville had seated himself next to Mrs. 
 Mirvan. Sir Clement had his eyes perpetually cast towards the 
 five-shilling gallery, where I suppose he concluded that we were 
 seated ; however, before the Opera was over, I have reason to 
 believe that he had discovered me, high and distant as I was 
 from him. Probably he distinguished me by my head-dress. 
 
 At the end of the first act, as the green curtain dropped, to 
 prepare for the dance, they imagined that the Opera was done, 
 and Mr. Branghton expressed great indignation that he had 
 been tricked out of his money with so little trouble. "Now if 
 any Englishman was to do such an impudent thing as this," said 
 he, "why he'd be pelted; — but here, one of these outlandish 
 gentry may do just what he pleases, and come on, and squeak out 
 a song or two, and then pocket your money without further 
 ceremony." 
 
 However, so determined he was to be dissatisfied, that, before 
 the conclusion of the third act, he found still more fault with the 
 Opera for being too long, and wondered whether they thought 
 their singing good enough to serve us for supper. 
 
474 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 During the symphony of a song of Signor Millico's, in the 
 second act, young Mr. Branghton said, "It's my behef that 
 fellow's going to sing another song ! — why there's nothing but 
 singing ! — I wonder when they'll speak." 
 
 This song, which was slow and pathetic, caught all my atten- 
 tion, and I lean'd my head forward to avoid hearing their obser- 
 vations, that I might listen without interruption ; but, upon 
 turning round, when the song was over, I found that I was the 
 object of general diversion to the whole party ; for the Miss 
 Branghtons were tittering, and the two gentlemen making signs 
 and faces at me, implying their contempt of my affectation. 
 
 This discovery determined me to appear as inattentive as 
 themselves ; but I was very much provoked at being thus pre- 
 vented enjoying the only pleasure, which, in such a party, was 
 within my power. 
 
 "So, Miss," said Mr. Branghton, "you're quite in the fashion, 
 I see ; — so you like Operas ? well, I'm not so polite ; I can't 
 like nonsense, let it be never so much the taste." 
 
 "But pray, Miss," said the son, "what makes that fellow look 
 so doleful while he is singing ?" 
 
 "Probably because the character he performs is in distress." 
 
 "Why then I think he might as well let alone singing till he's 
 in better cue : it's out of all nature for a man to be piping when 
 he's in distress. For my part, I never sing but when I'm 
 merry ; yet I love a song as well as most people." 
 
 When the curtain dropt, they all rejoiced. 
 
 "How do you like it ? — and how do you like it ? " passed from 
 one to another with looks of the utmost contempt. "As for 
 me," said Mr Branghton, "they've caught me once, but if ever 
 they do again, I'll give 'em leave to sing me to Bedlam for my 
 pains : for such a heap of stuff never did I hear ; there is n't one 
 ounce of sense in the whole Opera, nothing but one continued 
 squeaking and squalling from beginning to end." 
 
 " If I had been in the pit," said Madame Duval, "I should have 
 liked it vastly, for music is my passion ; but sitting in such a place 
 as this, is quite unbearable." 
 
 Miss Branghton, looking at me, declared, that she was not 
 genteel enough to admire it. 
 
EVELINA 475 
 
 Miss Polly confessed, that "if they would but sing English, she 
 would like it very well.'' 
 
 The brother wished he could raise a riot in the house, because 
 then he might get his money again. 
 
 And, finally, they all agreed, that it was monstrous dear. 
 
 During the last dance, I perceived, standing near the gallery- 
 door. Sir Clement Willoughby. I was extremely vexed, and 
 would have given the world to have avoided being seen by him : 
 my chief objection was, from the apprehension that he wou'd 
 hear Miss Branghton call me cousin. — I fear you will think 
 this London journey has made me grow very proud, but indeed 
 this family is so low-bred and vulgar, that I should be equally 
 ashamed of such a connection in the country, or any where. 
 And really I had been already so much chagrined that Sir Clement 
 had been a witness of Madame Duval's power over me, that I 
 could not bear to be exposed to any further mortification. 
 
 As the seats cleared, by parties going away, Sir Clement 
 approached nearer to us ; the Miss Branghtons observed with 
 surprise, what a fine gentleman was come into the gallery, and 
 they gave me great reason to expect, that they would endeavour 
 to attract his notice, by familiarity with me, whenever he should 
 join us ; and so, I formed a sort of plan, to prevent any conver- 
 sation. I'm afraid you will think it wrong ; and so I do myself 
 now, — but at the time, I only considered how I might avoid 
 immediate humiliation. 
 
 As soon as he was within two seats of us, he spoke to me, "I 
 am very happy. Miss Anville, to have found you, for the Ladies 
 below have each an humble attendant, and therefore I am come to 
 offer my services here." 
 
 "Why then," cried I, (not without hesitating) "if you please, 
 — I will join them." 
 
 "Will you allow me the honour of conducting you ?" cried he 
 eagerly ; and, instantly taking my hand, he would have marched 
 away with me: but I turned to Madame Duval, and said, "As 
 our party is so large. Madam, if you will give me leave, I will go 
 down to Mrs. Mirvan, that I may not crowd you in the coach." 
 
 And then, without waiting for an answer, I suffered Sir Clement 
 to hand me out of the gallery. 
 
476 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 Madame Duval, I doubt not, will be very angry, and so I am 
 with myself, now, and therefore I cannot be surprised : but Mr. 
 Branghton, I am sure, will easily comfort himself, in having 
 escaped the additional coach-expence of carrying me to Queen- 
 Ann-Street : as to his daughters, they had no time to speak, but 
 I saw they were in utter amazement. 
 
 My intention was to join Mrs. Mirvan, and accompany her 
 home. Sir Clement was in high spirits and good humour ; and 
 all the way we went, I was fool enough to rejoice in secret at the 
 success of my plan ; nor was it until I got down stairs, and amidst 
 the servants, that any difficulty occurred to me of meeting with 
 my friends. 
 
 I then asked Sir Clement how I should contrive to acquaint 
 Mrs. Mirvan that I had left Madame Duval ? 
 
 "I fear it will be almost impossible to find her," answered he ; 
 "but you can have no objection to permitting me to see you safe 
 home." 
 
 He then desired his servant, who was waiting, to order his 
 chariot to draw up. 
 
 This quite startled me ; I turned to him hastily, and said that 
 I could not think of going away without Mrs. Mirvan. 
 
 "But how can we meet with her?" cried he; "you will not 
 chuse to go into the pit yourself ; I cannot send a servant there ; 
 and it is impossible for me to go and leave you alone." 
 
 The truth of this was indisputable, and totally silenced me. 
 Yet, as soon as I could recollect myself, I determined not to go in 
 his chariot, and told him I believed I had best return to my party 
 up stairs. 
 
 He would not hear of this ; and earnestly entreated me not to 
 withdraw the trust I had reposed in him. 
 
 While he was speaking, I saw Lord Orville, with several ladies 
 and gentlemen, coming from the pit passage : unfortunately he 
 saw me too, and, leaving his company, advanced instantly tow- 
 ards me, and, with an air and voice of surprise, said, " Good God, 
 do I see Miss Anville ! " 
 
 I now most severely felt the folly of my plan, and the awkward- 
 ness of my situation ; however, I hastened to tell him, though in 
 a hesitating manner, that I was waiting for Mrs. Mirvan : but 
 
EVELINA 
 
 477 
 
 what was my disappointment, when he acquainted me that she 
 was already gone home ! 
 
 I was inexpressibly distressed ; to suffer Lord Orville to 
 think me satisfied with the single protection of Sir Clement 
 Willoughby, I could not bear ; yet I was more than ever averse 
 to returning to a party which I dreaded his seeing : I stood some 
 moments in suspense, and could not help exclaiming, "Good 
 Heaven, what can I do !" 
 
 "Why, my dear Madam," cried Sir Clement, "should you be 
 thus uneasy ? — ^you will reach Queen- Ann-Street almost as soon 
 as Mrs. Mirvan, and I am sure you cannot doubt being as safe." 
 
 I made no answer, and Lord Orville then said, "My coach 
 is here ; and my servants are ready to take any commands Miss 
 Anville will honour me with for them. I shall myself go home 
 in a chair, and therefore — " 
 
 How grateful did I feel for a proposal so considerate, and made 
 with so much delicacy ! I should gladly have accepted it, had 
 I been permitted, but Sir Clement would not let him even finish 
 his speech ; he interrupted him with evident displeasure, and 
 said, "My Lord, my own chariot is now at the door." 
 
 And just then the servant came, and told him that the carriage 
 was ready. He begged to have the honour of conducting me to 
 it, and would have taken my hand, but I drew it back, saying, 
 "I can't — I can't indeed ! pray go by yourself — and as to me, 
 let me have a chair." 
 
 "Impossible!" (cried he with vehemence) "I cannot think 
 of trusting you with strange chairmen, — I cannot answer it to 
 Mrs. Mirvan, — come, dear Madam, we shall be home in five 
 minutes." 
 
 Again I stood suspended. With what joy would I then have 
 compromised with my pride, to have been once more with 
 Madame Duval and the Branghtons, provided I had not met with 
 Lord Orville ! However, I flatter myself that he not only saw, 
 but pitied my embarrassment, for he said, in a tone of voice 
 unusually softened, "To offer my services in the presence of Sir 
 Clement Willoughby would be superfluous ; but I hope I need not 
 assure Miss Anville, how happy it would make me to be of the 
 least use to her." 
 
478 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 I courtsied my thanks. Sir Clement, with great earnestness, 
 pressed me to go ; and while I was thus uneasily deliberating 
 what to do, the dance, I suppose, finished, for the people crowded 
 down stairs. Had Lord Orville then repeated his offer, I would 
 have accepted it, notwithstanding Sir Clement's repugnance ; but 
 I fancy he thought it would be impertinent. In a very few 
 minutes I heard Madame Duval's voice, as she descended from 
 the gallery ; "Well," cried I, hastily, "if I must go — " I stopt ; 
 but Sir Clement handed me into his chariot, called out Queen- 
 Ann-Street, and then jumped in himself. Lord Orville, with a 
 bow and a half smile, wished me good night. 
 
 My concern was so great, at being seen and left by Lord Orville 
 in so strange a situation, that I should have been best pleased to 
 have remained wholly silent during our ride home : but Sir 
 Clement took care to prevent that. 
 
 He began by making many complaints of my unwillingness to 
 trust myself with him, and begged to know what could be the 
 reason ? This question so much embarrassed me, that I could 
 not tell what to answer, but only said, that I was sorry to have 
 taken up so much of his time. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Anville," (cried he, taking my hand), "if you knew 
 with what transport I would dedicate to you not only the present 
 but all the future time allotted to me, you would not injure me 
 by making such an apology." 
 
 I could not think of a word to say to this, nor to a great many 
 other equally fine speeches with which he ran on, though I would 
 fain have withdrawn my hand, and made almost continual 
 attempts ; but in vain, for he actually grasped it between both 
 his, without any regard to my resistance. 
 
 Soon after, he said that he believed the coachman was going 
 the wrong way, and he called to his servant, and gave him 
 directions. Then again addressing himself to me, "How often, 
 how assiduously have I sought an opportunity of speaking to you, 
 without the presence of that brute Captain Mirvan ! Fortune 
 has now kindly favoured me with one, and permit me" (again 
 seizing my hand) "permit me to use it, in telling you that I 
 adore you." 
 
 I was quite thunderstruck at this abrupt and unexpected dec- 
 
EVELINA 479 
 
 laration. For some moments I was silent, but, when I recovered 
 from my surprise, I said, "Indeed, Sir, if you were determined to 
 make me repent leaving my own party so foolishly, you have 
 very well succeeded." 
 
 "My dearest life," cried he, "is it possible you can be so 
 cruel ? Can your nature and your countenance be so totally 
 opposite ? Can the sweet bloom upon those charming cheeks, 
 which appears as much the result of good-humour as of 
 beauty " 
 
 "O, Sir," cried I, interrupting him, "this is very fine; but I 
 had hoped we had had enough of this sort of conversation at the 
 Ridotto, and I did not expect you would so soon resume it." 
 
 "What I then said, my sweet reproacher, was the effect of a 
 mistaken, a prophane idea, that your understanding held no 
 competition with your beauty ; but now, now that I find you 
 equally incomparable in both, all words, all powers of speech, are 
 too feeble to express the admiration I feel of your excellencies." 
 
 "Indeed," cried I, "if your thoughts had any connection with 
 your language, you would never suppose that I could give credit 
 to praise so very much above my desert." 
 
 This speech, which I made very gravely, occasioned still 
 stronger protestations, which he continued to pour forth, and I 
 continued to disclaim, till I began to wonder that we were not in 
 Queen-Ann-Street, and begged he would desire the coachman 
 to drive faster. 
 
 "And does this little moment," cried he, "which is the first of 
 happiness I have ever known, does it already appear so long to 
 you?" 
 
 "I am afraid the man has mistaken the way," answered I, 
 "or else we should ere now have been at our journey's end. I 
 must beg you will speak to him." 
 
 "And can you think me so much my own enemy? — if my 
 good genius has inspired the man with a desire of prolonging my 
 happiness, can you expect that I should counter-act its indul- 
 gence?" 
 
 I now began to apprehend that he had himself ordered the man 
 to go a wrong way, and I was so much alarmed at the idea, that, 
 the very instant it occurred to me, I let down the glass, and made 
 
48o FANNY BURNEY 
 
 a sudden effort to open the chariot-door myself, with a view of 
 jumping into the street ; but he caught hold of me, exclaiming, 
 "For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?" 
 
 "I — I don't know," cried I, (quite out of breath) "but I am 
 sure the man goes wrong, and, if you will not speak to him, I am 
 determined I will get out myself." 
 
 "You amaze me," answered he, (still holding me) "I cannot 
 imagine what you apprehend. Surely you can have no doubts 
 of my honour?" 
 
 He drew me towards him as he spoke. I was frightened 
 dreadfully, and could hardly say, "No, Sir, no, — none at all, — 
 only Mrs. Mirvan, — I think she will be uneasy." 
 
 "Whence this alarm, my dearest angel ? — What can you fear ? 
 — My life is at your devotion, and can you, then, doubt my pro- 
 tection?" 
 
 And so saying, he passionately kissed my hand. 
 
 Never, in my whole life, have I been so terrified. I broke 
 forcibly from him, and, putting my head out of the window, 
 called aloud to the man to stop. Where we then were I know not, 
 but I saw not a human being, or I should have called for help. 
 
 Sir Clement, with great earnestness, endeavoured to appease 
 and compose me ; "If you do not intend to murder me," cried I, 
 "for mercy's, for pity's sake, let me get out !" 
 
 "Compose your spirits, my dearest life," cried he, "and I will 
 do every thing that you would have me." And then he called to 
 the man himself, and bid him make haste to Queen-Ann-Street. 
 "This stupid fellow," continued he, "has certainly mistaken 
 my orders ; but I hope you are now fully satisfied." 
 
 I made no answer, but kept my head at the window, watching 
 which way he drove, but without any comfort to myself, as I 
 was quite unacquainted with either the right or the wrong. 
 
 Sir Clement now poured forth abundant protestations of 
 honour, and assurances of respect, entreating my pardon for 
 having offended me, and beseeching my good opinion : but I 
 was quite silent, having too much apprehension to make re- 
 proaches, and too much anger to speak without. 
 
 In this manner we went through several streets, till at last, 
 to my great terror, he suddenly ordered the man to stop, and 
 
EVELINA 481 
 
 said, "Miss Anville, we are now within twenty yards of your house ; 
 but I cannot bear to part with you, till you generously forgive 
 me for the offence you have taken, and promise not to make it 
 known to the Mirvans." 
 
 I hesitated between fear and indignation. 
 
 "Your reluctance to speak, redoubles my contrition for having 
 displeased you, since it shews the reliance I might have on a 
 promise which you will not give without consideration." 
 
 "I am very, very much distressed," cried I; "you ask apromise 
 which you must be sensible I ought not to grant, and yet dare 
 not refuse." 
 
 "Drive on!" cried he to the coachman; — "Miss Anville, I 
 will not compel you ; I will exact no promise, but trust wholly 
 to your generosity." 
 
 This rather softened me ; which advantage he no sooner per- 
 ceived, than he determined to avail himself of, for he flung 
 himself on his knees, and pleaded with so much submission, 
 that I was really obliged to forgive him, because his humiliation 
 made me quite ashamed : and, after that, he would not let me 
 rest till I gave him my word that I would not complain of him 
 to Mrs. Mirvan. 
 
 My own folly and pride, which had put me in his power, were 
 pleas which I could not but attend to in his favour. However, 
 I shall take very particular care never to be again alone with him. 
 
 When, at last, we arrived at our house, I was so overjoyed 
 that I should certainly have pardoned him then, if I had not be- 
 fore. As he handed me up stairs, he scolded his servant aloud, 
 and very angrily, for having gone so much out of the way. Miss 
 Mirvan ran out to meet me, — and who should I see behind her, 
 but — Lord Orville ! 
 
 All my joy now vanished, and gave place to shame and con- 
 fusion ; for I could not endure that he should know how long a 
 time Sir Clement and I had been together, since I was not at 
 liberty to assign any reason for it. 
 
 They all expressed great satisfaction at seeing me, and said 
 they had been extremely uneasy and surprised that I was so 
 long coming home, as they had heard from Lord Orville that I 
 was not with Madame Duval. Sir Clement, in an affected pas- 
 
482 FANNY BURNEY 
 
 sion, said that his booby of a servant had misunderstood his 
 orders, and was driving us to the upper end of Piccadilly. For 
 my part, I only coloured, for though I would not forfeit my word, 
 I yet disdained to confirm a tale in which I had myself no behef. 
 
 Lord Orville, with great politeness, congratulated me, that 
 the troubles of the evening had so happily ended, and said, 
 that he had found it impossible to return home, before he enquired 
 after my safety. 
 
 In a very short time he took his leave, and Sir Clement fol- 
 lowed him. As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Mirvan, though 
 with great softness, blamed me for having quitted Madame 
 Duval. I assured her, and with truth, that for the future I 
 would be more prudent. 
 
 The adventures of the evening so much disconcerted me, 
 that I could not sleep all night. I am under the most cruel 
 apprehensions, lest Lord Orville should suppose my being on 
 the gallery-stairs with Sir Clement was a concerted scheme, and 
 even that our continuing so long together in his chariot, was with 
 my approbation, since I did not say a word on the subject, nor 
 express any dissatisfaction at the coachman's pretended blunder. 
 
 Yet his coming hither to wait oiir arrival, though it seems to 
 imply some doubt, shews also some anxiety. Indeed Miss 
 Mirvan says, that he appeared extremely anxious, nay uneasy and 
 impatient for my return. If I did not fear to flatter myself, 
 I should think it not impossible but that he had a suspicion of 
 Sir Clement's design, and was therefore concerned for my safety. 
 
 What a long letter is this ! however, I shall not write many 
 more from London, for the Captain said this morning that he 
 would leave town on Tuesday next. Madame Duval will dine 
 here to-day, and then she is to be told his intention. 
 
 I am very much amazed that she accepted Mrs. Mirvan's 
 invitation, as she was in such wrath yesterday. I fear that to-day 
 I shall myself be the principal object of her displeasure ; but I 
 must submit patiently, for I cannot defend myself. 
 
 Adieu, my dearest Sir. Should this letter be productive of 
 any uneasiness to you, more than ever shall I repent the heedless 
 imprudence which it recites. 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 
 
 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter : 
 the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called 
 Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely 
 youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he. was the 
 darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affec- 
 tion to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for his 
 son with the Marquis of Vicenza's daughter, Isabella ; and she 
 had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of 
 Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad's 
 infirm state of health would permit. Manfred's impatience for 
 this ceremonial was remarked by his family and neighbours. 
 The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their prince's 
 disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this precipita- 
 tion. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes 
 venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so 
 early, considering his great youth and greater infirmities ; but 
 she never received any other answer than reflections on her own 
 sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenants and sub- 
 jects were less cautious in their discourses : they attributed this 
 hasty wedding to the prince's dread of seeing accomplished an 
 ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced, that the 
 Castle and Lordship of Otranto should pass from the present 
 family whenever the real owner should be grown too large to in- 
 habit it. It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy ; and 
 still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in 
 question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make 
 the populace adhere the less to their opinion. 
 
 Young Conrad's birth-day was fixed for his espousals. The 
 
 483 
 
484 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 company was assembled in the chapel of the castle, and every- 
 thing ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad himself 
 was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and who had 
 not observed his son retire, dispatched one of his attendants 
 to summon the young prince. The servant, who had not staid 
 long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad's apartment, 
 came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes 
 staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, but pointed 
 to the court. The company were struck with terror and amaze- 
 ment. The princess HippoHta, without knowing what was the 
 matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away. Manfred, less 
 apprehensive than enraged at the procrastination of the nuptials, 
 and at the folly of his domestic, asked imperiously what was the 
 matter? The fellow made no answer, but continued pointing 
 towards the court-yard ; and at last, after repeated questions 
 put to him, cried out, "Oh ! the helmet ! the helmet !" 
 
 In the meantime some of the company had run into the court, 
 from whence was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and 
 surprise. Manfred, who began to be alarmed at not seeing his 
 son, went himself to get information of what occasioned this 
 strange confusion. Matilda remained, endeavouring to assist her 
 mother, and Isabella staid for the same purpose, and to avoid 
 showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, 
 she had conceived little affection. 
 
 The first thing that struck Manfred's eyes was a group of his 
 servants endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him 
 a mountain of sable plumes. He gazed without believing his 
 sight. 
 
 "What are ye doing?" cried Manfred, wrathfully : "where is 
 my son?" 
 
 A volley of voices replied, "Oh! my lord! the prince! the 
 prince ! the helmet ! the helmet !" 
 
 Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew 
 not what, he advanced hastily, — but what a sight for a father's 
 eyes ! he beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried 
 under an enormous helmet, a hundred times larger than any 
 casque ever made for human being, and shaded with a propor- 
 tionable quantity of black feathers. 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 485 
 
 The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how 
 this misfortune had happened, and, above all, the tremendous 
 phenomenon before him, took away the prince's speech. Yet 
 his silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion. He 
 fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision; 
 and seemed less attentive to his loss than buried in meditation 
 on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He touched, 
 he examined the fatal casque : nor could even the bleeding 
 mangled remains of the young prince divert the eyes of Manfred 
 from the portent before him. All who had known his partial 
 fondness for young Conrad were as much surprised at their 
 prince's insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at the miracle 
 of the helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall, 
 without receiving the least direction from Manfred. As little 
 was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel : 
 on the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy princesses, 
 his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Man- 
 fred's lips were, "Take care of the lady Isabella." 
 
 The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direc- 
 tion, were guided by their affection to their mistress, to consider 
 it as peculiarly addressed to her situation, and flew to her assist- 
 ance. They conveyed her to her chamber more dead than alive, 
 and indifferent to all the strange" circumstances she heard, except 
 the death of her son. Matilda, who doted on her mother, 
 smothered her own grief and amazement, and thought of nothing 
 but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella, 
 who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who re- 
 turned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarcely 
 less assiduous about the princess ; at the same time endeavouring 
 to partake and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda 
 strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest 
 sympathy of friendship : yet her own situation could not help 
 finding its place in her thoughts. She felt no concern for the 
 death of young Conrad, except commiseration ; and she was not 
 sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her 
 little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from 
 the severe temper of Manfred ; who, though he had distinguished 
 her by great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, 
 
486 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 from his causeless rigour to such amiable princesses as Hippolita 
 and Matilda. 
 
 While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her 
 bed, Manfred remained in the court, gazing on the ominous 
 casque, and regardless of the crowd which the strangeness of the 
 event had now assembled around him ; the few words he artic- 
 ulated tending solely to inquiries, whether any man knew from 
 whence it could have come ? Nobody could give him the least 
 information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of 
 his curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, 
 whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as the castas- 
 trophe itself was unprecedented. 
 
 In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant, 
 whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, 
 observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that 
 on the figure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their 
 former princes, in the church of St. Nicholas. 
 
 "Villain! what sayest thou!" cried Manfred, starting from 
 his trance in a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by 
 the collar. "How darest thou utter such treason ? thy Hfe shall 
 pay for it." 
 
 The spectators, who as Httle comprehended the cause of the 
 prince's fury as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel 
 this new circumstance. The young peasant himself was still 
 more astonished, not conceiving how he had offended the prince : 
 yet, recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and humility, 
 he disengaged himself from Manfred's gripe, and then, with an 
 obeisance which discovered more jealousy of innocence than dis- 
 may, he asked, with respect, of what he was guilty ? 
 
 Manfred, more enraged at the vigour, however decently 
 exerted, with which the young man had shaken off his hold, 
 than appeased by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize 
 him, and, if he had not been withheld by his friends, whom he 
 had invited to the nuptials, would have poniarded the peasant 
 in their arms. 
 
 During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run 
 to the great church, which stood near the castle, and came 
 back open-mouthed, declaring that the helmet was missing 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 487 
 
 from Alfonso's statue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly 
 frantic ; and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tem- 
 pest within him, he rushed again on the young peasant, crying, 
 "Villain ! monster ! sorcerer ! it is thou hast done this ! it is 
 thou hast slain my son ! " 
 
 The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their 
 capacities, on whom they might discharge their bewildered 
 reasonings, caught the words from the mouth of their lord, and 
 re-echoed, "Ay, ay; it is he, it is he: he has stolen the helmet 
 from good Alfonso's tomb, and dashed out the brains of our 
 young prince with it ; " never reflecting how enormous the dis- 
 proportion was between the marble helmet that had been in 
 the church, and that of steel before their eyes ; nor how impos- 
 sible it was for a youth, seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece 
 of armour of so prodigious a weight. 
 
 The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself : 
 yet, whether provoked at the peasant having observed the re- 
 semblance between the two helmets, and thereby led to the 
 farther discovery of the absence of that in the church ; or wishing 
 to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a supposition ; he 
 gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necro- 
 mancer, and that till the church should take cognizance of the 
 affair, he would have the magician, whom they had thus detected, 
 kept prisoner under the helmet itself, which he ordered his attend- 
 ants to raise, and. place the young man under it ; declaring that 
 he should be kept there without food, with which his own infernal 
 art might furnish him. 
 
 It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposter- 
 ous sentence ; in vain did Manfred's friends endeavour to divert 
 him from the savage and ill-grounded resolution. The generality 
 were charmed with their lord's decision, which, to their appre- 
 hensions, carried great appearance of justice, as the magician 
 was to be punished by the very instrument with which he had 
 offended : nor were they struck with the least compunction at the 
 probabiHty of the youth being starved, for they firmly believed 
 Ithat, by his diabolic skill, he could easily supply himself with 
 inutriment. 
 I Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; 
 
488 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 and, appointing a guard with strict orders to prevent any food 
 being conveyed to the prisoner, he dismissed his friends and 
 attendants, and retired to his own chamber, after locking the 
 gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics 
 to remain. 
 
 In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young ladies had 
 brought the Princess HippoHta to herself; who, amidst the 
 transports of her own sorrow, frequently demanded news of 
 her lord, would have dismissed her attendants to watch over 
 him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and 
 comfort her father. 
 
 Matilda, who wanted no affectionate duty to Manfred, 
 though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of 
 Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella ; and, 
 inquiring of the domestics for her father, was informed that he 
 was retired to his chamber, and had commanded that nobody 
 should have admittance to him. Concluding that he was 
 immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother, and fearing to 
 renew his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child, she 
 hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction ; yet 
 solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother, 
 encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had given : 
 a fault she had never been guilty of before. 
 
 The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some 
 minutes at his door. She heard him traverse his chamber 
 backwards and forwards with disordered steps ; a mood which 
 increased her apprehensions. She was, however, just going to 
 beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the door ; 
 and as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder of his 
 mind, he did not distinguish the person, but asked angrily who it 
 was? Matilda replied, trembling, "My dearest father, it is I, 
 your daughter." Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, 
 "Begone, I do not want a daughter ; " and flinging back abruptly , 
 clapped the door against the terrified Matilda. 
 
 She was too well acquainted with her father's impetuosity 
 to venture a second intrusion. When she had a little recovered 
 the shock of so bitter a reception, she wiped away her tears, to 
 prevent the additional stab that the knowledge of it would give 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 489 
 
 to Hippo lita, who questioned her in the most anxious terms on 
 the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda 
 assured her he was well, and supported his misfortunes with 
 manly fortitude. 
 
 "But will he not let me see him ? " said HippoHta, mournfully ; 
 "will he not permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a 
 mother's sorrows in the bosom of her lord ? Or do you deceive 
 me, Matilda ? I know how Manfred doted on his son : is not 
 the stroke too heavy for him ? has he not sunk under it ? You 
 do not answer me — alas ! I dread the worst ! — raise me, my 
 maidens, I will, I will see my lord. Bear me to him instantly ; 
 he is dearer to me even than my children." 
 
 Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita's rising ; 
 and both these lovely young women were using their gentle 
 violence to stop and calm the princess, when a servant on the 
 part of Manfred arrived, and told Isabella that his lord demanded 
 to speak with her. 
 
 "With me ! " cried Isabella. 
 
 "Go," said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her lord: 
 "Manfred cannot support the sight of his own family. He 
 thinks you less disordered than we are, and dreads the shock 
 of my grief. Console him, my dear Isabella, and tell him I will 
 smother my own anguish rather than add to his." 
 I As it was now evening, the servant, who conducted Isabella, 
 jbore a torch before her. When they came to Manfred, who was 
 iwalking impatiently about the gallery, he started, and said, 
 'hastily, "Take away that light, and begone." Then shutting 
 jthe door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against 
 'the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed, 
 jtrembling. 
 
 "I sent for you, lady," said he ; and then stopped under great 
 appearance of confusion. 
 
 "My lord!" 
 
 "Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment," resumed he : 
 
 tDry your tears, young lady — you have lost your bridegroom, 
 es, cruel fate ! and I have lost the hopes of my race ! but Con- 
 tad was not worthy of your beauty." 
 I "How, my lord," said Isabella; "sure you do not suspect 
 
490 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 me of not feeling the concern I ought; my duty and affection 
 would have always — " 
 
 "Think no more of him," interrupted Manfred; "he was a 
 sickly, puny child, and Heaven has, perhaps, taken him away, 
 that I might not trust the honours of my house on so frail a 
 foundation. The hne of Manfred calls for numerous supports. 
 My fooHsh fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence 
 — but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to have reason 
 to rejoice at the death of Conrad." 
 
 Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first 
 she apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred's understand- 
 ing. Her next thought suggested that this strange discourse 
 was designed to ensnare her ; she feared that Manfred had per- 
 ceived her indifference for his son : and in consequence of that 
 idea she replied, "Good, my lord, do not doubt my tenderness : 
 my heart would have accompanied my hand. Conrad would 
 have engrossed all my care ; and wherever fate shall dispose of 
 me, I shall always cherish his memory, and regard your highness 
 and the virtuous HippoUta as my parents." 
 
 "Curse on HippoHta !" cried Manfred : "forget her from this 
 moment, as I do. In short, lady, you have missed a husband, 
 undeserving of your charms : they shall now be better disposed of. 
 Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime 
 of his age, who will know how to value your beauties, and who 
 may expect a numerous offspring." 
 
 "Alas! my lord!" said Isabella, "my mind is too sadly en- 
 grossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of 
 another marriage. If ever my father returns, and it shall 
 be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did when I consented to give my 
 hand to your son : but, until his return, permit me to remain 
 under your hospitable roof, and employ the melancholy hours in 
 assuaging yours, HippoHta's, and the fair Matilda's affliction." 
 
 "I desired you once before," said Manfred angrily, "not to 
 name that woman : from this hour she must be a stranger to you, 
 as she must be to me ; — in short, Isabella, since I cannot give 
 you my son, I offer you myself." 
 
 "Heavens," cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, "what 
 do I hear I You ! my lord ! You ! my father-in-law ! the 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 
 
 491 
 
 father of Conrad ! the husband of the virtuous and tender 
 HippoHta!" 
 
 "I tell you," said Manfred, imperiously, "HippoHta is no 
 longer my wife ; I divorce her from this hour. Too long has 
 she cursed me by her unfruitfulness. My fate depends on 
 having sons, — and this night I trust will give a new date to my 
 hopes." 
 
 At these words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was 
 half dead with fright and horror. She shrieked, and started 
 from him. Manfred rose to pursue her, when the moon, which 
 was now up, and gleamed in at the opposite casement, pre- 
 sented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose 
 to the height of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in 
 a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and 
 rustling sound. 
 
 Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and who 
 dreaded nothing so much as Manfred's pursuit of his declaration, 
 cried, "Look! my lord; see, Heaven itself declares against 
 your impious intentions ! " 
 
 "Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs," said Manfred, 
 advancing to seize the princess. 
 
 At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung 
 over the bench where he had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, 
 and heaved its breast. 
 
 Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the 
 motion, nor knew whence the sound came, but started, and 
 said, "Hark, my lord! What sound was that?" and, at the 
 same time, made towards the door. 
 
 Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now 
 reached the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the 
 picture, which began to move, had, however, advanced some 
 steps after her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when 
 he saw it quit its panel, and descend to the floor, with a grave 
 and melancholy air. 
 
 "Do I dream?" cried Manfred, returning; "or are the 
 devils themselves in league against me ! Speak, infernal spectre ! 
 or, if thou art my grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against 
 thy wretched descendant, who too dearly pays for " ere 
 
492 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 he could finish the sentence, the vision sighed again, and made 
 a sign to Manfred to follow him. 
 
 "Lead on !" cried Manfred, "I will follow thee to the gulf of 
 perdition." 
 
 The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the 
 gallery, and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred 
 accompanied him at a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, 
 but resolved. As he would have entered the chamber, the door 
 was clapped to, with violence, by an invisible hand. The 
 prince, collecting courage from this delay, would have forcibly 
 burst open the door with his foot, but found that it resisted his 
 utmost efforts. 
 
 "Since hell will not satisfy my curiosity," said Manfred, 
 "I will use the human means in my power for preserving my 
 race; Isabella shall not escape me." 
 
 The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror, the 
 moment she had quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the 
 bottom of the principal staircase. There she stopped, not 
 knowing whither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from the 
 impetuosity of the prince. The gates of the castle she knew were 
 locked, and guards were placed in the court. Should she, as her 
 heart prompted, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny 
 that awaited her; she did not doubt but Manfred would seek 
 her there, and that his violence would incite him to double the 
 injury he meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid 
 the impetuosity of his passions. Delay might give him time to 
 reflect on the horrid measures he had conceived, or produce some 
 circumstance in her favour, if she could for that night, at least, 
 avoid his odious purpose. Yet where conceal herself ? how avoid 
 the pursuit he would infallibly make throughout the castle ? 
 
 As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she rec- 
 ollected a subterraneous passage, which led from the vaults 
 of the castle to the church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the 
 altar before she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred's violence 
 would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place ; and 
 she determined, if no other means of deliverance offered, to 
 shut herself up for ever among the holy virgins, whose convent 
 was contiguous to the cathedral. In this resolution, she seized 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 493 
 
 a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurried 
 towards the secret passage. 
 
 The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate 
 cloisters ; and it was not easy for one, under so much anxiety, 
 to find the door that opened into the cavern. An awful silence 
 reigned throughout those subterraneous regions, except now and 
 then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed, 
 and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through 
 that long labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur struck her with 
 new terror ; — yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful voice 
 of Manfred, urging his domestics to pursue her. She trod as 
 softly as impatience would give her leave, — yet frequently 
 stopped, and Hstened, to hear if she was followed. In one of 
 those moments she thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered, 
 and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she thought she heard 
 the step of some person. Her blood curdled ; she concluded it 
 was Manfred. Every suggestion that horror could inspire rushed 
 into her mind. She condemned her rash flight, which had thus 
 exposed her to his rage, in a place where her cries were not likely 
 to draw any body to her assistance. Yet the sound seemed not 
 to come from behind : if Manfred knew where she was, he must 
 have followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the 
 steps she had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she 
 had come. Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a 
 friend in whoever was not the prince, she was going to advance, 
 when a door, that stood a-jar, at some distance to the left, was 
 opened gently : but ere her lamp, which she held up, could dis- 
 cover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on seeing 
 the light. 
 
 Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated 
 whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon out- 
 weighed every other terror. The very circumstance of the person 
 avoiding her gave her a sort of courage. It could only be, she 
 thought, some domestic belonging to the castle. Her gentleness 
 had never raised her an enemy, and conscious innocence made her 
 hope that, unless sent by the prince's order to seek her, his 
 servants would rather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying 
 herself with these reflections, and believing, by what she could 
 
494 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 observe, that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern, 
 she approached the door that had been opened ; but a sudden 
 gust of wind, that met her at the door, extinguished her lamp, and 
 left her in total darkness. 
 
 Words cannot paint the horror of the princess's situation. 
 Alone, in so dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the 
 terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every 
 moment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil, on know- 
 ing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not whom, who, 
 for some cause, seemed concealed thereabout ; all these thoughts 
 crowded on her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under 
 her apprehensions. She addressed herself to every saint in 
 heaven, and inwardly implored their assistance. For a consider- 
 able time she remained in an agony of despair. At last, as softly 
 as was possible, she felt for the door, and, having found it, 
 entered, trembling, into the vault from whence she had heard the 
 sigh and steps. It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive 
 an imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of 
 the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung 
 a fragment of earth or building, she could not distinguish which, 
 that appeared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced 
 eagerly towards this chasm, when she discerned a human form 
 standing close against the wall. 
 
 She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. 
 The figure, advancing, said, in a submissive voice, "Be not 
 alarmed, lady, I will not injure you." 
 
 Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of 
 the stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who 
 had opened the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply, 
 "Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched princess, standing 
 on the brink of destruction ; assist me to escape from this fatal 
 castle, or, in a few moments, I may be made miserable for ever." 
 
 "Alas!" said the stranger, "what can I do to assist you? 
 I will die in your defence ; but I am unacquainted with the castle, 
 and want — " 
 
 "Oh !" said Isabella, hastily interrupting him, "help me but 
 to find a trap-door, that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest 
 service you can do me, for I have not a minute to lose." 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 495 
 
 Saying these words, she felt about on the pavement, and 
 directed the stranger to search likewise for a smooth piece of 
 brass, enclosed in one of the stones. "That," said she, "is 
 the lock, which opens with a spring, of which I know the secret. 
 If we can find that, I may escape — if not, alas ! courteous 
 stranger, I fear I shall have involved you in my misfortunes : 
 Manfred will suspect you as the accomplice of my flight, and you 
 will fall a victim to his resentment." 
 
 "I value not my life," said the stranger, "and it will be some 
 comfort to lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny." 
 
 " Generous youth," said Isabella, "how shall I ever requite — " 
 as she uttered these words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through 
 a cranny of the ruin above, shone directly on the lock they 
 sought — "Oh! transport!" said Isabella, "here is the trap- 
 door !" and taking out the key, she touched the spring, which 
 starting aside, discovered an iron ring. 
 
 "Lift up the door," said the princess. 
 
 The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps 
 descending into a vault totally dark. 
 
 "We must go down here," said Isabella: "follow me; dark 
 and dismal as it is, we cannot miss our way ; it leads directly to 
 the church of St. Nicholas; but perhaps," added the princess, 
 modestly, "you have no reason to leave the castle, nor have I 
 farther occasion for your service ; in a few minutes I shall be 
 safe from Manfred's rage — only let me know to whom I am so 
 much obliged." 
 
 "I will never quit you," said the stranger eagerly, "until I 
 have placed you in safety — nor think me, princess, more gener- 
 ous than I am: though you are my principal care " The 
 
 stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed 
 approaching, and they soon distinguished these words: "Talk 
 not to me of necromancers ; I tell you she must be in the castle ; 
 I will find her in spite of enchantment." 
 
 "Oh ! heavens," cried Isabella, "it is the voice of Manfred ! 
 make haste, or we are ruined ! and shut the trap-door after you." 
 
 Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately ; and as the 
 stranger hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his 
 hands : it fell, and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain 
 
496 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 to open it, not having observed Isabella's method of touching 
 the spring ; nor had he many moments to make an essay. The 
 noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who, 
 directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his servants, 
 with torches. 
 
 "It must be Isabella," cried Manfred, before he entered 
 the vault; "she is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but 
 she cannot have got far." 
 
 What was the astonishment of the prince, when, instead of 
 Isabella, the Hght of the torches discovered to him the young 
 peasant, whom he thought confined under the fatal helmet ! 
 
 "Traitor !" said Manfred, "how camest thou here ? I thought 
 thee in durance above in the court." 
 
 "I am no traitor," replied the young man boldly, "nor am I 
 answerable for your thoughts." 
 
 "Presumptuous villain !" cried Manfred, "dost thou provoke 
 my wrath ? tell me ! ,how hast thou escaped from above ? thou 
 hast corrupted thy guards, and their lives shall answer it." 
 
 "My poverty," said the peasant, calmly, "will exculpate 
 them : though the ministers of a tyrant's wrath, to thee they 
 are faithful, and but too willing to execute the orders which you 
 unjustly imposed upon them." 
 
 "Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance ? " said the prince ; 
 "but tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell me; I will 
 know thy accomphces." 
 
 "There was my accomplice," said the youth, smiling, and 
 pointing to the roof. 
 
 Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that 
 one of the cheeks of the enchanted casque had forced its way 
 through the pavement of the court, as his servants had let it fall 
 over the peasant, and had broken through into the vault, leaving 
 a gap through which the peasant had pressed himself, some min- 
 utes before he was found by Isabella. 
 
 "Was that the way by which thou didst descend?" said 
 Manfred. 
 
 "It was," said the youth. 
 
 "But what noise was that," said Manfred, "which I heard as 
 I entered the cloister?" 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 497 
 
 "A door clapped," said the peasant; "I heard it as well as 
 you." 
 
 "What door?" said Manfred hastily, 
 
 "I am not acquainted with your castle," said the peasant; 
 "this is the first time I ever entered it, and this vault the only 
 part of it within which I ever was." 
 
 " But I tell thee," said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youth 
 had discovered the trap-door), "it was this way I heard the noise : 
 my servants heard it too." 
 
 "My lord," interrupted one of them, officiously, "to be sure 
 it was the trap-door, and he was going to make his escape." 
 
 "Peace! blockhead," said the prince, angrily; "if he was 
 going to escape, how should he come on this side ? I will know, 
 from his own mouth, what noise it was I heard. Tell me truly ; 
 thy Hfe depends on thy veracity." 
 
 "My veracity is dearer to me than my life," said the peasant ; 
 "nor would I purchase the one by forfeiting the other." 
 
 "Indeed, young philosopher !" said Manfred contemptuously ; 
 "tell me, then, what was the noise I heard ?" 
 
 "Ask me what I can answer," said he, "and put me to death 
 instantly, if I tell you a lie." 
 
 Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indiffer- 
 ence of the youth, cried, "Well, then, thou man of truth ! answer 
 — was it the fall of the trap-door that I heard ?" 
 
 "It was," said the youth. 
 
 "It was!" said the prince; "and how didst thou come to 
 know there was a trap-door here ?" 
 
 "I saw the plate of brass, by a gleam of moonshine," 
 replied he. 
 
 "But what told thee it was a lock?" said Manfred; "how 
 didst thou discover the secret of opening it ?" 
 
 "Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to 
 direct me to the spring of a lock," said he. 
 
 "Providence should have gone a little farther, and have 
 placed thee out of the reach of my resentment," said Manfred. 
 "When Providence had taught thee to open the lock, it aban- 
 doned thee for a fool, who did not know how to make use of its 
 favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path pointed out for 
 
498 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before thou 
 hadst descended the steps?" 
 
 "I might ask you, my lord," said the peasant, "how I, totally 
 unacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led 
 to any outlet ? But I scorn to evade your questions. Wherever 
 those steps lead to, perhaps I should have explored the way — I 
 could not be in a worse situation than I was. But the truth is, 
 I let the trap-door fall ; your immediate arrival followed. I had 
 given the alarm — what imported it to me whether I was seized 
 a minute sooner or a minute later ?" 
 
 "Thou art a resolute villain for thy years," said Manfred ; 
 "yet, on reflection, I suspect thou dost but trifle with me : thou 
 hast not yet told me how thou didst open the lock." 
 
 "That I will show you, my lord," said the peasant; and 
 taking up a fragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid 
 himself on the trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of brass 
 that covered it, meaning to gain time for the escape of the princess. 
 
 This presence of mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, 
 staggered Manfred. He even felt a disposition towards pardon- 
 ing one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one 
 of those savage tyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The 
 circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity to his temper, 
 which was naturally humane, and his virtues were always ready 
 to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason. 
 
 While the prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of 
 voices echoed through the distant vaults. As the sound ap- 
 proached, he distinguished the clamours of some of his domestics, 
 whom he had dispersed through the castle in search of Isabella, 
 calling out, "Where is my lord ? where is the prince ?" 
 
 "Here I am," said Manfred, as they came nearer; "have you 
 found the princess ? " 
 
 The first that arrived repHed, "Oh ! my lord ! I am glad we 
 have found you." 
 
 "Found me ! " said Manfred ; " have you found the princess ? " 
 
 "We thought we had, my lord," said the fellow, looking terri- 
 fied; but, " 
 
 "But what?" cried the prince, "has she escaped ?" 
 
 "Jaquez and I, my lord !" 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 499 
 
 "Yes, I and Diego," interrupted the second ; who came up in 
 still greater consternation. 
 
 "Speak one of you at a time," said Manfred: "I ask you, 
 where is the princess ?" 
 
 "We do not know," said they both together; "but we are 
 frightened out of our wits." 
 
 "So I think, blockheads," said Manfred: "what is it has 
 scared you thus ?" 
 
 "Oh ! my lord," said Jaquez, "Diego has seen such a sight ! 
 your highness would not believe our eyes. " 
 
 "What new absurdity is this?" cried Manfred: "give me a 
 direct answer, or by Heaven, " 
 
 "Why, my lord, if it please your highness to hear me," said the 
 poor fellow, "Diego and I — " 
 
 "Yes, I and Jaquez," cried his comrade. 
 
 "Did I not forbid you to speak both at a time?" said the 
 prince: "you, Jaquez, answer; for* the other fool seems more 
 distracted than thou art ; what is the matter ? " 
 ■ "My gracious lord," said Jaquez, "if it please your highness 
 to hear me ; Diego and I, according to your highness's orders, 
 went to search for the young lady ; but being comprehensive 
 that we might meet the ghost of my young lord, your high- 
 ness's son, God rest his soul, as he has not received Christian 
 burial " 
 
 "Sot," cried Manfred, in a rage, "is it only a ghost, then, thou 
 hast seen ?" 
 
 "Oh ! worse ! worse ! my lord," cried Diego, "I had rather have 
 seen ten whole ghosts." 
 
 "Grant me patience ! " said Manfred, " these blockheads dis- 
 tract me — out of my sight, Diego ! and thou, Jaquez, tell me 
 in one word, art thou sober ? art thou raving ? thou wast wont 
 to have some sense : has the other sot frightened himself and 
 thee too ? speak : what is it he fancies he has seen ? " 
 
 "Why, my lord," replied Jaquez, trembling, "I was going to 
 tell your highness that since the calamitous misfortune of my 
 young lord, — God rest his precious soul ! — not one of us, your 
 highness's faithful servants, — indeed we are, my lord, though 
 poor men, — I say, not one of us has dared to set a foot about 
 
500 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 the castle, but two together : so Diego and I, thinking that my 
 young lady might be in the great gallery, went up there to look 
 for her, and tell her your highness wanted something to impart to 
 her." 
 
 "O, blundering fools!" cried Manfred; "and in the mean- 
 time she has made her escape, because you were afraid of goblins ! 
 Why, thou knave ! she left me in the gallery ; I came from thence 
 myself." 
 
 "For all that she may be there still, for aught I know," said 
 Jaquez; "but the devil shall have me before I seek her there 
 again — poor Diego ! I do not beheve he will ever recover it." 
 
 "Recover what?" said Manfred : "am I never to learn what 
 it is has terrified these rascals ? But I lose my time : follow me, 
 slave ; I will see if she is in the gallery." 
 
 "For heaven's sake, my dear, good lord," cried Jaquez, 
 "do not go to the gallery. Satan himself, I beheve, is in the 
 chamber next to the gallery*." 
 
 Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as 
 an idle panic, was struck at this new circumstance. He recol- 
 lected the apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing of 
 the door at the end of the gallery — his voice faltered, and he 
 asked with disorder, "What is in the great chamber?" 
 
 "My lord," said Jaquez, "when Diego and I came into the 
 gallery, he went first, for he said he had more courage than I. 
 So when we came into the gallery, we found nobody. We 
 looked under every bench and stool, and still we found 
 nobody." 
 
 "Were all the pictures in their places?" said Manfred. 
 
 "Yes, my lord," answered Jaquez; "but we did not think of 
 looking behind them." 
 
 "Well, well !" said Manfred, "proceed." 
 
 "When we came to the door of the great chamber," continued 
 Jaquez, "we found it shut." 
 
 "And could not you open it?" said Manfred. 
 
 "Oh ! yes, my lord; would to heaven we had not !" rephed 
 he — "nay, it was not I neither, it was Diego : he was grown 
 fool-hardy, and would go on, though I advised him not : if ever 
 I open a door that is shut again " 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 501 
 
 "Trifle not," said Manfred, shuddering, "but tell me what 
 you saw in the great chamber, on opening the door." 
 
 "I ! my lord !" said Jaquez, "I saw nothing; I was behind 
 Diego ; but I heard the noise." 
 
 "Jaquez," said Manfred in a solemn tone of voice, "tell me, 
 I adjure thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou 
 sawest ? what was it thou heardest ? " 
 
 "It was Diego saw it, my lord, it was not I," replied Jaquez, 
 "I only heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, 
 than he cried out, and ran back — I ran back too, and said, 'Is 
 it the ghost?' 'The ghost ! no ! no,' said Diego, and his hair 
 stood on end ; 'it is a giant, I believe : he is all clad in armour, 
 for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as the 
 helmet below in the court.' As he said these words, my lord, we 
 heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour, as if the giant 
 was rising, for Diego has told me since, that he believes the giant 
 was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched at length 
 on the floor. Before we could get to the end of the gallery, we 
 heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did 
 not dare turn back to see if the giant was following us ; yet, now 
 I think on it, we must have heard him if he had pursued us ; but 
 for heaven's sake, my good lord, send for the chaplain, and have 
 the castle exorcised ; for, for certain, it is enchanted." 
 
 "Ay, pray do, my lord," cried all the servants at once, "or we 
 must leave your highness's service." 
 
 "Peace! dotards," said Manfred, "and follow me; I will 
 know what all this means." 
 
 "We ! my lord !" cried they, with one voice; "we would not 
 go up to the gallery for your highness's revenue." 
 
 The young peasant, who had stood silent, now spoke. "Will 
 your highness," said he, "permit me to try this adventure ? My 
 life is of little consequence to anybody. I fear no bad angel, 
 and have offended no good one." 
 
 "Your behaviour is above your seeming," said Manfred, 
 viewing him with surprise and admiration; "hereafter I will 
 reward your bravery; but now," continued he with a sigh, "I 
 am so circumstanced, that I dare trust no eyes but my own ; 
 however, I give you leave to accompany me." 
 
502 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had 
 gone directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the princess 
 had retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with 
 anxious fondness to meet her lord, whom she had not seen since 
 the death of her son. She would have flown in a transport of 
 mingled joy and grief, to his bosom, but he pushed her rudely off, 
 and said, "Where is Isabella?" 
 
 "Isabella ! my lord !" said the astonished Hippolita. 
 
 "Yes, Isabella," cried Manfred imperiously ; "I want Isabella." 
 
 "My lord," replied Matilda, who perceived how much his 
 behaviour had shocked her mother, "she has not been with us 
 since your highness summoned her to your apartment." 
 
 "Tell me where she is," said the prince; "I do not want to 
 know where she has been." 
 
 "My good lord," replied Hippolita, "your daughter tells you 
 the truth : Isabella left us by your command, and has not re- 
 turned since ; but, my lord, compose yourself ; retire to your 
 rest : this dismal day has disordered you. Isabella shall await 
 your orders in the morning." 
 
 "What, then, you know where she is !" cried Manfred ; "tell 
 me directly, for I will not lose an instant : and you, woman," 
 speaking to his wife, "order your chaplain to attend me forth- 
 with." 
 
 "Isabella," said Hippolita, calmly, "is retired, I suppose, to 
 her chamber : she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. 
 Gracious, my lord," continued she, "let me know what has dis- 
 turbed you ? Has Isabella offended you ?" 
 
 "Trouble me not with questions," said Manfred, "but tell 
 me where she is." 
 
 "Matilda shall call her," said the princess; "sit down, my 
 lord, and resume your wonted fortitude." 
 
 "What, art thou jealous of Isabella?" replied he, "that you 
 wish to be present at our interview?" 
 
 "Good heavens ! my lord," said HippoHta, "what is it your 
 highness means ?" 
 
 "Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed," said the cruel 
 prince. " Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here." 
 
 At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella ; 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 503 
 
 leaving the amazed ladies thunder-struck with his words and 
 frantic deportment, and lost in vain conjectures on what he was 
 meditating. 
 
 Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the 
 peasant and a few of his servants, whom he had obliged to accom- 
 pany him. He ascended the staircase without stopping, till he 
 arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met Hippolita and 
 her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he 
 had gone directly to the princess's apartment, with the alarm of 
 what he had seen. That excellent lady, who no more than Man- 
 fred doubted of the reahty of the vision, yet affected to treat it as 
 a delirium of the servant. Willing, however, to save her lord 
 from any additional shock, and prepared, by a series of grief, 
 not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make 
 herself the first sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for 
 their destruction. Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, 
 who in vain sued for leave to accompany her mother, and at- 
 tended only by her chaplain, HippoKta had visited the gallery 
 and great chamber ; and now, with more serenity of soul than she 
 had felt for many hours, she met her lord, and assured him that 
 the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable ; and no 
 doubt an impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal 
 hour of the night, on the minds of his servants. She and the 
 chaplain had examined the chamber, and found everything in 
 the usual order. 
 
 Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had 
 been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of 
 mind into which so many strange events had thrown him. 
 Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a princess, who re- 
 turned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty, he 
 felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes ; but, not less 
 ashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was 
 inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage, he curbed the 
 yearnings of his heart, and did not dare to lean even towards 
 pity. The next transition of his soul was to exquisite villany. 
 Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered 
 himself that she would not only acquiesce with patience in a 
 divorce, but would obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavouring to 
 
504 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 persuade Isabella to give him her hand ; but ere he could indulge 
 his horrid hope, he reflected that Isabella was not to be found. 
 
 Coming to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to the 
 castle should be strictly guarded, and charged his domestics, on 
 pain of their lives, to suffer nobody to pass out. The young 
 peasant, to whom he spoke favourably, he now ordered to remain 
 in a small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet bed, 
 and the key of which he took away himself, telling the youth at 
 the same time that he would talk with him in the morning. 
 Then, dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen kind of 
 half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Matilda, who by Hippolita's order had retired to her apart- 
 ment, was ill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking fate of her 
 brother had deeply affected her. She was surprised at not seeing 
 Isabella : but the strange words which had fallen from her 
 father, and his obscure menace to the princess his wife, accom- 
 panied by the most furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mind 
 with terror and alarm. She waited anxiously for the return of 
 Bianca, a young damsel that attended her, whom she had sent 
 to learn what had become of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared, 
 and informed her mistress of what she had gathered from the 
 servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be found. She related 
 the adventure of the young peasant, who had been discovered in 
 the vault, though with many simple additions from the incoherent 
 accounts of the domestics ; and she dwelt principally on the 
 gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in the gallery-chamber. 
 This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she 
 was rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to 
 rest, but should watch till the princess should rise. 
 
 The young princess wearied herself in the conjectures on the 
 flight of Isabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother. 
 
 "But what business could he have so urgent with the chap- 
 lain?" said Matilda. "Does he intend to have my brother's 
 body interred privately in the chapel?" 
 
 "Oh, madam," said Bianca, "now I guess. As you are become 
 his heiress, he is impatient to have you married : he has always 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 505 
 
 been raving for more sons ; I warrant he is now impatient for 
 grandsons. As sure as I live, madam, I shall see you a bride at 
 last. — Good madam, you won't cast off your faithful Bianca : 
 you won't put Donno Rosara over me, now you are a great 
 princess?" 
 
 "My poor Bianca," said Matilda, "how fast your thoughts 
 ramble ! I a great princess ! What hast thou seen in Manfred's 
 behaviour since my brother's death that bespeaks any increase 
 of tenderness to me ? No, Bianca ; his heart was ever a stranger 
 
 to but he is my father, and I must not complain. Nay, if 
 
 Heaven shuts my father's heart against me, it overpays my little 
 
 merit in the tenderness of my mother O that dear mother ! 
 
 yes, Bianca, it is there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I 
 can support his harshness to me with patience ; but it wounds 
 my soul when I am witness to his causeless severity towards her." 
 
 "Oh! madam," said Bianca, "all men use their wives so, 
 when they are weary of them." 
 
 "And yet you congratulated me but now," said Matilda, 
 "when you fancied my father intended to dispose of me !" 
 
 "I would have you a great lady," replied Bianca, "come what 
 will. I do not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would 
 be if you had your will, and if my lady, your mother, who knows 
 that a bad husband is better than no husband at all, did not 
 hinder you. — Bless me ! what noise is that ? St. Nicholas, 
 forgive me ! I was but in jest." 
 
 "It is the wind," said Matilda, "whistling through the battle- 
 ments of the tower above ; you have heard it a" thousand times." 
 
 "Nay," said Bianca, "there was no harm, neither, in what I 
 said : it is no sin to talk of matrimony — and so, madam, as I 
 was saying, if my Lord Manfred should offer you a handsome 
 young prince for a bridegroom, you would drop him a courtesy, 
 and tell him you would rather take the veil ?" 
 
 "Thank Heaven, I am in no such danger," said Matilda; 
 "you know how many proposals for me he has rejected." 
 
 "And yet you thank him, hke a dutiful daughter, do you, 
 madam ? — But come, madam ; suppose, to-morrow morning, 
 he was to send for you to the great council-chamber, and there 
 you should find, at his elbow, a lovely young prince, with large 
 
5o6 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 black, eyes, smooth white forehead, and manly curling locks like 
 jet ; in short, madam, a young hero, resembling the picture of the 
 good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours 
 together." 
 
 "Do not speak lightly of that picture," interrupted Matilda, 
 sighing : "I know the adoration with which I look at that picture 
 is uncommon — but I am not in love with a coloured panel. 
 The character of that virtuous prince, — the veneration with 
 which my mother has inspired me for his memory, — the orisons 
 which, I know not why, she has enjoined me to pour forth at his 
 tomb, — all have concurred to persuade me that somehow or 
 other my destiny is linked with something relating to him." 
 
 ''Lord ! madam, how should that be?" said Bianca: "I have 
 always heard that your family was no way related to his ; and I 
 am sure I cannot conceive why my lady, the princess, sends you, 
 in a cold morning, or a damp evening, to pray at his tomb. He is 
 no saint by the almanac. If you must pray, why does she not 
 bid you address yourself to our great St. Nicholas ? I am sure 
 he is the saint I pray to for a husband." 
 
 "Perhaps my mind would be less affected," said Matilda, "if 
 my mother would explain her reasons to me : but it is the mystery 
 
 she observes that inspires me with this I know not what to 
 
 call it. As she never acts from caprice, I am sure there is some 
 fatal secret at the bottom — nay, I know there is : in her agony 
 of grief for my brother's death, she dropped some words that 
 intimated as much." 
 
 "Oh ! dear madam," cried Bianca, "what were they?" 
 
 "No," said Matilda; "if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes 
 it recalled, it is not for a child to utter it." 
 
 "What ! was she sorry for what she had said?" asked Bianca. 
 "I am sure, madam, you may trust me " 
 
 "With my own little secrets, when I have any, I may," said 
 Matilda ; "but never with my mother's : a child ought to have 
 no ears or eyes, but as a parent directs." 
 
 "Well ! to be sure, madam, you was born to be a saint," said 
 Bianca, "and there is no resisting one's vocation: you will end 
 in a convent at last. But there is my lady Isabella would not 
 be so reserved to me : she will let me talk to her of young men : 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 507 
 
 and when a handsome cavalier has come to the castle, she has 
 owned to me that she wished your brother Conrad resembled 
 him." 
 
 "Bianca," said the princess, "I do not allow you to mention 
 my friend disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, 
 but her soul is as pure as virtue itself. She knows your babbling 
 humour, and perhaps has now and then encouraged it to divert 
 melancholy, and enliven the soHtude in which my father keeps 
 us." 
 
 "Blessed Mary!" said Bianca, starting, "there it is again! 
 Dear madam, do you hear nothing ? this castle is certainly 
 haunted." 
 
 "Peace !" said Matilda, "and listen ! I did think I heard a 
 voice — but it must be fancy ; your terrors, I suppose, have 
 infected me." 
 
 "Indeed ! indeed ! madam," said Bianca, half -weeping with 
 agony, "I am sure I heard a voice." 
 
 "Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath ? " said the Princess. 
 
 "Nobody has dared to lie there," answered Bianca, "since 
 the great astrologer, that was your brother's tutor, drowned 
 himself. For certain, madam, his ghost and the young prince's 
 are now met in the chamber below — for heaven's sake let us fly 
 to your mother's apartment !" 
 
 "I charge you not to stir," said Matilda. "If they are spirits 
 in pain, we may ease their sufferings by questioning them. They 
 can mean no hurt to us, for we have not injured them — and if 
 they should, shall we be more safe in one chamber than in an- 
 other ? Reach me my beads ; we will say a prayer, and then 
 speak to them." 
 
 "Oh ! dear lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world," 
 cried Bianca. 
 
 As she said these words, they heard the casement of the little 
 chamber below Matilda's open. They listened attentively, and 
 in a few minutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not 
 distinguish the words. 
 
 "This can be no evil spirit," said the princess, in a low voice : 
 "it is undoubtedly one of the family — open the window, and 
 we shall know the voice." 
 
5o8 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 "I dare not, indeed, madam," said Bianca. 
 
 "Thou art a very fool," said Matilda, opening the window 
 gently herself. 
 
 The noise the princess made was, however, heard by the person 
 beneath, who stopped, and they concluded had heard the case- 
 ment open. 
 
 "Is any body below ? " said the princess : "if there is, speak." 
 
 "Yes," said an unknown voice. 
 
 "Who is it?" said Matilda. 
 
 "A stranger," replied the voice. 
 
 "What stranger?" said she, — "and how didst thou come 
 there, at this unusual hour, when all the gates of the castle are 
 locked?" 
 
 "I am not here willingly," answered the voice "but 
 
 pardon me, lady, if I have disturbed your rest ; I knew not that 
 I was overheard. Sleep had forsaken me. I left a restless couch, 
 and came to waste the irksome hours "with gazing on the fair 
 approach of morning, impatient to be dismissed from this castle." 
 
 "Thy words and accents," said Matilda, "are of a melancholy 
 cast : if thou art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, 
 let me know it ; I will mention thee to the princess, whose be- 
 neficent soul ever melts for the distressed : and she will relieve 
 thee." 
 
 "I am indeed unhappy," said the stranger, "and I know not 
 what wealth is : but I do not complain of the lot which Heaven 
 has cast for me ; I am young and healthy, and am not ashamed of 
 owing my support to myself — yet think me not proud, or that 
 I disdain your generous offers. I will remember you in my 
 orisons, and will pray for blessings on your gracious self, and your 
 noble mistress ^ if I sigh, lady, it is for others, not for myself." 
 
 "Now I have it, madam," said Bianca, whispering the princess. 
 "This is certainly the young peasant : and by my conscience he 
 is in love. Well ! this is a charming adventure ! — do, madam, 
 let us sift him. He does not know you, but takes you for one of 
 my lady HippoUta's women." 
 
 "Art thou not ashamed, Bianca?" said the princess. "What 
 right have we to pry into the secrets of this young man's heart ? 
 he seems virtuous and frank, and tells us he is unhappy : are 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 
 
 509 
 
 those circumstances that authorize us to make a property of 
 him ; how are we entitled to his confidence !" 
 
 "Lord ! madam, how Httle you know of love !" replied Bianca : 
 "why, lovers have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress." 
 
 "And would you have me become a peasant's confidant?" 
 said the princess. 
 
 "Well, then, let me talk to him," said Bianca : " though I have 
 the honour of being your highness's maid of honour, I was not 
 always so great : besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too. 
 I have a respect for any young man in love." 
 
 "Peace! simpleton," said the princess ; "though he said he 
 was unhappy, it does not follow that he must be in love. Think 
 of all that has happened to-day, and tell me if there are no mis- 
 fortunes but what love causes. Stranger," resumed the princess, 
 "if thy misfortunes have not been occasioned by thy own fault, 
 and are within the compass of the Princess Hippolita's power to 
 redress, I will take upon me to answer that she will be thy pro- 
 tectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle, repair to 
 holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of 
 St. Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou 
 thinkest meet : he will not fail to inform the princess, who is the 
 mother of all that want her assistance. Farewell ! it is not 
 seemly for me to hold farther converse with a man at this 
 unwonted hour." 
 
 "May the saints guard thee, gracious lady!" replied the 
 peasant; "but oh! if a poor and worthless stranger might 
 presume to beg a minute's audience farther — • am I so happy ? 
 — the casement is not shut — might I venture to ask." — • 
 
 "Speak quickly," said Matilda; "the morning draws apace: 
 should the labourers come into the fields and perceive us — 
 What wouldst thou ask ?" 
 
 "I know not how, I know not if I dare — " said the young 
 
 stranger, faltering "yet the humanity with which you have 
 
 spoken to me emboldens — Lady ! dare I trust you ?" 
 
 "Heavens !" said Matilda, "what dost thou mean ; with what 
 wouldst thou trust me ? — speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be 
 intrusted to a virtuous breast." 
 
 "I would ask," said the peasant, recollecting himself, "whether 
 
5IO HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 what I kave heard from the domestics is true, that the princess is 
 missing from the castle?" 
 
 "What imports it to thee to know ? " replied Matilda. "Thy 
 first words bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Dost 
 thou come hither to pry into the secrets of Manfred ? Adieu ! 
 I have been mistaken in thee." 
 
 Saying these words, she shut the casement hastily, without 
 giving the young man time to reply. 
 
 "I had acted more wisely," said the princess to Bianca, with 
 some sharpness, "if I had let thee converse with this peasant; 
 his inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own." 
 
 "It is not fit for me to argue with your highness," replied 
 Bianca, "but perhaps the questions I should have put to him 
 would have been more to the purpose than those you have been 
 pleased to ask him !" 
 
 "Oh ! no doubt," said Matilda, "you are a very discreet per-| 
 sonage ! may I know what you would have asked him ?" 
 
 "A bystander often sees more of the game than those that 
 play," answered Bianca. "Does your highness think, madam, 
 that his question about my Lady Isabella was the result of mere 
 curiosity ? No, no, madam ; there is more in it than you great 
 folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all the servants believe 
 this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella's escape. Now, 
 pray, madam, observe — you and I both know that my Lady 
 Isabella never much fancied the prince your brother — Well ! he 
 is killed just in the critical minute — I accuse nobody. A helmet 
 falls from the moon — so my lord, your father says ; but Lopez 
 and all the servants say that this young spark is a magician, and 
 stole it from Alfonso's tomb — " 
 
 "Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence !" said Matilda. 
 
 "Nay, madam, as you please," cried Bianca; "yet it is very 
 particular, though, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the 
 very same day, and that this young sorcerer should be found at 
 the mouth of the trap-door — I accuse nobody — but if my 
 young lord came honestly by his death — " 
 
 "Dare not, on thy duty," said Matilda, " to breathe a suspicion 
 on the purity of my dear Isabella's fame." 
 
 "Purity, or not purity," said Bianca, "gone she is — a stranger 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 511 
 
 is found that nobody knows : you question him, yourself ; he tells 
 you he is in love, or unhappy, it is the same thing ; nay, he owned 
 he was unhappy, about others ; and is anybody unhappy about 
 another, unless they are in love with them ? — and at the very 
 next word he asks, innocently, poor soul ! if my Lady Isabella is 
 missing." 
 
 "To be sure," said Matilda, "thy observations are not totally 
 without foundation — Isabella's flight amazes me : the curiosity 
 of this stranger is very particular — yet Isabella never concealed 
 a thought from me." 
 
 "So she told you," said Bianca, "to fish out your secrets — 
 but who knows, madam, but this stranger may be some prince in 
 disguise ? do, madam, let me open the window, and ask him a 
 few questions." 
 
 "No," replied Matilda, "I will ask him myself, if he knows 
 aught of Isabella : he is not worthy that I should converse 
 farther with him." 
 
 She was going to open the casement, when they heard the 
 bell ring at the postern gate of the castle, which was on the right 
 hand of the tower where Matilda lay. This prevented the prin- 
 cess from renewing the conversation with the stranger. 
 
 After continuing silent for some time, "I am persuaded," said 
 she to Bianca, " that whatever be the cause of Isabella's flight, it 
 had no unworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, 
 she must be satisfied of his fidelity and worth. I observed, did 
 not you, Bianca ? that his words were tinctured with an uncom- 
 mon infusion of piety. It was no ruffian's speech : his phrases 
 were becoming a man of gentle birth." 
 
 "I told you, madam," said Bianca, "that I was sure he was 
 some prince in disguise." 
 
 "Yet," said Matilda, "if he was privy to her escape, how will 
 you account for his not accompanying her in her flight ? — why 
 expose himself, unnecessarily and rashly, to my father's resent- 
 ment?" 
 
 "As for that, madam," replied she, "if he could get from under 
 the helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father's anger. I 
 do not doubt but he has some talisman or other about him." 
 
 "You resolve everything into magic," said Matilda; "but a 
 
512 
 
 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 man who has any intercourse with infernal spirits does not dare 
 to make use of those tremendous and holy words which he uttered. 
 Didst thou not observe with what fervour he vowed to remember 
 me to Heaven in his prayers ? — yes ; Isabella was undoubtedly 
 convinced of his piety." 
 
 "Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel 
 that consult to elope!" said Bianca. "No, no, madam: my 
 Lady Isabella is of another guess mould than that you take her 
 for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up her eyes in your company, 
 because she knows you are a saint — but when your back was 
 turned " 
 
 "You wrong her," said Matilda; "Isabella is no hypocrite: 
 she has a due sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has 
 not. On the contrary, she always combated my inclination for 
 the cloister ; and though I own the mystery she has made to me 
 of her flight confounds me, though it seems inconsistent with the 
 friendship between us, I cannot forget the disinterested warmth 
 with which she always opposed my taking the veil : she wishes 
 to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss to 
 her and my brother's children. For her sake, I will believe well 
 of this young peasant." 
 
 "Then you do think there is some liking between them," 
 said Bianca. 
 
 While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the cham- 
 ber, and told the princess that the Lady Isabella was found. 
 
 "Where?" said Matilda. 
 
 "She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas's church," replied 
 the servant: "father Jerome has brought the news himself: 
 he is below with his highness." 
 
 "Where is my mother?" said Matilda. 
 
 "She is in her own chamber, madam, and has asked for you." 
 
 Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to 
 HippoUta's apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. 
 While he was questioning her, word was brought that Jerome 
 demanded to speak with him. Manfred, Httle suspecting the 
 cause of the friar's arrival, and knowing he was employed by 
 Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending 
 to leave them together, while he pursued his search after Isabella. 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 513 
 
 "Is your business with me or the princess?" said Manfred. 
 
 "With both," replied the holy man. "The Lady Isabella " 
 
 "What of her?" interrupted Manfred, eagerly — 
 
 "Is at St. Nicholas's altar," replied Jerome. 
 
 "That is no business of Hippolita," said Manfred, with con- 
 fusion. "Let us retire to my chamber, father; and inform me 
 how she came thither." 
 
 "No, my lord," replied the good man, with an air of firmness 
 and authority that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who 
 could not help revering the saint-like virtues of Jerome: "my 
 commission is to both : and, with your highness's good liking, in 
 the presence of both I shall deliver it — but first, my lord, I 
 must interrogate the princess, whether she is acquainted with the 
 cause of the Lady Isabella's retirement from your castle !" 
 
 "No, on my soul," said Hippolita; "does Isabella charge me 
 with being privy to it ?" 
 
 "Father," interrupted Manfred, "I pay due reverence to your 
 holy profession ; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no 
 meddling priests to interfere in the affairs of my domestic. If 
 you have aught to say, attend me to my chamber — I do not use 
 to let my wife be acquainted with the secret affairs of my state : 
 they are not within a woman's province." 
 
 "My lord," said the holy man, "I am no intruder into the 
 secrets of families. My office is to promote peace, to heal divi- 
 sions, to preach repentance, and teach mankind to curb their 
 headstrong passions. I forgive your highness's uncharitable 
 apostrophe : I know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier 
 prince than Manfred. Hearken to him who speaks through my 
 organs." 
 
 Manfred trembled with rage and shame. HippoUta's coun- 
 tenance declared her astonishment and impatience to know 
 where this would end ; her silence more strongly spoke her ob- 
 servance of Manfred. 
 
 "The Lady Isabella," resumed Jerome, "commends herself to 
 both your highnesses ; she thanks both for the kindness with 
 which she has been treated in your castle : she deplores the loss of 
 your son, and her own misfortunes in not becoming the daughter 
 of such wise and noble princes, whom she shall always respect as 
 
514 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 parents ; she prays for uninterrupted union and felicity between 
 you (Manfred's colour changed) : but as it is no longer possible 
 for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent to remain in 
 sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by the certainty 
 of his death, be at liberty, with the approbation of her guardians, 
 to dispose of herself in suitable marriage." 
 
 ''I shall give no such consent," said the prince, "but insist on 
 her return to the castle without delay : I am answerable for her 
 person to her guardians, and will not brook her being in any 
 hands but my own." 
 
 "Your highness will recollect whether that can any longer be 
 proper," replied the friar. 
 
 "I want no monitor," cried Manfred, colouring; "Isabella's 
 conduct leaves room for strange suspicions — and that young 
 villain, who was at least the accomplice of her flight, if not the 
 cause of it " 
 
 "The cause!" interrupted Jerome, "was a young man the 
 cause ?" 
 
 "This is not to be borne !" cried Manfred. "Am I to be 
 bearded in my own palace by an insolent monk ? Thou art 
 privy, I guess, to their amours." 
 
 "I would pray to Heaven to clear up your uncharitable sur- 
 mises," said Jerome, "if your highness were not satisfied in your 
 conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to Heaven 
 to pardon that uncharitableness : and I implore your highness 
 to leave the princess at peace in that holy place, where she is not 
 likely to be disturbed by such vain and worldly phantasies as 
 discourses of love from any man." 
 
 " Cant not to me," said Manfred, " but return, and bring 
 the princess to her duty." 
 
 "It is my duty to prevent her return hither," said Jerome. 
 "She is where orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and 
 wiles of this world ; and nothing but a parent's authority shall 
 take her thence." 
 
 "I am her parent," cried Manfred, "and demand her." 
 
 "She wished to have you for a parent," said the friar : "but 
 Heaven, that forbad that connexion, has for ever dissolved all 
 ties betwixt you : and I announce to your highness " 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 515 
 
 "Stop! audacious man," said Manfred, "and dread my 
 displeasure." 
 
 "Holy father," said Hippolita, "it is your office to be no 
 respecter of persons : you must speak as your duty prescribes. 
 But it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleases not my lord I 
 should hear. Attend the prince to his chamber. I will retire 
 to my oratory, and pray to the blessed virgin to inspire you with 
 her holy counsels, and to restore the heart of my gracious lord 
 to its wonted peace and gentleness." 
 
 "Excellent woman !" said the friar — "My lord, I attend your 
 pleasure." 
 
 Manfred, accompanied by the friar, passed to his own apart- 
 ment, where, shutting the door, "I perceive, father," said he, 
 "that Isabella has acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear 
 my resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, 
 my own and the safety of my people, demand that I should have 
 a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from Hippolita. I have 
 made choice of Isabella. You must bring her back : and you 
 must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolita : 
 her conscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless 
 woman : her soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur 
 of this world : you can withdraw her from it entirely. Per- 
 suade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to 
 retire into a monastery : she shall endow one if she will ; and 
 she shall have the means of being as liberal to your order, as she 
 or you can wish. Thus you will divert the calamities that are 
 hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saving the prin- 
 cipality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, 
 and though the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some 
 unbecoming expressions, I honour your virtue, and wish to be 
 indebted to you for the repose of my life and the preservation of 
 my family." 
 
 "The will of Heaven be done !" said the friar ; "I am but its 
 worthless instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, 
 prince, of thy unwarrantable designs. The injuries of the vir- 
 tuous Hippolita have mounted to the throne of pity. By me 
 thou art reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of repudiating 
 her : by me thou art warned not to pursue an incestuous design 
 
5i6 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 on thy contracted daughter. Heaven, that delivered her from 
 thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thy house 
 ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue 
 to watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised friar, am able 
 to protect her from thy violence, — I, sinner as I am, and un- 
 charitably reviled by your highness as an accomphce of I know 
 not what amours, scorn the allurements with which it has pleased 
 thee to tempt mine honesty. I love my order ; I honour devout 
 souls : I respect the piety of thy princess — but I will not betray 
 the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even the cause of 
 religion by foul and sinful compliances. But, forsooth ! the 
 welfare of the state depends upon your highness having a son ! 
 Heaven mocks the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn, 
 whose house was so great, so flourishing as Manfred's ? — where 
 is young Conrad now ? My lord, I respect your tears — but I 
 mean not to check them — - let them flow, prince ! they will 
 weigh more with Heaven, towards the welfare of thy subjects, 
 than a marriage which, founded on lust or policy, could never 
 prosper. The sceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso to 
 thine, cannot be preserved by a match which the church will 
 never allow. If it is the will of the most High that Manfred's 
 name must perish ; resign yourself, my lord, to its decrees, and 
 thus deserve a crown that can never pass away. Come, my lord ; 
 I like this sorrow — let us return to the princess : she is not 
 apprised of your cruel intentions : nor' did I mean more than to 
 alarm you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what 
 efforts of love, she heard — she rejected hearing the extent of your 
 guilt. I know she longs to fold you in her arms and assure you of 
 her unalterable affection." 
 
 "Father," said the prince, "you mistake my compunction: 
 true, I honour Hippolita's virtues ; I think her a saint ; and wish 
 it were for my soul's health, to tie faster the knot that has united 
 us ; but, alas ! father, you know not the bitterest pangs ! It is 
 some time that I have had scruples on the legality of our union ; 
 Hippolita is related to me in the fourth degree. — It is true, we 
 had a dispensation : but I have been informed that she had also 
 been contracted to another. This it is that sits heavy at my 
 heart : to this state of unlawful wedlock, I impute the visitation 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 517 
 
 that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad ! Ease my con- 
 science of this burthen : dissolve our marriage, and accomplish 
 the work of godliness, which your divine exhortations have 
 commenced in my soul." 
 
 How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt when he 
 perceived this turn in the wily prince ! He trembled for Hip- 
 polita, whose ruin he saw was determined : and he feared, if 
 Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella, that his impatience 
 for a son would direct him to some other object, who might not 
 be equally proof against the temptation of Manfred's rank. 
 For some time the holy man remained absorbed in thought. At 
 length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest 
 conduct would be to prevent the prince from despairing of re- 
 covering Isabella. Her, the friar knew he could dispose, from her 
 affection to Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed 
 to him for Manfred's addresses, to second his views, till the cen- 
 sures of the church could be fulminated against a divorce. 
 
 With this intention, as if struck with the prince's scruples, he 
 at length said, "My lord, I have been pondering on what your 
 highness has said ; and if in truth it is delicacy of conscience that 
 is the real motive of your repugnance to your virtuous lady, far 
 be it from me to endeavour to harden your heart. The church is 
 an indulgent mother : unfold your griefs to her : she alone can 
 administer comfort to your soul, either by satisfying your con- 
 science, or, upon examination of your scruples, by setting you at 
 liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of continuing your 
 lineage. In the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can be brought 
 to consent — — " 
 
 Manfred, who concluded that he had either overreached 
 the good man, or that his first warmth had been but a tribute 
 paid to appearance, was overjoyed at his sudden turn, and 
 repeated the most magnificent promises, if he should succeed 
 by the friar'.s mediation. The well-meaning priest suffered 
 him to deceive himself, fully determined to traverse his views, 
 instead of seconding them. 
 
 "Since we now understand one another," resumed the prince, 
 "I expect, father, that you satisfy me in one point. Who 
 is the youth that I found in the vault? He must have been 
 
5i8 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 privy to Isabella's flight : tell me truly : is he her lover ? or is 
 he an agent for another's passion ? I have often suspected 
 Isabella's indifference to my son : a thousand circumstances 
 crowd on my mind, that confirm that suspicion. She herself 
 was so conscious of it, that, while I discoursed with her in the 
 gallery, she outran my suspicions, and endeavoured to justify 
 herself from coolness to Conrad." 
 
 The friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had 
 learned occasionally from the princess, ignorant what was 
 become of him, and not sufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity 
 of Manfred's temper, conceived that it might not be amiss to 
 sow the seeds of jealousy in his mind ; they might be turned 
 to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing the prince against 
 Isabella, if he persisted in that union ; or, by diverting his atten- 
 tion to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a vision- 
 ary intrigue, prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With 
 this unhappy policy he answered in a manner to confirm Man- 
 fred in the behef of some connexion between Isabella and the 
 youth. 
 
 The prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them 
 into a blaze, fell into a rage at the idea of what the friar sug- 
 gested. "I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue," cried 
 he, and quitting Jerome abruptly, with a command to remain 
 there till his return, he hastened to the great hall of the castle, 
 and ordered the peasant to be brought before him. 
 
 "Thou hardened young impostor," said the prince, as soon 
 as he saw the youth; "what becomes of thy boasted veracity 
 now ? It was Providence, was it, and the light of the moon, 
 that discovered the lock of the trap-door to thee ? Tell me, 
 audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast been 
 acquainted with the princess — and take care to answer with 
 less equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall 
 wring the truth from thee." 
 
 The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the 
 princess was discovered, and concluding that anything he should 
 say could no longer be of service or detriment to her, replied, 
 "I am no impostor, my lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious 
 language. I answered to every question your highness put to 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 519 
 
 me last night, with the same veracity that I shall speak now : 
 and that will not be from fear of your tortures, but because my 
 soul abhors a falsehood. Please to repeat your questions, my 
 lord ; I am ready to give you all the satisfaction in my power." 
 
 "You know my questions," replied the prince, "and only 
 want time to prepare an evasion. Speak directly : who art 
 thou? and how long hast thou been known to the princess?" 
 
 "I am a labourer at the next village," said the peasant; 
 "my name is Theodore. The princess found me in the vault 
 last night : before that hour I never was in her presence." 
 
 "I may believe as much or as little as I please of this," said 
 Manfred ; "but I will hear thy own story, before I examine into 
 the truth of it. Tell me, what reason did the princess give thee 
 for making her escape? thy life depends on thy answer." 
 
 "She told me," replied Theodore, "that she was on the brink 
 of destruction, and that, if she could not escape from the castle, 
 she was in danger, in a few moments, of being made miserable 
 for ever." 
 
 "And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl's report," said 
 Manfred, "thou didst hazard my displeasure?" 
 
 "I fear no man's displeasure," said Theodore, "when a woman 
 in distress puts herself under my protection." 
 
 During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment 
 of Hippolita. At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat 
 was a boarded gallery, with latticed windows, through which 
 Matilda and Bianca were to pass. Hearing her father's voice, 
 and seeing the servants assembled around him, she stopped to 
 learn the occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention : 
 the steady and composed manner in which he answered, and the 
 gallantry of his last reply, which were the first words she heard 
 distinctly, interested her in his favour. His person was noble, 
 handsome, and commanding, even in that situation : but his 
 countenance soon engrossed her whole care. 
 
 "Heavens ! Bianca," said the princess, softly, "do I dream? 
 or is not that youth the exact rememblance of Alfonso's picture 
 in the gallery?" She could say no more, for her father's voice 
 grew louder at every word. 
 
 "This bravado," said he, "surpasses all thy former insolence. 
 
520 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 Thou shalt experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. 
 Seize him," continued Manfred, "and bind him — the first news 
 the princess hears of her champion shall be that he has lost his 
 head for her sake !" 
 
 "The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me," said 
 Theodore, "convinces me that I have done a good deed in deliver- 
 ing the princess from thy tyranny. May she be happy, what- 
 ever becomes of me!" 
 
 "This is a lover!" cried Manfred, in a rage; "a peasant 
 within sight of death is not animated by such sentiments. 
 Tell me, tell me, rash boy, who thou art, or the rack shall force 
 the secret from thee." 
 
 "Thou hast threatened me with death already," said the 
 youth, "for the truth I have told thee: if that is all the en- 
 couragement I am to expect for sincerity, I am not tempted 
 to indulge thy vain curiosity farther." 
 
 "Then thou wilt not speak?" said Manfred. 
 
 "I will not," replied he. 
 
 "Bear him away into the court yard," said Manfred ; "I will 
 see his head this instant severed from his body." 
 
 Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, 
 and cried, "Help ! help ! the princess is dead !" 
 
 Manfred started at this ejaculation, and demanded what was 
 the matter ! — the young peasant, who heard it too, was struck 
 with horror, and asked eagerly the same question ; but Manfred 
 ordered him to be hurried into the court, and kept there for 
 execution, till he had informed himself of Bianca's shrieks. When 
 he learned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic, 
 and ordering Matilda to be carried to her apartment, he rushed 
 into the court, and calling for one of his guards, bade Theodore 
 kneel down and prepare to receive the fatal blow. 
 
 The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a 
 resignation that touched every heart but Manfred's. He 
 wished earnestly to know the meaning of the words he had 
 heard relating to the princess ; but fearing to exasperate the 
 tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon he deigned 
 to ask, was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, 
 and make his peace with Heaven. 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 
 
 521 
 
 Manfred, who hoped, by the confessor's means, to come 
 at the youth's history, readily granted his request ; and being 
 convinced that father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered 
 him to be called, to shrieve the prisoner. The holy man, who 
 had little foreseen the catastrophe that his imprudence occa- 
 sioned, fell on his knees to the prince, and abjured him, in the 
 most solemn manner, not to shed innocent blood. He accused 
 himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured 
 to exculpate the youth, and left no method untried to soften the 
 tyrant's rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by 
 Jerome's intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect 
 he had been imposed upon by both, commanded the friar to do 
 his duty, telling him he would not allow the prisoner many 
 minutes for confession. 
 
 "Nor do I ask many, my lord," said the unhappy young 
 man; "my sins, thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor 
 exceed, what might be expected at my years. Dry your tears, 
 good father, and let us dispatch : this is a bad world, nor have 
 I cause to leave it with regret." 
 
 "Oh! wretched youth!" said Jerome; "how canst thou 
 bear the sight of me with patience ? I am thy murderer ! — it 
 is I have brought this dismal hour upon thee ! " 
 
 "I forgive thee from my soul," said the youth, "as I hope 
 Heaven will pardon me. Hear my confession, father, and give 
 me thy blessing." 
 
 "How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought," said 
 Jerome. "Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy 
 foes — and canst thou forgive that impious man there?" 
 
 "I can," said Theodore; "I do." 
 
 "And does not this touch thee ! cruel prince ?" said the friar. 
 
 "I sent for thee to confess him," said Manfred, sternly, "not 
 to plead for him. Thou didst first incense me against him — 
 his blood be upon thy head !" 
 
 "It will ! it will !" said the good man, in an agony of sorrow. 
 "Thou and I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is 
 going ! " 
 
 "Dispatch!" said Manfred: "I am no more to be moved 
 by the whining of priests than by the shrieks of women." 
 
52 2 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 "What!" said the youth, "is it possible that my fate could 
 have occasioned what I heard ! is the princess then again in thy 
 power?" 
 
 "Thou dost but remember me of my wrath," said Manfred: 
 "prepare thee, for this moment is thy last." 
 
 The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched 
 with the sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spec- 
 tators, as well as into the friar, suppressed his emotions, and 
 putting off his doublet, and unbuttoning his collar, knelt down 
 to his prayers. As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below his 
 shoulder, and discovered the mark of a bloody arrow. 
 
 "Gracious heaven!" cried the holy man, starting, "what 
 do I see ! It is my child ! my Theodore !" 
 
 The passions that ensued must be conceived ; they cannot be 
 painted. The tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder 
 rather than stopped with joy. They seemed to inquire in the 
 eyes of their lord what they ought to feel. Surprise, doubt, 
 tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the countenance of 
 the youth. He received, with modest submission, the effusion 
 of the old man's tears and embraces ; yet afraid of giving a loose 
 to hope, and suspecting from what had passed, the infiexibihty 
 of Manfred's temper, he cast a glance towards the prince, as if 
 to say, Canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this ? 
 
 Manfred's heart was capable of being touched. He forgot 
 his anger in his astonishment ; yet his pride forbade his owning 
 himself affected. He even doubted whether this discovery was 
 not a contrivance of the friar to save the youth. 
 
 "What may this mean ?" said he : "how can he be thy son ? 
 Is it consistent with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow 
 a peasant's offspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours!" 
 
 "Oh, God!" said the holy man, "dost thou question his 
 being mine ? could I feel the anguish I do, if I were not his 
 father ? Spare him ! good prince, spare him ! and revile me as 
 thou pleasest." 
 
 "Spare him! spare him!" cried the attendants, "for this 
 good man's sake !" 
 
 "Peace ! " said Manfred, sternly ; " I must know more, ere I am 
 disposed to pardon. — A saint's bastard may be no saint himself." 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 523 
 
 "Injurious lord !" said Theodore, "add not insult to cruelty. 
 If I am this venerable man's son, though no prince as thou art, 
 know the blood that flows in my veins — " 
 
 "Yes," said the friar, interrupting him, "his blood is noble, 
 nor is he that abject thing, my lord, you speak him. He is my 
 lawful son : and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient 
 than that of Falconara — but alas ! my lord, what is blood ! 
 what is nobility ! We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. 
 It is piety alone that can distinguish us from the dust whence we 
 sprung, and whither we must return." 
 
 "Truce to your sermon," said Manfred; "you forget you are 
 no longer friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me 
 know your history ; you will have time to moralise hereafter, 
 if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy 
 criminal there." 
 
 "Mother of God !" said the friar, "is it possible my lord can 
 refuse a father the life of his only, his long-lost child ! Trample 
 me, my lord, scorn, afilict me, accept my life for his, but spare 
 
 my son 
 
 "Thou canst feel, then," said Manfred, "what it is to lose an 
 only son ? — A little hour ago, thou didst preach up resignation 
 to me : my house, if Fate so please, must perish — but the Count 
 of Falconara " 
 
 "Alas! my lord," said Jerome, "I confess I have offended; 
 but aggravate not an old man's sufferings : I boast not of my 
 family, nor think of such vanities — it is nature that pleads 
 for this boy ; it is the memory of the dear woman that bore him 
 — -is she, Theodore, is she dead?" 
 
 "Her soul has long been with the blessed," said Theodore. 
 
 "Oh ! how !" cried Jerome, "tell me — no — she is happy ! 
 thou art all my care now ! Most dread lord ! will you — will 
 you grant me my poor boy's life? " 
 
 "Return to thy convent," answered Manfred; "conduct the 
 princess hither; obey me in what else thou knowest, and I 
 promise thee the life of thy son." 
 
 "Oh ! my lord," said Jerome, "is my honesty the price I must 
 pay for this dear youth's safety?" 
 
 "For me !" cried Theodore; "let me die a thousand deaths, 
 
524 
 
 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 rather than stain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would 
 exact of thee ? Is the princess still safe from his power ? pro- 
 tect her, thou venerable old man : and let all the weight of his 
 wrath fall on me." 
 
 Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth ; 
 and ere Manfred could reply, the trampling of horses was heard, 
 and a brazen trumpet, which hung without the gate of the castle, 
 was suddenly sounded. At the same instant the sable plumes on 
 the enchanted helmet, which still remained at the other end of 
 the court, were tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as 
 if bowed by some invisible wearer. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Manfred's heart misgave him when he beheld the plumage 
 on the miraculous casque shaken in concert with the sounding 
 of the brazen trumpet. "Father !" said he to Jerome, whom he 
 now ceased to treat as Count of Falconara, "what mean these 
 portents ? If I have offended — " 
 
 The plumes were shaken with greater violence than before. 
 "Unhappy prince that I am !" cried Manfred — "Holy father ! 
 will you not assist me with your prayers?" 
 
 "My lord," replied Jerome, "Heaven is no doubt displeased 
 with your mockery of its servants. Submit yourself to the 
 church : and cease to persecute her ministers. Dismiss this 
 innocent youth ; and learn to respect the holy character I wear ; 
 Heaven will not be trifled with : you see " — the trumpet sounded 
 again. 
 
 "I acknowledge I have been too hasty," said Manfred. 
 "Father, do you go to the wicket, and demand who is at the 
 gate." 
 
 "Do you grant me the life of Theodore?" replied the friar. 
 
 "I do," said Manfred; "but inquire who is without !" 
 
 Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of 
 tears, that spoke the fulness of his soul. 
 
 "You promised to go to the gate," said Manfred. 
 
 "I thought," replied the friar, "your highness would excuse 
 my thanking you first in this tribute of my heart." 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 525 
 
 *'Go, dearest sir," said Theodore, ''obey the prince : I do not 
 deserve that you should delay his satisfaction for me." 
 
 Jerome inquiring who was without, was answered, "A herald." 
 
 "From whom?" said he. 
 
 "From the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre," said the herald; 
 "and I must speak with the usurper of Otranto." 
 
 Jerome returned to the prince, and did not fail to repeat the 
 message in the very words it had been uttered. The first sounds 
 struck Manfred with terror ; but when he heard himself styled 
 usurper, his rage rekindled, and all his courage revived. 
 
 "Usurper ! — insolent villain !" cried he, "who dares to ques- 
 tion my title ? Retire, father : this is no business for monks. 
 I will meet this presumptuous man myself. Go to your con- 
 vent, and prepare the princess's return : your son shall be a hos- 
 tage for your fidelity; his life depends upon your obedience." 
 
 "Good heaven ! my lord," cried Jerome, "your highness did 
 but this instant freely pardon my child, — have you so soon 
 forgot the interposition of Heaven?" 
 
 "Heaven," replied Manfred, "does not send heralds to ques- 
 tion the title of a lawful prince ; — I doubt whether it even 
 notifies its will through friars ; — but that is your affair — 
 not mine. At present you know my pleasure, and it is not a 
 saucy herald that shall save your son, if you do not return with 
 the princess." 
 
 It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred com- 
 manded him to be conducted to the postern gate, and shut 
 out from the castle : and he ordered some of his attendants 
 to carry Theodore to the top of the Black Tower, and guard 
 him strictly; scarce permitting the father and son to exchange 
 a hasty embrace at parting. He then withdrew to the hall, 
 and, seating himself in princely state, ordered the herald to be 
 admitted to his presence. 
 
 "Well ! thou insolent," said the prince; "what wouldst thou 
 with me?" 
 
 "I come," replied he, "to thee, Manfred, usurper of the prin- 
 cipality of Otranto, from the renowned and invincible knight, 
 the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre: in the name of his lord, 
 Frederick Marquis of Vicenza, he demands the Lady Isabella, 
 
526 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 daughter of that prince, whom thou hast basely and traitorously 
 got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians during his 
 absence ; and he requires thee to resign the principality of 
 Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said lord Frederick, 
 the nearest of blood to the last rightful lord Alfonso the Good. 
 If thou dost not instantly comply with these just demands, he 
 defies thee to single combat to the last extremity." And so 
 saying, the herald cast down his warder. 
 
 "And where is this braggart who sends thee?" said Manfred. 
 
 "At the distance of a league," said the herald: "he comes 
 to make good his lord's claim against thee, as he is a true knight, 
 and thou an usurper and a ravisher." 
 
 Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it 
 was not his interest to provoke the Marquis. He knew how 
 well-founded the claim of Frederick was ; nor was this the first 
 time he had heard of it. Frederick's ancestors had assumed 
 the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of Alfonso the 
 Good without issue : but Manfred, his father, and grandfather, 
 had been too powerful for the house of Vicenza to dispossess 
 them. Frederick, a martial and amorous young prince, married 
 a beautiful young lady, of whom he was enamoured, and who had 
 died in child-bed of Isabella. Her death affected him so much 
 that he had taken the cross, and gone to the Holy Land, where 
 he was wounded in an engagement against the infidels, made 
 prisoner, and reported to be dead. When the news reached 
 Manfred's ears, he bribed the guardians of the Lady Isabella 
 to deliver her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad ; by which 
 alliance he had proposed to unite the claims of the two houses. 
 This motive, on Conrad's death, had cooperated to make him so 
 suddenly resolve on espousing her himself, and the same re- 
 flection determined him now to endeavour at obtaining the 
 consent of Frederick to his marriage. A like policy inspired 
 him with the thought of inviting Frederick's champion into 
 his castle, lest he should be informed of Isabella's flight, which 
 he strictly enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the 
 knight's retinue. 
 
 "Herald," said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these 
 reflections, "return to thy master, and tell him, ere we Uqui- 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 
 
 527 
 
 date our differences by the sword, Manfred would hold some 
 converse with him. Bid him welcome to my castle, where, by 
 my faith, as I am a true knight, he shall have courteous recep- 
 tion, and full security for himself and followers. If we cannot 
 adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart 
 in safety, and shall have full satisfaction, according to the laws 
 of arms, so help me God, and his holy Trinity !" The herald 
 made three obeisances, and retired. 
 
 During this interview, Jerome's mind was agitated by a thou- 
 sand contrary passions. He trembled for the life of his son, 
 and his first thought was to persuade Isabella to return to the 
 castle. Yet he was scarce less alarmed at the thought of her 
 union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita's unbounded sub- 
 mission to the will of her lord ; and though he did not doubt 
 but that he could alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, 
 if he could get access to her; yet, should Manfred discover 
 that the obstruction came from him, it might be equally fatal 
 to Theodore. He was impatient to know whence came the 
 herald, who with so little management had questioned the title 
 of Manfred ; yet he did not dare absent himself from the con- 
 vent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight be imputed to 
 him. He returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain 
 on what conduct to resolve. A monk, who met him in the porch, 
 and observed his melancholy air, said, "Alas ! brother, is it then 
 true, that we have lost our excellent princess, Hippolita?" 
 
 The holy man started, and cried, "What meanest thou, 
 brother? I came this instant from the castle, and left her in 
 perfect health." 
 
 "Martelli," replied the other friar, "passed by the convent 
 but a quarter of an hour ago, on his way from the castle, and 
 reported that her highness was dead. All our brethren are gone 
 to the chapel, to pray for her happy transit to a better life, and 
 willed me to wait thy arrival. They know thy holy attachment 
 to that good lady, and are anxious for the affliction it will cause 
 in thee — indeed, we have all reason to weep ; she was a mother 
 to our house. But this life is but a pilgrimage ; we must not 
 murmur ; we shall all follow her ! — may our end be like hers." 
 
 "Good brother, thou dreamest," said Jerome; "I tell thee 
 
528 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 I come from the castle, and left the princess well. Where is 
 the Lady Isabella?" 
 
 ''Poor gentlewoman !" replied the friar; "I told her the sad 
 news, and offered her spiritual comfort : I reminded her of the 
 transitory condition of mortality, and advised her to take the 
 veil : I quoted the example of the holy princess Sanchia of 
 Arragon." 
 
 "Thy zeal was laudable," said Jerome, impatiently; "but 
 at present it is unnecessary : Hippolita is well — at least, I trust 
 in the Lord she is ; I heard nothing to the contrary ; — yet me- 
 thinks the prince's earnestness — " 
 
 "Well, brother, but where is the Lady Isabella?" 
 
 "I know not," said the friar; "she wept much, and said she 
 would retire to her chamber." 
 
 Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the prin- 
 cess ; but she was not in her chamber. He inquired of the 
 domestics of the convent, but could learn no news of her. He 
 searched in vain throughout the monastery and the church, 
 and despatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get 
 intelligence if she had been seen ; but to no purpose. Nothing 
 could equal the good man's perplexity. He judged that Isabella, 
 suspecting Manfred of having precipitated his wife's death, had 
 taken the alarm, and withdrawn herself to some more secret 
 place of concealment. This new flight would probably carry 
 the prince's fury to the height. The report of Hippolita's death, 
 thought it seemed almost incredible, increased his consternation ; 
 and though Isabella's escape bespoke her aversion of Manfred 
 for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from if, while it 
 endangered the life of his son. He determined to return to the 
 castle, and made several of his brethren accompany him to attest 
 his innocence to Manfred, and, if necessary, join their interces- 
 sion with his, for Theodore. 
 
 The prince, in the mean time, had passed into the court, and 
 ordered the gates of the castle to be flung open for the reception 
 of the stranger knight and his train. In a few minutes the 
 cavalcade arrived. First came two harbingers, with wands ; 
 next a herald, followed by two pages and two trumpets ; then 
 a hundred foot-guards : these were attended by as many horse ; 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 529 
 
 after them fifty footmen, clothed in scarlet and black, the colours 
 of the knight ; then a led horse ; two heralds on each side of a 
 gentleman on horseback, bearing a banner with the arms of 
 Vicenza and Otranto quarterly — a circumstance that much 
 offended Manfred ; but he stifled his resentment. Two more 
 pages ; the knight's confessor telling his beads ; fifty more foot- 
 men, clad as before ; two knights habited in complete armour, 
 their beavers down, comrades to the principal knight ; the 
 esquires of the two knights, carrying their shields and devices ; 
 the knight's own esquire ; a hundred gentlemen, bearing an enor- 
 mous sword, and seeming to faint under the weight of it ; the 
 knight himself on a chestnut steed, in complete armour, his 
 lance in the rest, his face entirely concealed by his vizor, which 
 was surmounted by a large plume of scarlet and black feathers ; 
 fifty foot-guards with drums and trumpets closed the proces- 
 sion, which wheeled off to the right and left, to make room for 
 the principal knight. 
 
 As soon as he approached the gate, he stopped, and the 
 herald advancing, read again the words of the challenge. Man- 
 fred's eyes were fixed on the gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed 
 to attend to the cartel : but his attention was soon diverted by 
 a tempest of wind that rose behind him. He turned and beheld 
 the plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the same extraor- 
 dinary manner as before. It required intrepidity like Man- 
 fred's not to sink under a concurrence of circumstances that 
 seemed to announce his fate. Yet, scorning in the presence of 
 strangers to betray the courage he had always manifested, he 
 said boldly, " Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. 
 If thou art of mortal mould, thy valour shall meet its equal, 
 and if thou art a true knight, thou will scorn to employ sorcery 
 to carry thy point. Be these omens from heaven or hell, Man- 
 fred trusts to the righteousness of his cause, and to the aid of 
 St. Nicholas, who has ever protected his house. Alight, Sir 
 Knight, and repose thyself. To-morrow thou shalt have a 
 fair field ; and Heaven befriend the juster side." 
 
 The knight made no reply ; but, dismounting, was conducted 
 by Manfred to the great hall of the castle. As they traversed 
 the court, the knight stopped to gaze on the miraculous casque : 
 
530 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 and, kneeling down, seemed to pray inwardly for some minutes. 
 Rising, he made a sign to the prince to lead on. As soon as they 
 entered the hall, Manfred proposed to the stranger to disarm, 
 but the knight shook his head in token of refusal. 
 
 "Sir Knight," said Manfred, "this is not courteous; but by 
 my good faith I will not cross thee ; nor shalt thou have cause 
 to complain of the Prince of Otranto. No treachery is designed 
 on my part ; I hope none is intended on thine ; here, take my 
 gage (giving him his ring) ; your friends and you shall enjoy the 
 laws of hospitality. Rest here until refreshments are brought : 
 I will but give orders for the accommodation of your train, and 
 return to you." 
 
 The three knights bowed, as accepting his courtesy. Man- 
 fred directed the stranger's retinue to be conducted to an adjacent 
 hospital, founded by the princess Hippolita for the reception of 
 pilgrims. As they made the circuit of the court to return 
 towards the gate, the gigantic sword burst from the supporters, 
 and, falling to the ground opposite to the helmet, remained 
 immoveable. Manfred, almost hardened to preternatural ap- 
 pearances, surmounted the shock of this new prodigy ; and, 
 returning to the hall, where by this time the feast was ready, he 
 invited his silent guests to take their places. Manfred, however 
 ill his heart was at ease, endeavoured to inspire the company 
 with mirth. He put several questions to them, but was an- 
 swered only by signs. They raised their vizors but sufficiently 
 to feed themselves, and that sparingly. 
 
 "Sirs," said the prince, "ye are the first guests I ever treated 
 within these walls who scorned to hold any intercourse with me ; 
 nor has it oft been customary, I ween, for princes to hazard their 
 state and dignity against strangers and mutes. You say you 
 come in the name of Frederick of Vicenza ; I have ever heard 
 that he was a gallant and courteous knight ; nor would he, I am 
 bold to say, think it beneath him to mix in social converse with 
 a prince that is his equal, and not unknown by deeds in arms 
 — Still ye are silent — well ! be it as it may — by the laws of 
 hospitality and chivalry ye are masters under this roof : ye shall 
 do your pleasure — but come, give me a goblet of wine ; you 
 will not refuse to pledge me to the healths of your fair mistresses." 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 53 1 
 
 The principal knight sighed and crossed himself, and was 
 rising from the board. 
 
 "Sir Knight," said Manfred, "what I said was but in sport: 
 I shall constrain you in nothing : use your good liking. Since 
 mirth is not your mood, let us be sad. Business may hit your 
 fancies better : let us withdraw ; and hear if what I have to 
 unfold may be better relished than the vain efforts I have made 
 for your pastime." 
 
 Manfred then, conducting the three knights into an inner 
 chamber, shut the door, and inviting them to be seated, began 
 thus, addressing himself to the chief personage. 
 
 "You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the 
 Marquis of Vicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella, his 
 daughter, who has been contracted in the face of the holy church 
 to my son, by the consent of her legal guardians : and to require 
 me to resign my dominions to your lord, who gives himself 
 for the nearest of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul God rest ! 
 I shall speak to the latter article of your demand first. You 
 must know, your lord knows, that I enjoy the principality of 
 Otranto from my father, Don Manuel, as he received it from 
 his father, Don Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying 
 childless in the Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to my 
 grandfather, Don Ricardo, in consideration of his faithful 
 services." 
 
 The stranger shook his head. 
 
 "Sir Knight," said Manfred warmly, "Ricardo was a valiant 
 and upright man ; he was a pious man ; witness his munificent 
 foundation of the adjoining church and two convents. He was 
 pecuHarly patronized by St. Nicholas — my grandfather was 
 incapable — I say, sir, Don Ricardo was incapable — excuse me, 
 your interruption has disordered me — I venerate the memory 
 of my grandfather — well ! sirs, he held this estate ; he held it 
 by his good sword and by the favour of St. Nicholas — so did 
 my father ; and so, sirs, will I, come what will. — But Frederick, 
 your lord, is nearest in blood — I have consented to put my title 
 to the issue of the sword — does that imply a vicious title ? — 
 I might have asked, where is Frederick your lord ? Report speaks 
 him dead in captivity. You say, your actions say, he Hves — I 
 
532 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 question it not — I might, sirs, I might — but I do not. Other 
 princes would bid Frederick take his inheritance by force, if he 
 can : they would not stake their dignity on a single combat ; 
 they would not submit it to the decision of unknown mutes ! 
 — pardon me, gentlemen, I am too warm : but suppose your- 
 selves in my situation : as ye are stout knights, would it not 
 move your choler to have your own and the honour of your an- 
 cestors called in question ? — But to the point. You require 
 
 me to deliver up the Lady Isabella Sirs, I must ask if ye 
 
 are authorised to receive her?" 
 
 The knight nodded. 
 
 "Receive her," continued Manfred; "well! you are author- 
 ised to receive her but, gentle knight, may I ask if you have 
 
 full powers?" 
 
 The knight nodded. 
 
 "It is well," said Manfred : "then hear what I have to offer. 
 Ye see, gentlemen, before you the most unhappy of men ! (he 
 began to weep). Afford me your compassion : I am entitled 
 to it ; indeed I am. Know I have lost my only hope, my joy, 
 the support of my house — Conrad died yesterday morning. " 
 The knights discovered signs of surprise. "Yes, sirs, fate has 
 disposed of my son. Isabella is at liberty." 
 
 "Do you, then, restore her !" cried the chief knight, breaking 
 silence. 
 
 "Afford me your patience," said Manfred. "I rejoice to 
 find, by this testimony of your good- will, that this matter may 
 be adjusted without blood. It is no interest of mine dictates 
 what little I have farther to say. Ye behold in me a man dis- 
 gusted with the world : the loss of my son has weaned me from 
 earthly cares. Power and greatness have no longer any charms 
 in my eyes. I wished to transmit the sceptre I had received 
 from my ancestors with honour to my son — but that is over ! 
 Life itself is so indifferent to me that I accepted your defiance 
 with joy : a good knight cannot go to the grave with more 
 satisfaction then when falling in his vocation : whatever is the 
 will of Heaven, I submit to : for alas ! sirs, I am a man of many 
 sorrows. Manfred is no object of envy — but, no doubt, you 
 are acquainted with my story." 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 533 
 
 The knight made signs of ignorance, and seemed curious to 
 have Manfred proceed. 
 
 "Is it possible, sirs," continued the prince, "that my story 
 should be a secret to you ? — have you heard nothing relating 
 to me and the Princess Hippolita?" They shook their heads. 
 "No ! thus then, sirs, it is. You think me ambitious : ambition, 
 alas, is composed of more rugged materials. If I were ambitious, 
 I should not for so many years have been a prey to all the hell 
 of conscientious scruples — But I weary your patience ; I will 
 be brief. Know, then, that I have long been troubled in mind 
 on my union with the Princess Hippolita — Oh ! sirs, if ye were 
 acquainted with that excellent woman ! if ye knew that I adore 
 her like a mistress, and cherish her as a friend — but man was 
 not born for perfect happiness ! — she shares my scruples, and 
 with her consent I have brought this matter before the church, 
 for we are related within the forbidden degrees. I expect every 
 hour the definite sentence that must separate us for ever — I 
 am sure you feel for me — I see you do — pardon these tears !" 
 
 The knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would 
 end. 
 
 Manfred continued: "The death of my son betiding while 
 my soul was under this anxiety, I thought of nothing but resign- 
 ing my dominions, and retiring for ever from the sight of man- 
 kind. My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who would 
 be tender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady Isabella, who 
 is dear to me as my own blood. I was willing to restore the line 
 of Alfonso, even in his most distant kindred : and though, par- 
 don me, I am satisfied it was his will that Ricardo's lineage 
 should take place of his own relations, yet where was I to search 
 for those relations ? I knew of none but Frederick, your lord ; 
 he was a captive to the infidels, or dead ; and were he living, and 
 at home, would he quit the flourishing state of Vicenza for the 
 inconsiderable principality of Otranto ? If he would not, could 
 I bear the thought of seeing a hard, unfeehng viceroy set over 
 my poor, faithful people ? — for, sirs, I love my people, and, 
 thank heaven, am beloved by them — But ye will ask whither 
 tends this long discourse ? — briefly then, thus, sirs. Heaven 
 in your arrival seems to point out a remedy for these difficulties 
 
534 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 and my misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is at liberty; I shall 
 soon be so — I would submit to any thing for the good of my 
 people — were it not the best, the only way to extinguish the 
 feuds between our families, if I was to take the Lady Isabella 
 to wife ? — You start — but though Hippolita's virtues will 
 ever be dear to me, a prince must not consider himself; he is 
 born for his people." 
 
 A servant at that instant entering the chamber, apprised 
 Manfred that Jerome and several of his brethren demanded 
 immediate access to him. 
 
 The prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that 
 the friar would discover to the strangers that Isabella had 
 taken sanctuary, was going to forbid Jerome's entrance. But 
 recollecting that he was certainly arrived to notify the princess's 
 return, Manfred began to excuse himself to the knights for leav- 
 ing them for a few moments, but was prevented by the arrival 
 of the friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded them for their 
 intrusion, and would have forced them back from the chamber, 
 but Jerome was too much agitated to be repulsed. He declared 
 aloud the flight of Isabella, with protestations of his own inno- 
 cence. Manfred, distracted at the news, and not less at its 
 coming to the knowledge of the strangers, uttered nothing but 
 incoherent sentences ; now upbraiding the friar, now apologising 
 to the knights, earnest to know what was become of Isabella, 
 yet equally afraid of their knowing ; impatient to pursue her, 
 yet dreading to have them join in the pursuit. He offered to 
 dispatch messengers in quest of her, but the chief knight, no 
 longer keeping silence, reproached Manfred in bitter terms for 
 his dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the cause of 
 Isabella's first absence from the castle. Manfred, casting a stern 
 look at Jerome, implying a command of silence, pretended that 
 on Conrad's death he had placed her in sanctuary, until he could 
 determine how to dispose of her. Jerome, who trembled for 
 his son's hfe, did not dare contradict this falsehood, but one of 
 his brethren, not under the same anxiety, declared that she had 
 fled to their church the preceding night. The prince in vain 
 endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmed him 
 with shame and confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 535 
 
 the contradictions he heard, and more than half persuaded that 
 Manfred had secreted the princess, notwithstanding the concern 
 he expressed at her flight, rushing to the door, said, "Thou traitor 
 prince ! Isabella shall be found." 
 
 Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but the other knights 
 assisting their comrade, he broke from the prince, and hastened 
 into the court, demanding his attendants. Manfred finding it 
 vain to divert him from the pursuit, offered to accompany him, 
 and summoning his attendants and taking Jerome and some of 
 the friars to guide them, they issued from the castle ; Manfred 
 privately giving orders to have the knight's company secured, 
 while to the knight he affected to dispatch a messenger to require 
 their assistance. 
 
 The company had no sooner quitted the castle, than Matilda, 
 who felt herself deeply interested for the young peasant, since 
 she had seen him condemned to death in the hall, and whose 
 thoughts had been taken up with concerting measures to save 
 him, was informed by some of the female attendants, that Man- 
 fred had dispatched all his men various ways in pursuit of Isa- 
 bella. He had, in his hurry, given this order in general terms, 
 not meaning to extend it to the guard he had set upon Theodore, 
 but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to obey so peremp- 
 tory a prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love of novelty 
 to join in any precipitate chase, had, to a man, left the castle. 
 Matilda disengaged herself from her women, stole up to the 
 Black Tower, and unbolting the door, presented herself to the 
 astonished Theodore. 
 
 "Young man," said she, "though filial duty and womanly 
 modesty condemn the step I am taking, yet holy charity, sur- 
 mounting all other ties, justifies this act. Fly ; the doors of 
 thy prison are open : my father and his domestics are absent, 
 but they may soon return ; begone in safety, and may the angels 
 of heaven direct thy course ! " 
 
 "Thou art surely one of those angels!" said the enraptured 
 Theodore: "none but a blessed saint could speak, could act 
 — could look like thee ! — May I not know the name of my di- 
 vine protectress ? Methought thou namedst thy father : is it 
 possible? — ^ can Manfred's blood feel holy pity? Lovely lady, 
 
536 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 thou answerest not ; — but how art thou here thyself ? why dost 
 thou neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch 
 like Theodore ? Let us fly together : the Hfe thou bestowest 
 shall be dedicated to thy defence." 
 
 "Alas ! thou mistakest," said Matilda, sighing; "I am Man- 
 fred's daughter; but no danger awaits me." 
 
 "Amazement!" said Theodore; "but last night I blessed 
 myself for yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so 
 charitably returns me now." 
 
 "Still thou art in error," said the princess; "but this is 
 no time for explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my 
 power to save thee : should my father return, thou and I both 
 should, indeed, have cause to tremble." 
 
 "How," said Theodore; "thinkest thou, charming maid, 
 that I will accept of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to 
 thee? — better I endure a thousand deaths." 
 
 "I run no risk," said Matilda, "but by thy delay. Depart, 
 it cannot be known that I assisted thy flight." 
 
 "Swear, by the saints above," said Theodore, "that thou canst 
 not be suspected ; else here I vow to await whatever can await 
 me." 
 
 "Oh! thou art too generous," said Matilda; "but rest as- 
 sured that no suspicion can alight on me." 
 
 "Give me thy beauteous hand, in token that thou dost not 
 deceive me," said Theodore, "and let me bathe it with the warm 
 tears of gratitude." 
 
 "Forbear," said the princess, "this must not be." 
 
 "Alas!" said Theodore, "I have never known but calamity 
 until this hour ; perhaps, shall never know other fortune again : 
 suffer the chaste raptures of holy gratitude ; it is my soul would 
 print its effusions on thy hand." 
 
 "Forbear, and begone," said Matilda; "how would Isabella 
 approve of seeing thee at my feet ? " 
 
 "Who is Isabella?" said the young man, with surprise. 
 
 "Ah me ! I fear," said the princess, "I am serving a deceitful 
 one; — hast thou forgotten thy curiosity this morning?" 
 
 "Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self, seems an 
 emanation of divinity," said Theodore; "but thy words are 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 537 
 
 dark and mysterious, speak, lady ; speak to thy servant's 
 
 comprehension . ' ' 
 
 "Thou understandest but too well!" said Matilda: "but 
 once more I command thee to be gone : thy blood, which I may 
 preserve, will be on my head, if I waste the time in vain dis- 
 course." 
 
 "I go, lady," said Theodore, "because it is thy will, and be- 
 cause I would not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow 
 to the grave. Say but, adored lady, that I have thy gentle pity." 
 
 "Stay," said Matilda; "I will conduct thee to the subter- 
 raneous vault by which Isabella escaped ; it will lead thee to the 
 church of St. Nicholas, where thou mayest take sanctuary." 
 
 "What," said Theodore, "was it another, and not thy lovely 
 self, that I assisted to find the subterraneous passage?" 
 
 "It was," said Matilda; "but ask no more: I trerrible to see 
 thee still abide here: fly to the sanctuary." 
 
 "To sanctuary?" said Theodore; "no, princess; sanctuaries 
 are for helpless damsels, or for criminals. Theodore's soul is 
 free from guilt, nor will wear the appearance of it. Give me a 
 sword, lady, and thy father shall learn that Theodore scorns 
 an ignominious flight." 
 
 "Rash youth !" said Matilda, "thou wouldst not dare to lift 
 thy presumptuous arm against the prince of Otranto?" 
 
 "Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not," said Theodore; 
 "excuse me, lady, I had forgotten — • — but could I gaze on thee, 
 
 and remember thou art sprung from the tyrant Manfred ! 
 
 but he is thy father, and from this moment my injuries are buried 
 in oblivion." 
 
 A deep and hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, 
 startled the princess and Theodore. 
 
 "Good heavens ! we are overheard !" said the princess. 
 
 They listened, but perceiving no farther noise, they both 
 concluded it the effect of pent-up vapours; and the princess, 
 preceding Theodore softly, carried him to her father's armoury, 
 where, equipping him with a complete suit, he was conducted 
 to the postern gate. 
 
 "Avoid the town," said the princess, "and all the western 
 side of the castle : it is there the search must be making by Man- 
 
538 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 fred and the strangers : but hie thee to the opposite quarter. 
 Yonder, behind that forest, to the east, is a chain of rocks, hol- 
 lowed into a labyrinth of caverns, that reach to the sea-coast. 
 There thou mayest lie concealed, till thou canst make signs 
 to some vessel to put on shore and take thee off. Go : Heaven 
 be thy guide ! — and sometimes in thy prayers remember — 
 Matilda!" 
 
 Theodore flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, 
 which with struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed, on the 
 earhest opportunity, to get himself knighted, and fervently 
 entreated her permission to swear himself eternally her knight. 
 
 Ere the princess could reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly 
 heard, that shook the battlements. Theodore, regardless of 
 the tempest, would have urged his suit ; but the princess, dis- 
 mayed, retreated hastily into the castle, and commanded the 
 youth to begone, with an air that would not be disobeyed. He 
 sighed, and retired ; but with eyes fixed on the gate, until Matilda, 
 closing it, put an end to an interview, in which the hearts of both 
 had drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now tasted for the 
 first time. 
 
 Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his 
 father with his dehverance. There he learned the absence of 
 Jerome, and the pursuit that was making after the Lady Isabella, 
 with some particulars of whose story he now first became ac- 
 quainted. The generous gallantry of his nature prompted him 
 to wish to assist her; but the monks could lend him no lights 
 to guess at the route she had taken. He was not tempted to 
 wander far in search of her, for the idea of Matilda had im- 
 printed itself so strongly on his heart, that he could not bear 
 to absent himself at much distance from her abode. The ten- 
 derness Jerome had expressed for him, concurred to confirm 
 this reluctance ; and he even persuaded himself that filial affec- 
 tion was the chief cause of his hovering between the castle and 
 monastery, until Jerome should return at night. 
 
 Theodore at length determined to repair to the forest that 
 Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving there, he sought the 
 gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing melancholy that 
 reigned in his mind. In this mood he roved insensibly to the 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 539 
 
 caves which had formerly served as a retreat to hermits, and 
 were now reported round the country to be haunted by evil 
 spirits. He recollected to have heard this tradition ; and being 
 of a brave and adventurous disposition, he willingly indulged 
 his curiosity in exploring the secret recesses of this labyrinth. 
 He had not penetrated far, before he thought he heard the steps 
 of some person who seemed to retreat before him. Theodore, 
 though firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be believed, 
 had no apprehension that good men were abandoned, without 
 cause, to the malice of the powers of darkness. He thought the 
 place more likely to be infested by robbers than by those infernal 
 agents, who are reported to molest and bewilder travellers. He 
 had long burned with impatience to approve his valour. Draw- 
 ing his sabre, he marched sedately onwards, still directing his 
 steps as the imperfect rustling sound before him led the way. 
 The armour he wore was a like indication to the person who 
 avoided him. Theodore, now convinced that he was not mis- 
 taken, redoubled his pace, and evidently gained on the person 
 that fled, whose haste increasing, Theodore came up just as a 
 woman fell breathless before him. He hasted to raise her, but 
 her terror was so great that he apprehended she would faint in 
 his arms. He used every gentle word to dispel her alarms, and 
 assured her that, far from injuring, he would defend her at the 
 peril of his life. 
 
 The lady, recovering her spirits from his courteous demeanour, 
 and gazing on her protector, said, "Sure I have heard that voice 
 before!" ^^ 
 
 "Not to my knowledge," replied Theodore, "unless, as I cotl^^ — ■ — ' 
 jecture, thou art the Lady Isabella." 
 
 "Merciful heaven !" cried she, "thou art not sent in quest of 
 me, art thou ?" and saying these words, she threw herself at his 
 feet, and besought him not to deliver her up to Manfred. 
 
 "To Manfred!" cried Theodore; "no, lady; I have once 
 already delivered thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare hard 
 with me now, but I will place thee out of the reach of his 
 daring." 
 
 "Is it possible," said she, "that thou shouldst be the generous 
 unknown whom I met last night in the vault of the castle ? Sure 
 
540 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 thou art not a mortal, but my guardian angel. On my knees 
 let me thank — — " 
 
 "Hold, gentle princess," said Theodore, "nor demean thyself 
 before a poor and friendless young man. If Heaven has selected 
 me for thy deliverer, it will accomplish its work, and strengthen 
 my arm in thy cause : but come, lady, we are too near the mouth 
 of the cavern ; let us seek its inmost recesses : I can have no 
 tranquillity till I have placed thee beyond the reach of danger. " 
 
 "Alas! what mean you, sir?" said she. "Though all your 
 actions are noble, though your sentiments speak the purity of 
 your soul, is it fitting that I should accompany you alone into 
 these perplexed retreats ? — should we be found together, what 
 would a censorious world think of my conduct?" 
 
 "I respect your virtuous delicacy," said Theodore; "nor 
 do you harbour a suspicion that wounds my honour. I meant 
 to conduct you into the most private cavity of these rocks, and 
 then, at the hazard of my life, to guard their entrance against 
 every living thing. Besides, lady," continued he, drawing a 
 deep sigh, "beauteous and all-perfect as your form is, and though 
 my wishes are not guiltless of aspiring, know my soul is dedi- 
 cated to another; and although " 
 
 A sudden noise prevented Theodore from proceeding. They 
 soon distinguished these sounds, "Isabella ! what ho ! Isabella !" 
 
 The trembhng princess relapsed into her former agony of fear. 
 Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but in vain. He assured 
 her he would die rather than suffer her to return under Man- 
 fred's power; and begging her to remain concealed, he went 
 forth to prevent the person in search of her from approaching. 
 
 At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed knight, dis- 
 coursing with a peasant, who assured him he had seen a lady 
 enter the passes of the rock. The knight was preparing to seek 
 her, when Theodore, placing himself in his way, with his sword 
 drawn, sternly forbade him, at his peril, to advance. 
 
 "And who art thou, who darest to cross my way?" said the 
 knight haughtily, and alighting. 
 
 "One who does not dare more than he will perform," said 
 Theodore. 
 
 "I seek the Lady Isabella," said the knight, "and understand 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 541 
 
 she has taken refuge among these rocks. Impede me not, or 
 thou wilt repent having provoked my resentment." 
 
 "Thy purpose is as odious as thy resentment is contemptible," 
 said Theodore. "Return whence thou camest, or we shall soon 
 know whose resentment is most terrible." 
 
 The stranger, who was the principal knight that had arrived 
 from the Marquis of Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred, as 
 he was busied in getting information of the princess, and giving 
 various orders to prevent her falHng into the power of the three 
 knights. Their chief had suspected Manfred of being privy to 
 the princess's absconding : and this insult from a man who he 
 concluded was stationed by that prince to secrete her, confirm- 
 ing his suspicions, he made no reply, but discharging a blow 
 with his sabre at Theodore, would soon have removed all ob- 
 struction, if Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred's 
 captains^ and who had no sooner given the provocation than 
 prepared to support it, had not received the stroke on his shield. 
 The valour that had so long been smothered in his breast broke 
 forth at once ; he rushed impetuously on the knight, whose pride 
 and wrath were not less powerful incentives to hardy deeds. 
 The combat was furious, but not long : Theodore wounded the 
 knight in three several places, and at last disarmed him, as he 
 fainted by the loss of blood. The peasant, who had fled on the 
 first onset, had given the alarm to some of Manfred's domestics, 
 who by his orders were dispersed through the forest in pursuit of 
 Isabella. They came up as the knight fell, whom they soon 
 discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding 
 his hatred to Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained 
 without emotions of pity and generosity : but he was more 
 touched when he learned the quahty of his adversary, and was 
 informed that he was no retainer, but an enemy of Manfred. He 
 assisted the servants of the latter in disarming the knight, and in 
 endeavouring to staunch the blood that flowed from his wounds. 
 
 The knight, recovering his speech, said in a faint and falter- 
 ing voice, " Generous foe, we have both been in error : I took thee 
 for an instrument of the tyrant ; I perceive thou hast made the 
 Hke mistake — it is too late for excuses — I faint — • if Isabella 
 is at hand, call her — I have important secrets to — — -" 
 
542 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 "He is dying !" said one of the attendants; "has nobody a 
 crucifix about them? Andrea, do thou pray over him." 
 
 "Fetch some water," said Theodore, "and pour it down his 
 throat, while I hasten to the princess." 
 
 Saying this, he flew to Isabella, and in few words told her, 
 modestly, that he had been so unfortunate, by mistake, as to 
 wound a gentleman from her father's court, who wished, ere he 
 died, to impart something of consequence to her. The prin- 
 cess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theo- 
 dore, as he called to her to come forth, was astonished at what 
 she heard. Suffering herself to be conducted by Theodore, the 
 new proof of whose valour recalled her dispersed spirits, she 
 came where the bleeding knight lay speechless on the ground ; 
 but her fears returned when she beheld the domestics of Manfred. 
 She would again have fled, if Theodore had not made her observe 
 that they were unarmed, and had not threatened them with 
 instant death, if they should dare to seize the princess. 
 
 The stranger opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said 
 — "Art thou — pray tell me truly — art thou Isabella of 
 Vicenza?" 
 
 "I am," said she; "good Heaven, restore thee!" 
 
 "Then thou — then thou — " said the knight, struggling for 
 utterance — "seest thy father — give me one — ■ — -" 
 
 "Oh ! amazement ! horror ! what do I hear ! what do I see !" 
 cried Isabella. "My father! you my father! how came you 
 here, Sir ? — for Heaven's sake, speak ! — oh ! run for help, or 
 he will expire !" 
 
 "It is most true," said the wounded knight, exerting all 
 his force : "I am Frederick, thy father — • yes, I came to deliver 
 thee — it will not be — give me a parting kiss, and take " 
 
 "Sir," said Theodore, "do not exhaust yourself: suffer us to 
 convey you to the castle." 
 
 "To the castle !" said Isabella ; "is there no help nearer than 
 the castle ? — would you expose my father to the tyrant ? — 
 if he goes thither, I dare not accompany him — and yet, can I 
 leave him ?" 
 
 "My child," said Frederick, "it matters not for me whither 
 I am carried : a few minutes will place me beyond danger ; but 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 543 
 
 while I have eyes to dote on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella ! 
 This brave knight, — I know not who he is, — will protect thy 
 innocence. Sir, you will not abandon my child, will you ? " 
 
 Theodore, shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard 
 the princess at the expense of his life, persuaded Frederick to 
 suffer himself to be conducted to the castle. They placed him 
 on a horse belonging to one of the domestics, after binding up 
 his wounds as well as they were able. Theodore marched by his 
 side, and the afflicted Isabella, who could not bear to quit him, 
 followed mournfully behind. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 The sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle than they 
 were met by Hippolita and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent 
 one of the domestics before to advertise of their approach. The 
 ladies causing Frederick to be conveyed into the nearest chamber, 
 retired, while the surgeons examined his wounds. Matilda 
 blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella together : but en- 
 deavoured to conceal it by embracing the latter, and condoling 
 with her on her father's mischance. The surgeons soon came to 
 acquaint Hippolita that none of the Marquis's wounds were 
 dangerous ; and that he was desirous of seeing his daughter and 
 the princesses. Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy 
 at being freed from his apprehensions of the combat being fatal 
 to Frederick, could not resist the impulse of following Matilda. 
 Her eyes were so often cast down on meeting his, that Isabella, 
 who regarded Theodore as attentively as he gazed on Matilda, 
 soon divined who the object was that he had told her, in the cave, 
 engaged his affections. 
 
 While this mute scene passed, Hippolita demanded of Frederick 
 the cause of his having taken that mysterious course for reclaim- 
 ing his daughter ; and threw in* various apologies to excuse her 
 lord for the match contracted between their children. Fred- 
 erick, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to 
 the courtesy and benevolence of HippoHta ; but he was still more 
 struck with the lovely form of Matilda. Wishing to detain them 
 by his bed-side, he informed Hippolita of his story. He told 
 her, that while prisoner to the infidels, he had dreamed that his 
 
544 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 daughter, of whom he had learned no news since his captivity, 
 was detained in a castle, where she was in danger of the most 
 dreadful misfortunes; and that if he obtained his hberty, and 
 repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learn more. Alarmed 
 at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given by it, 
 his chains became more grievous than ever. But while his 
 thoughts were occupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he 
 received the agreeable news that the confederate princes, who 
 were warring in Palestine, had paid his ransom. He instantly 
 set out for the wood that had been marked in his dream. For 
 three days he and his attendants had wandered in the forest, 
 without seeing a human form ; but, on the evening of the third, 
 they came to a cell, in which they found a venerable hermit in 
 the agonies of death. Applying rich cordials, they brought the 
 saint-like man to his speech. "My sons," said he, "I am 
 bounden to your charity ; but it is in vain — I am going to my 
 eternal rest — yet I die with the satisfaction of performing the 
 will of heaven. When first I repaired to this solitude, after 
 seeing my country become a prey to unbelievers — it is, alas ! 
 above fifty years since I was witness to that dreadful scene — St. 
 Nicholas appeared to me, and revealed a secret, which he bade 
 me never disclose to mortal man but on my death-bed. This is 
 that tremendous hour and ye are no doubt the chosen warriors 
 to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust. As soon as ye have 
 done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh 
 
 tree on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will 
 
 Oh! good heaven, receive my soul!" With those words, the 
 devout man breathed his last. 
 
 "By the break of day," continued Frederick, "when we had 
 committed the holy relics to earth, we dug according to direction ; 
 but what was our astonishment when, about the depth of six 
 feet, we discovered an enormous sabre — the very weapon yonder 
 in the court. On the blade, which was then partly out of the 
 scabbard, though since closed by our efforts in removing it, were 
 written the following lines — no ; excuse me, madam," added 
 the Marquis, turning to Hippolita, "if I forbear to repeat them : 
 I respect your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending 
 your ear with sounds injurious to aught that is dear to you." 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 545 
 
 He paused. Hippolita trembled. She did not doubt but 
 Frederick was destined by heaven to accomplish the fate that 
 seemed to threaten her house. Looking with anxious fondness 
 at Matilda, a silent tear stole down her cheek ; but recollecting 
 herself, she said, "Proceed, my lord; heaven does nothing in 
 vain: mortals must receive its divine behests with lowliness 
 and submission. It is our part to deprecate its wrath, or bow 
 to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my lord, — we listen 
 resigned." 
 
 Frederick was grieved that he had proceeded so far. The 
 dignity and patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with 
 respect ; and the tender, silent affection with which the princess 
 and her daughter regarded each other, melted him almost to 
 tears. Yet, apprehensive that his forbearance to obey would 
 be more alarming, he repeated, in a faltering and low voice, 
 the following lines : 
 
 " Where'er a casque that suits this sword is found, 
 With perils is thy daughter compassed round. 
 Alfonso's blood alone can save the maid, 
 And quiet a long- restless prince's shade." 
 
 '•"What is there in these hnes," said Theodore, impatiently, 
 ''that affects these princesses? — why were they to be shocked 
 by a mysterious delicacy, that has so little foundation ? " 
 
 "Your words are rude, young man," said the Marquis; "and 
 though fortune has favoured you once " 
 
 "My honoured lord," said Isabella, who resented Theodore's 
 warmth, which she perceived was dictated by his sentiments for 
 Matilda, "discompose not yourself for the glosing of a peasant's 
 son; he forgets the reverence he owes you, but he is not ac- 
 customed " 
 
 Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked 
 Theodore for his boldness, but, with an air acknowledging his 
 zeal, and, changing the conversation, demanded of Frederick 
 where he had left her lord ? 
 
 As the Marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise without, 
 and rising to inquire the cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of 
 the troop, who had met an imperfect rumour of what had hap- 
 pened, entered the chamber. Manfred advanced hastily towards 
 
546 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 Frederick's bed to condole with him on his misfortune, and to 
 learn the circumstances of the combat, when, starting in an 
 agony of terror and amazement, he cried, "Ha ! what art thou ? 
 Thou dreadful spectre ! is my hour come?" 
 
 "My dearest, gracious lord," cried Hippolita, clasping him 
 in her arms, "what is it you see ? why do you fix your eye-balls 
 thus?" 
 
 "What !" cried Manfred, breathless, "dost thou see nothing, 
 Hippolita ? is this ghastly phantom sent to me alone — to me, 
 who did not — ^" 
 
 "For mercy's sweetest self, my lord," said Hippolita, "resume 
 your soul, command your reason. There is none here but us, 
 your friends." 
 
 "What! is not that Alfonso ? " cried Manfred : "dost thou 
 not see him ? can it be my brain's delirium ?" 
 
 "This, my lord," said HippoHta; "this is Theodore, the 
 youth that has been so unfortunate." 
 
 "Theodore!" said Manfred, mournfully, and striking his 
 forehead — • "Theodore, or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul 
 of Manfred ; but how comes he here ? and how comes he in 
 armour?" 
 
 "I believe he went in search of Isabella," said HippoHta. 
 
 "Of Isabella!" said Manfred, relapsing into rage — "yes, 
 yes, that is not doubtful — but how did he escape from the 
 durance in which I left him ? — was it Isabella, or this hypo- 
 critical old friar, that procured his enlargement?" 
 
 "And would a parent be criminal, my lord," said Theodore, 
 "if he meditated the deliverance of his child?" 
 
 Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his 
 son, and without foundation, knew not what to think. He 
 could not comprehend how Theodore could have escaped ; how 
 he came to be armed, and to encounter Frederick. Still he would 
 not venture to ask any questions that might tend to inflame 
 Manfred's wrath against his son. 
 
 Jerome's silence convinced Manfred that he had contrived 
 Theodore's release. "And is it thus, thou ungrateful old man," 
 said the prince, addressing himself to the friar, "that thou 
 repayest mine and HippoHta's bounties ? And not content with 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 547 
 
 traversing my heart's nearest wishes, thou armest thy bastard, 
 and bringest him into my own castle to insult me !" 
 
 "My lord," said Theodore, "you wrong my father : nor he nor 
 I are capable of harbouring such a thought against your peace. 
 Is it insolence thus to surrender myself to your highness's pleas- 
 ure ? " added he, laying his sword respectfully at Manfred's feet. 
 "Behold my bosom; strike, my lord, if, you suspect that a dis- 
 loyal thought is lodged there. There is not a sentiment engraven 
 on my heart that does not venerate you and yours." 
 
 The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these 
 words interested every person present in his favour. Even 
 Manfred was touched — yet, still possessed with his resemblance 
 to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed with secret horror. 
 
 "Rise," said he; "thy life is not my present purpose. But 
 tell me thy history, and how thou camest connected with this 
 old traitor here." 
 
 "My lord," said Jerome, eagerly 
 
 "Peace, imposter," said Manfred; "I will not have him 
 prompted." 
 
 "My lord," said Theodore, "I want no assistance. My story 
 is very brief. I was carried, at five years of age, to Algiers, with 
 my mother, who had been taken by corsairs from the coast of 
 Sicily. She died of grief in less than a twelvemonth. (The 
 tears gushed from Jerome's eyes, on whose countenance a thou- 
 sand anxious passions stood expressed.) Before she died," con- 
 tinued Theodore, "she bound a writing about my arm under my 
 garments, which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara." 
 
 "It is most true," said Jerome ; "I am that wretched father." 
 
 "Again I enjoin thee silence," said Manfred; "proceed." 
 
 "I remained in slavery," said Theodore, "until within these 
 two years, when, attending on my master in his cruises, I was 
 delivered by a Christian vessel, which overpowered the pirate ; 
 and discovering myself to the captain, he generously put me on 
 
 shore in Sicily but alas ! instead of finding a father, I learned 
 
 that his estate, which was situated on the coast, had, during his 
 absence, been laid waste by the rover who had carried my mother 
 and me into captivity — that his castle had been burned to the 
 ground, and that my father on his return had sold what remained, 
 
548 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 and was retired into religion in the kingdom of Naples, but where, 
 no man could inform me. Destitute and friendless, hopeless 
 almost of obtaining the transport of a parent's embrace, I took 
 the first opportunity of setting sail for Naples, from whence, 
 within these six days, I wandered into this province, still sup- 
 porting myself by the labour of my hands ; nor until yestermorn 
 did I believe that Heaven had reserved any lot for me but peace 
 of mind and contented poverty. This, my lord, is Theodore's 
 story. I am blessed beyond my hope in finding a father ; I am 
 unfortunate beyond my desert in having incurred your high- 
 ness's displeasure." 
 
 He ceased. A murmur of approbation gently arose from the 
 audience. 
 
 "This is not all," said Frederick : ''I am bound in honour to 
 add what he suppresses. Though he is modest, I must be gen- 
 erous — he is one of the bravest youths on Christian ground. He 
 is warm too ; and from the short knowledge I have of him, I will 
 pledge myself for his veracity: if what he reports of himself 
 were not true, he would not utter it — and for me, youth, I 
 honour a frankness which becomes thy birth. But now, and 
 thou didst offend me ; yet the noble blood which flows in thy 
 veins may well be allowed to boil out, when it has so recently 
 traced itself to its source. Come, my lord, (turning to Manfred,) 
 if I can pardon him, surely you may. It is not the youth's fault 
 if you took him for a spectre." 
 
 This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred. "If beings from 
 another world," repKed he haughtily, "have power to impress 
 my mind with awe, it is more than living man can do ; nor could 
 a stripling's arm — " 
 
 "My lord," interrupted HippoHta, "your guest has occasion 
 for repose: shall we not leave him to rest?" Saying this, and 
 taking Manfred by the hand, she took leave of Frederick, and 
 led the company forth. 
 
 The prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to 
 mind the discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, 
 suffered himself to be conducted to his own apartment, after 
 permitting Theodore, though under engagement to return to 
 the castle on the morrow (a condition the young man gladly 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 549 
 
 accepted) to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda and 
 Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections, and 
 too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse 
 that night. They separated, each to her chamber, with more 
 expressions of ceremony and fewer of affection than had passed 
 between them since their childhood. 
 
 If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with 
 greater impatience as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds 
 were in a situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected a 
 thousand questions which she wished she had put to the other 
 over night. Matilda reflected that Isabella had been twice 
 delivered by Theodore in very critical situations, which she 
 could not believe accidental. His eyes, it was true, had been 
 fixed on her in Frederick's chamber ; but that might have been 
 to disguise his passion for Isabella from the fathers of both. It 
 were better to clear this up. She wished to know the truth, lest 
 she should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isa- 
 bella's lover. Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time 
 borrowed an excuse from friendship to justify its curiosity. 
 
 Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her sus- 
 picions. Both Theodore's tongue and eyes had told her his 
 heart was engaged, it was true — yet perhaps Matilda might 
 not correspond to his passion — she had ever appeared insensible 
 to love : all her thoughts were set on heaven. 
 
 "Why did I dissuade her?" said Isabella to herself: "I am 
 punished for my generosity — but when did they meet ? where 
 — it cannot be : I have deceived myself — perhaps last night 
 was the first time they ever beheld each other — it must be some 
 other object that has prepossessed his affections — if it is, I am 
 not so unhappy as I thought, if it is not my friend Matilda — 
 how ! can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man who rudely 
 and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference ? and 
 that at the very moment in which common courtesy demanded 
 at least expressions of civihty. I will go to my dear Matilda, 
 who will confirm me in this becoming pride. Man is false — I 
 will advise with her on taking the veil : she will rejoice to find 
 me in this disposition ; and I will acquaint her that I no longer 
 oppose her inclination for the cloister." 
 
550 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart en- 
 tirely to Matilda, she went to that princess's chamber, whom she 
 found already dressed, and leaning pensively on her arm. This 
 attitude, so correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isa- 
 bella's suspicions, and destroyed the confidence she had pur- 
 posed to place in her friend. They blushed at meeting, and 
 were too much novices to disguise their sensations with address. 
 After some unmeaning questions and replies, Matilda demanded 
 of Isabella the cause of her flight ? The latter, who had almost 
 forgotten Manfred's passion, so entirely was she occupied by her 
 own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape from 
 the convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding 
 evening, replied, "Martelli brought word to the convent that 
 your mother was dead." 
 
 "Oh !" said Matilda, interrupting her, "Bianca has explained 
 that mistake to me : on seeing me faint she cried out, 'The prin- 
 cess is dead,' and Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to 
 the castle — " 
 
 "And what made you faint?" said Isabella, indifferent to 
 the rest. 
 
 Matilda blushed and stammered: "My father — he was 
 sitting in judgment on a criminal." 
 
 "What criminal?" said Isabella, eagerly. 
 
 "A young man," said Matilda; "I believe — I think it was 
 that young man that — " 
 
 "What, Theodore?" said Isabella. 
 
 "Yes," answered she; "I never saw him before; I do not 
 know how he had offended my father — but as he has been of 
 service to you, I am glad my lord has pardoned him." 
 
 "Served me !" replied Isabella ; "do you term it serving me, 
 to wound my father and almost occasion his death ? Though it 
 is but since yesterday I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope 
 Matilda does not think I am such a stranger to filial tenderness 
 as not to resent the boldness of that audacious youth, and that 
 it is impossible for me ever to feel any affection for one who 
 dared to lift his arm against the author of my being. No, 
 Matilda, my heart abhors him ; and if you still retain the friend- 
 ship for me that you have vowed from your infancy, you will 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 551 
 
 detest a man who has been on the point of making me miserable 
 for ever." 
 
 Matilda held down her head, and replied, "I hope my dearest 
 Isabella does not doubt her Matilda's friendship : I never beheld 
 that youth until yesterday, he is almost a stranger to me : but 
 as the surgeons have pronounced your father out of danger, you 
 ought not to harbour uncharitable resentment against one, 
 who I am persuaded did not know the Marquis was related 
 to you." 
 
 "You plead his cause very pathetically," said Isabella, "con- 
 sidering he is so much a stranger to you ! I am mistaken, or he 
 returns your charity." 
 
 "What mean you ?" said Matilda. 
 
 "Nothing," said Isabella, repenting that she had given Ma- 
 tilda a hint of Theodore's inclination for her. 
 
 Then changing the discourse, she asked Matilda what occa- 
 sioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre ? 
 
 "Bless me," said Matilda, "did not you observe his extreme 
 resemblance to the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery ? I took 
 notice of it to Bianca even before I saw him in armour : but with 
 the helmet on, he is the very image of that picture." 
 
 "I do not much observe pictures," said Isabella : "much less 
 have I examined this young man so attentively as you seem to 
 have done. Ah ! Matilda, your heart is in danger ; but let 
 me warn you as a friend — he has owned to me that he is in 
 love ; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was the first time 
 you ever met — was it not ? " 
 
 "Certainly," replied Matilda; "but why does my dearest 
 Isabella conclude from anything I have said, that — (she paused 
 — then continuing ;) he saw you first, and I am far from having 
 the vanity to think that my Kttle portion of charms could engage 
 a heart devoted to you. May you be happy, Isabella, whatever 
 is the fate of Matilda ! " 
 
 "My lovely friend," said Isabella, whose heart was too honest 
 to resist a kind expression, "it is you that Theodore admires: 
 I saw it ; I am persuaded of it ; nor shall a thought of my own 
 happiness suffer me to interfere with yours." 
 
 This frankness drew tears from the gentle Matilda ; and 
 
552 
 
 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 jealousy, that for a moment had raised a coolness between these 
 amiable maidens, soon gave way to the natural sincerity and 
 candour of their souls. Each confessed to the other the impres- 
 sion Theodore had made on her; and this confidence was fol- 
 lowed by a struggle of generosity, each insisting on yielding her 
 claim to her friend. At length the dignity of Isabella's virtue, 
 reminding her of the preference which Theodore had almost 
 declared for her rival, made her determine to conquer her passion, 
 and cede the beloved object to her friend. 
 
 During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter's 
 chamber. "Madam," said she to Isabella, "you have so much 
 tenderness for Matilda, and interest yourself so kindly in what- 
 ever affects our wretched house, that I can have no secrets with 
 my child, which are not proper for you to hear." The princesses 
 were all attention and anxiety. "Know then, madam," con- 
 tinued Hippolita, "and you my dearest Matilda, that being 
 convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days, that 
 Heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Man- 
 fred's hands into those of the Marquis Frederick, I have been, 
 perhaps, inspired with the thought of averting our total destruc- 
 tion by the union of our rival houses. With this view I have 
 been proposing to Manfred, my lord, to tender this dear, dear 
 child to Frederick your father." 
 
 "Me to Lord Frederick!" cried Matilda — "good heavens! 
 my gracious mother — and have you named it to my father?" 
 
 "I have," said HippoHta : "he hstened benignly to my pro- 
 posal, and is gone to break it to the Marquis." 
 
 "Ah! wr-etched princess ! " cried Isabella ; "what hast thou 
 done ? what ruin has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing 
 for thyself, for me, and for Matilda?" 
 
 "Ruin from me to you and to my child!" said HippoHta; 
 "what can this mean ?" 
 
 "Alas ! " said Isabella, " the purity of your own heart prevents 
 your seeing the depravity of others. Manfred, your lord, that 
 impious man " 
 
 "Hold," said HippoHta : "you must not, in my presence, young 
 lady, mention Manfred with disrespect : he is my lord and hus- 
 band, and -" 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 553 
 
 "Will not long be so," said Isabella, "if his wicked purposes 
 can be carried into execution." 
 
 "This language amazes me !" said Hippolita. "Your feeling, 
 Isabella, is warm : but until this hour I never knew it betray 
 you into intemperance. What deed of Manfred authorises you 
 to treat him as a murderer, an assassin?" 
 
 "Thou virtuous and too credulous princess ! " replied Isabella ; 
 " it is not thy life he aims at — it is to separate himself from thee ! 
 to divorce thee ! to " 
 
 "To divorce me ! — to divorce my mother !" cried Hippolita 
 and Matilda at once. 
 
 "Yes," said Isabella; "and to complete his crime he medi- 
 tates — — I cannot speak it !" 
 
 "What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?" said 
 Matilda. 
 
 Hippolita was silent. Grief choked her speech ; and the 
 recollection of Manfred's late ambiguous discourses confirmed 
 what she heard. 
 
 "Excellent, dear lady! Madam! Mother!" cried Isabella, 
 flinging herself at Hippolita 's feet in a transport of passion ; 
 "trust me, believe me, I will die a thousand deaths sooner than 
 consent to injure you, than yield to so odious — oh ! — " 
 
 "This is too much !" cried Hippolita : "What crimes does one 
 crime suggest ? Rise, dear Isabella ; I do not doubt your virtue. 
 Oh ! Matilda, this stroke is too heavy for thee ! weep not, my 
 child ; and not a murmur, I charge thee. Remember he is thy 
 father still!" 
 
 "But you are my mother too," said Matilda fervently ; "and 
 you are virtuous, you are guiltless ! Oh ! must not I, must not 
 I complain !" 
 
 "You must not," said HippoHta ; "come, all will yet be well. 
 Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what 
 he said : perhaps Isabella misunderstood him : his heart is good 
 
 — and, my child, thou knowest not all ! There is a destiny 
 hangs over us ; the hand of Providence is stretched out. Oh ! 
 could I but save thee from the wreck ! Yes," continued she, in 
 a firmer tone ; "perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all 
 
 — I will go and offer myself to this divorce — it boots not what 
 
554 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 becomes of me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring mon- 
 astery, and waste the remainder of my hfe in prayers and tears 
 for my child and — the prince !" 
 
 "Thou art as much too good for this world," said Isabella, 
 "as Manfred is execrable — but think not, lady, that thy weak- 
 ness shall determine for me. I swear, hear me all ye angels " 
 
 "Stop, I adjure thee," cried Hippohta : "remember that thou 
 dost not depend on thyself; thou hast a father." 
 
 "My father is too pious, too noble," interrupted Isabella, 
 "to command an impious deed. But should he command it? 
 — can a father enjoin a cursed act ? I was contracted to the 
 son, — can I wed the father ? No, madam, no ; force should 
 not drag me to Manfred's hated bed. I loathe him, I abhor him : 
 divine and human laws forbid — and my friend, my dearest 
 Matilda ! would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored 
 mother? my own mother — I never have known another." 
 
 "Oh ! she is the mother of both," cried Matilda: "Can we, 
 can we, Isabella, adore her too much?" 
 
 "My lovely children," said the touched Hippolita, "your 
 tenderness overpowers me — but I must not give way to it. 
 It is not ours to make election for ourselves : Heaven, our fathers, 
 and our husbands must decide for us. Have patience until you 
 hear what Manfred and Frederick have determined. If the 
 Marquis accepts Matilda's hand, I know she will readily obey. 
 Heaven may interpose and prevent the rest. What means my 
 child ? " continued she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood 
 of speechless tears. "But no ; answer me not, my daughter : I 
 must not hear a word against the pleasure of thy father." 
 
 "Oh! doubt not my obedience, — my dreadful obedience 
 to him and to you !" said Matilda. "But can I, most respected 
 of women, can I experience all this tenderness, this world of 
 goodness, and conceal a thought from the best of mothers?" 
 
 "What art thou going to utter?" said Isabella, trembling. 
 "Recollect thyself, Matilda." 
 
 "No, Isabella," said the princess, "I should not deserve this 
 incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured 
 a thought without her permission — nay, I have offended her ; 
 I have suffered a passion to enter my heart without her 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 555 
 
 avowal — but here I disclaim it ; here I avow to Heaven and 
 her—" 
 
 "My child! my child!" said Hippolita, "what words are 
 these ! what new calamities has fate in store for us ! Thou a 
 passion ! Thou, in this hour of destruction." 
 
 "Oh ! I see all my guilt !" said Matilda. "I abhor myself, 
 if I cost my mother a pang. She is the dearest thing I have on 
 earth — oh ! I will never, never behold him more !" 
 
 "Isabella," said Hippolita, "thou art conscious to this unhappy 
 secret, whatever it is. Speak !" 
 
 "What," cried Matilda, "have I so forfeited my mother's 
 love that she will not permit me even to speak my own guilt ? — 
 oh ! wretched, wretched Matilda ! " 
 
 "Thou art too cruel," said Isabella to HippoHta : "canst thou 
 behold this anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it ? " 
 
 "Not pity my child!" said Hippolita, catching Matilda 
 in her arms — "Oh! I know she is good, — she is all virtue, 
 all tenderness and duty. I do forgive thee, my excellent, my 
 only hope !" 
 
 The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual in- 
 clination for Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him 
 to Matilda. HippoHta blamed their imprudence, and showed 
 them the improbability that either father would consent to be- 
 stow his heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born. Some 
 comfort it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, and 
 that Theodore had had but Httle cause to suspect it in either. 
 She strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with him. 
 This Matilda fervently promised ; but Isabella, who flattered 
 herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with 
 her friend, could not determine to avoid him, and made no reply. 
 
 "I will go to the convent," said Hippolita, "and order new 
 masses to be said for a deliverance from these calamities." 
 
 "Oh ! my mother," said Matilda, "you mean to quit us : you 
 mean to take sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity 
 of pursuing his fatal intention. Alas ! on my knees I supplicate 
 you to forbear ! Will you leave me a prey to Frederick ? I will 
 follow you to the convent." 
 
 "Be at peace, my child," said HippoHta; "I will return in- 
 
556 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 stantly. I will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will 
 of Heaven, and for thy benefit." 
 
 "Do not deceive me," said Matilda. "I will not marry Fred- 
 erick until thou commandest it. Alas ! what will become of 
 me?" 
 
 "Why that exclamation ? " said Hippolita. " I have promised 
 thee to return." 
 
 "Ah ! my mother," replied Matilda, "stay and save me from 
 myself. A frown from thee can do more than all my father's 
 severity. I have given away my heart, and you alone can make 
 me recall it." 
 
 "No more," said Hippolita : "thou must not relapse, Matilda." 
 
 "I can quit Theodore," said she, "but must I wed another? 
 Let me attend thee to the altar, and shut thyself from the world 
 for ever." 
 
 "Thy fate depends on thy father," said Hippolita: "I have 
 ill bestowed my tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught 
 beyond him. Adieu ! my child : I go to pray for thee." 
 
 Hippolita's real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether 
 in conscience she might not consent to the divorce. She had oft 
 urged Manfred to resign the principality, which the delicacy of 
 her conscience rendered an hourly burden to her. These scruples 
 concurred to make the separation from her husband appear less 
 dreadful to her, than it would have seemed in any other situation. 
 
 Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned 
 Theodore severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being 
 privy to his escape. Theodore owned it had been with design 
 to prevent Manfred's suspicion from alighting on Matilda ; and 
 added, the holiness of Jerome's life and character secured him 
 from the tyrant's wrath. Jerome was heartily grieved to dis- 
 cover his son's inclination for that princess : and leaving him to 
 his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint him with important 
 reasons for conquering his passion. Theodore, like Isabella, 
 was too recently acquainted with parental authority to submit 
 to its decisions against the impulse of his heart. He had little 
 curiosity to learn the friar's reasons, and less disposition to obey 
 them. The lovely Matilda had made stronger impressions on 
 him than filial affection. All night he pleased himself with visions 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 557 
 
 of love ; and it was not till late after the morning office, that he 
 recollected the friar's commands to attend him at Alfonso's 
 tomb. 
 
 "Young man," said Jerome, when he saw him, "this tardiness 
 does not please me. Have a father's commands already so little 
 weight?" 
 
 Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to 
 having overslept himself. 
 
 "And on whom were thy dreams employed?" said the friar, 
 ;sternly. 
 
 His son blushed. 
 
 "Come, come," resumed the friar, "inconsiderate youth, 
 this must not be ; eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast." 
 ; "Guilty passion!" cried Theodore. "Can guilt dwell with 
 innocent beauty, and virtuous modesty?" 
 
 I " It is sinful," replied the friar, "to cherish those whom Heaven 
 ihas doomed to destruction. A tyrant's race must be swept from 
 the earth to the third and fourth generation." 
 I "Will Heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty ?" 
 'said Theodore. "The fair Matilda has virtues enough " 
 
 I "To undo thee," interrupted Jerome. "Hast thou so soon 
 ! forgotten that twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy 
 isentence?" 
 
 J "Nor have I forgotten, sir," said Theodore, "that the charity 
 lof his daughter delivered me from his power. I can forget in- 
 jjuries, but never benefits." 
 
 II "The injuries thou hast received from Manfred's race," said 
 the friar, "are beyond what thou canst conceive. Reply not, 
 
 <but view this holy image ! Beneath this marble monument rest 
 •I the ashes of the good Alfonso — a prince adorned with every 
 I virtue ! — the father of his people ! — the delight of mankind ! 
 Kneel, headstrong boy, and list while a father unfolds a tale of 
 horror, that will expel every sentiment from thy soul but sensa- 
 tions of sacred vengeance. Alfonso ! much injured prince ! let 
 jthy unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these 
 
 I trembHng lips Ha ! who comes there ? " 
 
 j "The most wretched of women," said Hippolita, entering the 
 choir. "Good father, art thou at leisure ? But why this kneel- 
 
558 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 ing youth ? — what means the horror imprinted on each coun- 
 tenance ? — why at this venerable tomb — alas ! hast thou seen 
 aught?" 
 
 "We were pouring forth our orisons to Heaven," replied the 
 friar, with some confusion, "to put an end to the woes of this 
 deplorable province. Join with us, lady ! thy spotless soul may 
 obtain an exemption from the judgments which the portents of 
 these days but too speakingly denounce against thy house." 
 
 "I pray fervently to Heaven to divert them," said the pious 
 princess. "Thou knowest it has been the occupation of my life 
 to wrest a blessing for my lord and my harmless children. One, 
 alas ! is taken from me ; would Heaven but hear me for my poor 
 Matilda ! Father ! intercede for her." 
 
 "Every heart will bless her," cried Theodore, with rapture. 
 
 "Be dumb, rash youth," said Jerome. "And thou, fond 
 princess, contend not with the powers above ! the Lord giveth 
 and the Lord taketh away : bless his holy name, and submit to 
 his decrees." 
 
 "I do, most devoutly," said Hippolita : "but will he not spare 
 my only comfort ? — must Matilda perish too ? Ah ! father, 
 I came — ■ but dismiss thy son. No ear but thine must hear 
 what I have to utter." 
 
 "May Heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent princess !" 
 said Theodore, retiring. Jerome frowned. 
 
 Hippolita then acquainted the friar with the proposal she had 
 suggested to Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of 
 Matilda that he was gone to make to Frederick. Jerome could 
 not conceal his dislike of the motion, which he covered under 
 pretence of the impossibility that Frederick, the nearest of blood 
 to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his succession, would 
 yield to an alliance with the usurper of his right. But nothing 
 could equal the perplexity of the friar, when Hippolita confessed 
 her readiness not to oppose the separation, and demanded his 
 opinion on the legality of her acquiescence. The friar catched 
 eagerly at her request of his advice ; and, without explaining his 
 aversion to the proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he 
 painted to Hippolita, in the most alarming colours, the sinfulness 
 of her consent, denounced judgments against her if she complied, 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 559 
 
 and enjoined her in the severest terms to treat any such proposi- 
 tion with every mark of indignation and refusal. 
 
 Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose to Fred- 
 erick, and proposed the double marriage. That weak prince, 
 who had been struck with the charms of Matilda, listened but too 
 eagerly to the offer. He forgot his enmity to Manfred, whom he 
 saw but little hope of dispossessing by force ; and flattering him- 
 self that no issue might succeed from the union of his daughter 
 with the tyrant, he looked upon his own succession to the prin- 
 cipality as facilitated by wedding Matilda. He made faint 
 opposition to the proposal ; affecting, for form only, not to ac- 
 quiesce unless Hippolita should consent to the divorce. Manfred 
 took that upon himself. Transported with his success, and 
 impatient to see himself in a situation to expect sons, he hastened 
 to his wife's apartment, determined to extort her compliance. 
 He learned with indignation that she was absent at the convent. 
 His guilt suggested to him that she had probably been informed 
 by Isabella of his purpose. He doubted whether retirement 
 to the convent did not import an intention of remaining there, 
 until she could raise obstacles to their divorce ; and the sus- 
 picions he had already entertained of Jerome, made him appre- 
 hend that the friar would not only traverse his views, but might 
 have inspired Hippolita with the resolution of taking sanctuary. 
 Impatient to unravel this clue, and to defeat its success, Manfred 
 hastened to the convent, and arrived there as the friar was ear- 
 nestly exhorting the princess never to yield to the divorce. 
 
 "Madam," said Manfred, "what business drew you hither? 
 why did not you await my return from the Marquis ?" 
 
 "I came to implore a blessing on your councils," replied 
 Hippolita. 
 
 "My councils do not need a friar's intervention," said Man- 
 fred ; "and of all men living, is that hoary traitor the only one 
 you delight to confer with?" 
 
 "Profane prince !" said Jerome ; "is it at the altar that thou 
 choosest to insult the servants of the altar ? — but, Manfred, 
 thy impious schemes are known. Heaven and this virtuous 
 lady know them — nay, frown not, prince. The church despises 
 thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard above thy wrath. 
 
560 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until her 
 sentence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head." 
 
 "Audacious rebel!" said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal 
 the awe with which the friar's words inspired him; "dost thou 
 presume to threaten thy lawful prince ? " 
 
 "Thou art no lawful prince," said Jerome; "thou art no 
 prince. Go, discuss thy claim with Frederick ; and when that 
 is done " 
 
 "It is done," replied Manfred : "Frederick accepts Matilda's 
 hand, and is content to waive his claim, unless I have no male 
 issue." 
 
 As he spoke those words, three drops of blood fell from the 
 nose of Alfonso's statue. Manfred turned pale, and the princess 
 sank on her knees : 
 
 "Behold !" said the friar: "mark this miraculous indication 
 that the blood of Alfonso will never mix with that of Manfred !" 
 
 "My gracious lord," said Hippolita, "let us submit ourselves 
 to Heaven. Think not thy ever-obedient wife rebels against 
 thy authority, I have no will but that of my lord and the church. 
 To that revered tribunal let us appeal. It does not depend on us 
 to burst the bonds that unite us. If the church shall approve 
 the dissolution of our marriage be it so. I have but few years, 
 and those of sorrow, to pass. Where can they be worn away so 
 well as at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and Matilda's 
 safety?" 
 
 "But thou shalt not remain here until then," said Manfred. 
 "Repair with me to the castle, and there I will advise on the 
 proper measures for a divorce ; but this meddling friar comes not 
 thither ; my hospitable roof shall never more harbour a traitor 
 — and for thy reverence's offspring," continued he, "I banish him 
 from my dominions. He, I ween, is no sacred personage, nor 
 under the protection of the church. Whoever weds Isabella, it 
 shall not be Father Falconara's start-up son." 
 
 "They start up," said the friar, "who are suddenly beheld in 
 the seat of lawful princes ; but they wither away like the grass, 
 and their place knows them no more." 
 
 Manfred, casting a look of scorn at the friar, led Hippolita 
 forth ; but, at the door of the church, whispered one of his at- 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 561 
 
 tendants to remain concealed about the convent, and bring him 
 instant notice, if any one from the castle should repair thither. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Every reflection which Manfred made on the friar's behaviour 
 conspired to persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour 
 between Isabella and Theodore. But Jerome's new presumption, 
 so dissonant from his former meekness, suggested still deeper 
 apprehensions. The prince even suspected that the friar de- 
 pended on some secret support from Frederick, whose arrival, 
 coinciding with the novel appearance of Theodore, seemed to 
 bespeak a correspondence. Still more was he troubled with the 
 resemblance of Theodore to Alfonso's portrait. The latter he 
 knew had unquestionably died without issue. Frederick had 
 consented to bestow Isabella on him. These contradictions 
 agitated his mind with numberless pangs. He saw but two 
 methods of extricating himself from his difficulties. The one 
 was to resign his dominions to the Marquis. Pride, ambition, 
 and his reliance on ancient prophecies, which had pointed out a 
 possibility of preserving them to his posterity, combatted that 
 thought. The other was to press his marriage with Isabella. 
 After long ruminating on these anxious thoughts, as he marched 
 silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last discoursed with 
 that princess on the subject of his disquiet, and used every in- 
 sinuating and plausible argument to extract her consent to, even 
 her promise of promoting, the divorce. Hippolita needed little 
 persuasion to bend her to his pleasure. She endeavoured to win 
 him over to the measure of resigning his dominions ; but, finding 
 her exhortations fruitless, she assured him, that, as far as her 
 conscience would allow, she would raise no opposition to a sepa- 
 ration ; though, without better-founded scruples than what he 
 yet alleged, she would not engage to be active in demanding it. 
 
 This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise 
 Manfred's hopes. He trusted that his power and wealth would 
 easily advance his suit at the court of Rome, whither he resolved 
 to engage Frederick to take a journey on purpose. That prince 
 had discovered so much passion for Matilda, that Manfred hoped 
 
562 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 to obtain all he wished by holding out or withdrawing his daugh- 
 ter's charms, according as the Marquis should appear more or 
 less disposed to cooperate in his views. Even the absence of 
 Frederick would be a material point gained, until he could take 
 farther measures for his security. 
 
 Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that of 
 the Marquis ; but crossing the great hall, through which he was 
 to pass, he met Bianca. The damsel he knew was in the con- 
 fidence of both the young ladies. It immediately occurred to 
 him to sift her on the subject of Isabella and Theodore. CalHng 
 her aside into the recess of the oriel window of the hall, and sooth- 
 ing her with many fair words and promises, he demanded of her 
 whether she knew aught of the state of Isabella's affections ? 
 
 *'I ! my lord ! no, my lord yes, my lord — poor lady ! 
 
 she is wonderfully alarmed about her father's wounds ; but I 
 tell her he will do well, — don't your highness think so ?" 
 
 "I do not ask you," replied Manfred, "what she thinks about 
 her father : but you are in her secrets : come, be a good girl, and 
 tell me ; is there any young man — ha ! — you understand me." 
 
 "Lord, bless me! understand your highness — no, not I; 
 I told her a few vulnerary herbs and repose " 
 
 "I am not talking," replied the prince, impatiently, "about her 
 father : I know he will do well." 
 
 "Bless me, I rejoice to hear your highness say so : for though 
 I thought it not right to let my young lady despond, methought 
 his greatness had a wan look, and a something — I remember 
 when young Ferdinand was wounded by the Venetian " 
 
 "Thou answerest from the point," interrupted Manfred; 
 "but here, take this jewel ; perhaps that may fix thy attention — 
 nay, no reverences ; my favour shall not stop here. Come, tell 
 me truly; how stands Isabella's heart?" 
 
 "Well ! your highness has such a way !" said Bianca, "to be 
 
 sure, but can your highness keep a secret ? — if it should 
 
 ever come out of your Ups ■" 
 
 "It shall not, it shall not," cried Manfred. 
 
 "Nay, but swear, your highness: — by my halidame, if it 
 should ever be known that I said it — Why, truth is truth, I do 
 not think my lady Isabella ever much affectioned my young lord, 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 563 
 
 your son — yet he was a sweet youth as one should see. I am 
 sure, if I had been a princess — but, bless me ! I must attend 
 my Lady Matilda ; she will marvel what is become of me." 
 
 "Stay," cried Manfred ; "thou hast not satisfied my question. 
 Hast thou ever carried any message, any letter?" 
 
 "I! good gracious!" cried Bianca; "I carry a letter? I 
 would not, to be a queen. I hope your highness thinks, though 
 I am poor, I am honest ; — did your highness never hear what 
 Count Marsigli offered me, when he came a-wooing to my Lady 
 Matilda?" 
 
 "I have not leisure," said Manfred, "to Ksten to thy tale. 
 I do not question thy honesty ; but it is thy duty to conceal 
 nothing from me. How long has Isabella been acquainted with 
 Theodore?" 
 
 "Nay, there is nothing can escape your highness!" said 
 Bianca — "not that I know any thing of the matter. Theodore, 
 to be sure, is a proper young man, and, as my Lady Matilda says, 
 the very image of good Alfonso : has not your highness remarked 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, — no — thou torturest me," said Manfred. 
 "Where did they meet ? — when ?" 
 
 "Who ! my Lady Matilda ?" said Bianca. 
 
 "No, no, not Matilda; Isabella. When did Isabella first 
 become acquainted with this Theodore?" 
 
 "Virgin Mary !" said Bianca, "how should I know ?" 
 
 "Thou dost know!" said Manfred, "and I must know; I 
 will ■" 
 
 "Lord! your highness is not jealous of young Theodore!" 
 said Bianca. 
 
 "Jealous! no, no: why shcfuld I be jealous? — perhaps I 
 mean to unite them. If I were sure Isabella would have no 
 repugnance ■" 
 
 "Repugnance ! no, I'll warrant her," said Bianca: "he is as 
 comely a youth as ever trod on Christian ground. We are all 
 in love with him ; there is not a soul in the castle but would be 
 rejoiced to have him for our prince — I mean, when it shall 
 please Heaven to call your Highness to itself." 
 
 "Indeed!" said Manfred: "has it gone so far? Oh! this 
 
564 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 cursed friar ! — but I must not lose time : — go, Bianca, attend 
 Isabella : but, I charge thee, not a word of what has passed. 
 Find out how she is affected towards Theodore : bring me good 
 news, and that ring has a companion. Wait at the foot of the 
 winding staircase : I am going to visit the Marquis, and will 
 talk further with thee on my return." 
 
 Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederick 
 to dismiss the two knights, his companions, having to talk with 
 him on urgent affairs. As soon as they were alone, he began, in 
 artful disguise, to sound the Marquis on the subject of Matilda : 
 and, finding him disposed to his wish, he let drop hints on the 
 difficulties that would attend the celebration of their marriage, 
 
 unless at that instant Bianca burst into the room, with 
 
 a wildness in her look and gestures that spoke the utmost 
 terror. 
 
 *'0h ! my lord, my lord !" cried she, "we are all undone ! it is 
 come again ! it is come again !" 
 
 "What is come again ?" cried Manfred, amazed. 
 
 "Oh ! the hand ; the giant ! the hand ! — support me ! I am 
 terrified out of my senses," cried Bianca. "I will not sleep in 
 the castle to-night. Where shall I go ? — my things may come 
 after me to-morrow — would I had been content to wed Fran- 
 cesco ! — this comes of ambition !" 
 
 "What has terrified thee thus, young woman ?" said the Mar- 
 quis ; "thou art safe here; be not alarmed." 
 
 " Oh ! your greatness is wonderfully good," said Bianca ; "but 
 I dare not — no, pray, let me go ^ I had rather leave everything 
 behind me than stay another hour under this roof." 
 
 "Go to — thou hast lost thy senses," said Manfred. "In- 
 terrupt us not ; we were communing on important matters. My 
 lord, this wench is subject to fits. Come with me, Bianca." 
 
 "Oh ! the saints ! no," said Bianca : "for certain it comes to 
 warn your highness : why should it appear to me else ? I say 
 my prayers morning and evening — oh ! if your highness had 
 believed Diego ! it is the same hand that he saw the foot to in 
 the gallery chamber — Father Jerome has often told us the proph- 
 ecy would be out one of these days: 'Bianca,' said he, 'mark 
 my words ' " 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 565 
 
 "Thou ravest," said Manfred, in a rage; "begone, and keep 
 these fooleries to frighten thy companions." 
 
 "What ! my lord," cried Bianca, "do you think I have seen 
 nothing ? go to the foot of the great stairs yourself — as I Hve, 
 I saw it." 
 
 "Saw what? tell us, fair maid, what thou hast seen," said 
 Frederick. 
 
 "Can your highness Hsten," said Manfred, "to the delirium of 
 a silly wench, who has heard stories of apparitions until she be- 
 lieves them ?" 
 
 "This is more than fancy," said the Marquis; "her terror is 
 too natural and too strongly impressed to be the work of imag- 
 ination. Tell us, fair maiden, what it is has moved thee thus," 
 
 "Yes, my lord; thank your greatness," said Bianca. "I 
 believe I look very pale ; I shall be better when I have recovered 
 myself. I was going to my Lady's Isabella's chamber, by his 
 highness's order " 
 
 "We do not want the circumstances," interrupted Manfred: 
 "since his highness will have it so, proceed ; but be brief." 
 
 "Lord! your highness thwarts one so!" replied Bianca: 
 "I fear my hair — I am sure I never in my life — well ! as I 
 was telling your greatness, I was going, by his highness's order, 
 to my Lady Isabella's chamber : she lies in the watchet-coloured 
 chamber, on the right hand, one pair of stairs : so when I came 
 to the great stairs — I was looking on his highness's present 
 here " 
 
 "Grant me patience," said Manfred; "will this wench ever 
 come to the point ? — what imports it to the Marquis, that I 
 gave thee a bauble for thy faithful attendance on my daughter ? 
 — we want to know what thou sawest." 
 
 "I was going to tell your highness," said Bianca, "if you would 
 permit me. So, as I was rubbing the ring — I am sure I had not 
 gone up three steps, but I heard the rattling of armour ; for all 
 the world such a clatter, as Diego says he heard when the giant 
 turned him about in the gallery chamber." 
 
 "What does she mean, my lord ? " said the Marquis : "is your 
 castle haunted by giants and gobhns ? " 
 
 "Lord ! what, has not your greatness heard the story of the 
 
566 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 giant in the gallery chamber?" cried Bianca, "I marvel his 
 highness has not told you — mayhap you do not know there is 
 a prophecy — — " 
 
 "This trifling is intolerable," interrupted Manfred. "Let us 
 dismiss the silly wench, my lord ! we have more important affairs 
 to discuss." 
 
 "By your favour," said Frederick, "these are no trifles: the 
 enormous sabre I was directed to in the wood, — yon casque, its 
 fellow, — ^ are these visions of this poor maiden's brain?" 
 
 "So Jaquez thinks, may it please your greatness," said Bianca. 
 "He says the moon will not be out without our seeing some 
 strange revolution. For my part I should not be surprised if 
 it was to happen to-morrow ; for as I was saying, when I heard 
 the clattering of armour, I was all in a cold sweat, I looked up, 
 and if your greatness will believe me, I saw upon the uppermost 
 banister of the stair a hand in armour, as big, as big — I thought 
 I should have swooned — I never stopped until I came hither — 
 would I were well out of this castle ! My Lady Matilda told 
 me but yester-morning that her highness Hippolita knows some- 
 thing " 
 
 "Thou art an insolent," cried Manfred. "Lord Marquis, 
 it much misgives me that this scene is concerted to affront me. 
 Are my own domestics suborned to spread tales injurious to my 
 honour ? Pursue your claim by manly daring ; or let us bury 
 our feuds, as was proposed, by the intermarriage of our children : 
 but trust me, it ill becomes a prince of your bearing to practise 
 on mercenary wenches." 
 
 "I scorn your imputation," said Frederick: "until this hour 
 I never set eyes on this damsel : I have given her no jewel ! — 
 My lord, my lord, your conscience, your guilt accuses you, and 
 you would throw the suspicion on me. But keep your daughter, 
 and think no more of Isabella. The judgments already fallen 
 on your house forbid me matching into it." 
 
 Manfred, alarmed at the resolute tone in which Frederick de- 
 livered these words, endeavoured to pacify him. Dismissing 
 Bianca, he made such submissions to the Marquis, and threw in 
 such artful encomiums of Matilda, that Frederick was once 
 more staggered. However, as his passion was of so recent a 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 567 
 
 date, it could not, at once, surmount the scruples he had con- 
 ceived. He had gathered enough from Bianca's discourse to 
 persuade him that Heaven declared itself against Manfred. 
 The proposed marriages, too, removed his claim to a distance ; 
 and the principahty of Otranto was a stronger temptation than 
 the contingent reversion of it with Matilda. Still he would not 
 absolutely recede from his engagements ; but, purposing to gain 
 time, he demanded of Manfred if it was true, in fact, that Hip- 
 polita consented to the divorce. The prince, transported to find 
 no other obstacle, and depending on his influence over his wife, 
 assured the Marquis it was so, and that he might satisfy himself 
 of the truth from her own mouth. 
 
 As they were thus discoursing, word was brought that the 
 banquet was prepared. Manfred conducted Frederick to the 
 great hall, where they were received by Hippolita and the young 
 princesses. Manfred placed the Marquis next to Matilda, and 
 seated himself between his wife and Isabella. Hippolita com- 
 ported herself with an easy gravity ; but the young ladies were 
 silent and melancholy. Manfred, who was determined to pursue 
 his point with the Marquis in the remainder of the evening, 
 pushed on the feast until it waxed late ; affecting unrestrained 
 gaiety, and plying Frederick with repeated goblets of wine. The 
 latter, more upon his guard than Manfred wished, declined his 
 frequent challenges, on pretence of his late loss of blood ; while 
 the prince, to raise his own disordered spirits, and to counter- 
 feit unconcern, indulged himself in plentiful draughts, though 
 not to the intoxication of his senses. 
 
 The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded. 
 Manfred would have withdrawn with Frederick : but the latter 
 pleading weakness and want of repose, retired to his chamber, 
 gallantly telling the prince, that his daughter should amuse his 
 highness until himself could attend him. Manfred accepted the 
 party, and, to the no small grief of Isabella, accompanied her 
 to her apartment. Matilda waited on her mother to enjoy the 
 freshness of the evening on the ramparts of the castle. 
 
 Soon as the company were dispersed their several ways, 
 Frederick, quitting his chamber, inquired if Hippolita was alone, 
 and was told by one of her attendants, who had not noticed her 
 
568 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 going forth, that at that hour she generally withdrew to her 
 oratory, where he probably would find her. The Marquis, 
 during the repast, had beheld Matilda with increase of passion. 
 He now wished to find Hippohta in the disposition her lord had 
 promised. The portents that had alarmed him were forgotten 
 in his desires. Stealing softly and unobserved to the apartment 
 of Hippohta, he entered it with a resolution to encourage her 
 acquiescence to the divorce, having perceived that Manfred was 
 resolved to make the possession of Isabella an unalterable con- 
 dition, before he would grant Matilda to his wishes. 
 
 The Marquis was not surprised at the silence that reigned in 
 the princess's apartment. Concluding her, as he had been ad- 
 vertised, in her oratory, he passed on. The door was ajar; the 
 evening gloomy and overcast. Pushing open the door gently, 
 he saw a person kneeling before the altar. As he approached 
 nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one in a long woolen weed, 
 whose back was towards him. The person seemed absorbed in 
 prayer. The Marquis was about to return, when the figure, 
 rising, stood some moments fixed in meditation, without regard- 
 ing him. The Marquis, expecting the holy person to come forth, 
 and meaning to excuse his uncivil interruption, said, "Reverend 
 father, I sought the Lady Hippohta." 
 
 "Hippohta!" replied a hollow voice, "camest thou to this 
 castle to seek Hippolita?" and then the figure, turning slowly 
 round, discovered to Frederick the fieshless jaws and empty 
 sockets of a skeleton, wrapped in a hermit's cowl." 
 
 "Angels of grace, protect me!" cried Frederick, recoiling. 
 
 "Deserve their protection !" said the spectre. 
 
 Frederick, falling on his knees, adjured the phantom to take 
 pity on him. 
 
 " Dost thou not remember me ? " said the apparition. "Re- 
 member the wood of Joppa ! " 
 
 "Art thou that holy hermit?" cried Frederick, trembling. 
 "Can I do aught for thy eternal peace?" 
 
 "Wast thou delivered from bondage," said the spectre, "to 
 pursue carnal delights ? — Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, 
 and the behest of heaven engraven on it ?" 
 
 "I have not, I have not," said Frederick: "but say, blessed 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 569 
 
 spirit, what is thy errand to me : — what remains to be 
 done?" 
 
 "To forget Matilda!" said the apparition — and vanished. 
 
 Frederick's blood froze in his veins. For some minutes he 
 remained motionless. Then, falling prostrate on his face before 
 the altar, he besought the intercession of every saint for pardon. 
 A flood of tears succeeded to this transport; and the image of 
 the beauteous Matilda, rushing, in spite of him, on his thoughts, 
 he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion. 
 
 Ere he could recover from this agony of his spirits, the Princess 
 Hippolita, with a taper in her hand, entered the oratory alone. 
 Seeing a man without motion, on the floor, she gave a shriek, 
 concluding him dead. Her fright brought Frederick to himself. 
 Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have 
 rushed from her presence : but Hippolita stopping him, conjured 
 him, in the most plaintive accents, to explain the cause of his 
 disorder, and by what strange chance she had found him there 
 in that posture. 
 
 "Ah! virtuous princess," said the Marquis, penetrated with 
 grief — • and stopped. 
 
 "For the love of Heaven, my lord," said Hippolita, "disclose 
 the cause of this transport ! What means these doleful sounds, 
 this alarming exclamation on my name ? What woes has Heaven 
 still in store for the wretched Hippolita ? — Yet silent ! — By 
 every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble prince," continued she, 
 falling at his feet, "to disclose the purport of what lies at thy 
 heart — I see thou feelest for me ; thou feelest the sharp pangs 
 that thou inflictest — speak for pity ! — dost aught thou knowest 
 concern my child ? " 
 
 "I cannot speak," cried Frederick, bursting from her — "Oh ! 
 Matilda!" 
 
 Quitting the princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own 
 apartment. At the door of it he was accosted by Manfred, who, 
 flushed by wine and love, had come to seek him, and to propose 
 to waste some hours of the night in music and revelling. Fred- 
 erick, offended at an invitation so dissonant from the mood of 
 his soul, pushed him rudely aside, and entering his chamber, 
 flung the door intemperately against Manfred, and bolted it 
 
570 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 inwards. The haughty prince, enraged at this unaccountable 
 behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable of the most fatal 
 excesses. As he crossed the court, he was met by the domestic, 
 whom he had planted at the convent as a spy on Jerome and 
 Theodore. This man, almost breathless with the haste he had 
 made, informed his lord, that Theodore and some lady from the 
 castle were at that instant in private conference at the tomb of 
 Alfonso, in St. Nicholas's church. He had dogged Theodore 
 thither, but the gloominess of the night had prevented his dis- 
 covering who the woman was. 
 
 Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom Isabella had 
 driven from her on his urging his passion with too little reserve, 
 did not doubt but the inquietude she had expressed had been 
 occasioned by her impatience to meet Theodore. Provoked by 
 this conjecture, and enraged at her father, he hastened secretly 
 to the great church. Gliding softly between the aisles, and 
 guided by an imperfect gleam of moonshine, that shone faintly 
 through the illuminated windows, he stole towards the tomb of 
 Alfonso, to which he was directed by indistinct whispers of the 
 persons he sought. The first sounds he could distinguish were 
 — "Does it, alas ! depend on me? Manfred will never permit 
 our union " 
 
 "No, this shall prevent it!" cried the tyrant, drawing his 
 dagger, and plunging it over his shoulder into the bosom of the 
 person that spoke. 
 
 "Ah, me ! I am slain!" cried Matilda, sinking: "good 
 heaven, receive my soul !" 
 
 "Savage, inhuman monster! what hast thou done?" cried 
 Theodore, rushing on him, and wrenching his dagger from him. 
 
 "Stop, stop thy impious hand!" cried Matilda: "it is my 
 father!" 
 
 Manfred, waking as from a trance, beat his breast, twisted 
 his hands in his locks, and endeavoured to recover his dagger 
 from Theodore, to despatch himself. Theodore, scarce less 
 distracted, and only mastering the transports of his grief, to 
 assist Matilda, had now, by his cries, drawn some of the monks 
 to his aid. While part of them endeavoured, in concert with 
 the afflicted Theodore, to stop the blood of the dying princess, 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 571 
 
 the rest prevented Manfred from laying violent hands on 
 himself. 
 
 Matilda, resigning herself patiently to her fate, acknowledged, 
 with looks of grateful love, the zeal of Theodore. Yet, oft as 
 her faintness would permit her speech its way, she begged the 
 assistants to comfort her father. Jerome by this time had 
 learned the fatal news, and reached the church. His looks 
 seemed to reproach Theodore : but, turning to Manfred, he said, 
 
 — ''Now, tyrant ! behold the completion of woe fulfilled on thy 
 impious and devoted head ! The blood of Alfonso cried to heaven 
 for vengeance, and heaven has permitted its altar to be polluted 
 by assassination, that thou mightest shed thy own blood at the 
 foot of that prince's sepulchre !" 
 
 "Cruel man!" cried Matilda, "to aggravate the woes of a 
 parent ! may Heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do ! 
 My lord, my gracious sire, dost thou forgive thy child ? In- 
 deed I came not hither to meet Theodore ! I found him praying 
 at this tomb, whither my mother sent me to intercede for thee, 
 
 for her dearest father, bless your child, and say you forgive 
 
 her." 
 
 "Forgive thee ! — murderous monster!" cried Manfred, — 
 "can assassins forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but Heaven 
 directed my bloody hand to the heart of my child. Oh ! Matilda 
 
 — I cannot utter it — canst thou forgive the blindness of my 
 rage ?" 
 
 "I can, I do ! and may Heaven confirm it !" said Matilda — 
 "but while I have hfe to ask it — Oh ! my mother ! what will 
 she feel ? will you comfort her ? my lord ! will you not put her 
 away ? indeed she loves you — oh ! I am faint ! bear me to 
 the castle — can I live to have her close my eyes ?" 
 
 Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer 
 herself to be borne into the convent; but her instances were 
 so pressing to be carried to the castle, that, placing her on a 
 Htter, they conveyed her thither as she requested. Theodore, 
 supporting her head with his arm, and hanging over her in an 
 agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her with 
 hopes of life. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with 
 discourses of Heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which 
 
572 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 she bathed with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to 
 immortahty. Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, fol- 
 lowed the litter in despair. 
 
 Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dread- 
 ful catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child: but 
 when she saw the afflicted procession, the mightiness of her 
 grief deprived her of her senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth 
 in a swoon. Isabella and Frederick, who attended her, were 
 overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed 
 insensible to her own situation : every thought was lost in tender- 
 ness for her mother. Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as 
 Hippolita was brought to herself, she asked for her father. He 
 approached, unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his hand and 
 her mother's, locked them in her own, and clasped them to her 
 heart. Manfred could not support this act of pathetic piety. 
 He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he was born. 
 Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were more 
 than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred 
 to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be 
 conveyed to the nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive 
 than her daughter, was regardless of every thing but her : but 
 when the tender Isabella's care would have likewise removed 
 her, while the surgeons examined Matilda's wound, she cried, — 
 
 ''Remove me ! never ! never ! I lived but in her, and will 
 expire with her." 
 
 Matilda raised her eyes at her mother's voice, but closed them 
 again without speaking. Her sinking pulse, and the damp 
 coldness of her hand, soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. 
 Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer chamber, and 
 heard them pronounce the fatal sentence, with a transport equal 
 to frenzy. 
 
 "Since she cannot live mine," cried he, "at least she shall be 
 mine in death ! Father ! Jerome ! will you not join our hands ? " 
 cried he to the friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the 
 surgeons. 
 
 "What means thy distracted rashness?" said Jerome: "Is 
 this an hour for marriage ?" 
 
 "It is, it is," cried Theodore; "alas ! there is no other !" 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 573 
 
 "Young man, thou art too unadvised," said Frederick: — 
 "dost thou think we are to listen to thy fond transports in this 
 hour of fate? — what pretensions hast thou to the princess?" 
 
 "Those of a prince," said Theodore — "of the sovereign of 
 Otranto. This reverend man, my father, has informed me who 
 I am." 
 
 "Thou ravest," said the Marquis; "there is no prince of 
 Otranto but myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious 
 murder, has forfeited all pretensions." 
 
 "My lord," said Jerome, assuming an air of command, "he 
 tells you true. It was not my purpose the secret should have 
 been divulged so soon ; but fate presses onward to its work. 
 What his hot-headed passion has revealed, my tongue con- 
 firms. Know, prince, that when Alfonso set sail for the Holy 
 Land " 
 
 "Is this a season for explanation?" cried Theodore. — 
 "Father, come and unite me to the princess : she shall be mine 
 
 — in every other thing I will dutifully obey you. My life, my 
 adored Matilda!" continued Theodore, rushing back into the 
 inner chamber, "will you not be mine? will you not bless 
 your " 
 
 Isabella made signs for him to be silent, apprehending the 
 princess was near her end. 
 
 "What ! is she dead ?" cried Theodore : "is it possible ?" 
 
 The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. 
 Lifting up her eyes, she looked round for her mother. 
 
 "Life of my soul ! I am here," cried HippoHta; "think not 
 I will quit thee !" 
 
 "Oh ! you are too good," said Matilda — "but weep not for 
 me, my mother ! — I am going where sorrow never dwells — 
 Isabella, thou hast loved me ; wilt thou not supply my fondness 
 to this dear, dear woman? — indeed I am faint!" 
 
 "Oh, my child! my child!" said HippoHta, in a flood of 
 tears : "can I not withhold thee a moment ? " 
 
 "It will not be," said Matilda ^ — "commend me to Heaven: 
 
 — where is my father ? — forgive him, dearest mother — for- 
 give him my death ; it was an error — Oh ! I had forgotten — 
 dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore more — perhaps 
 
574 
 
 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 that has drawn down this calamity — but it was not intentional 
 — can you pardon me ? " 
 
 "Oh ! wound not my agonising soul ! " said Hippolita ; *'thou 
 never couldst offend me — Alas ! she faints ! help ! help !" 
 
 "I would say something more," said Matilda, struggHng; 
 "but it cannot be! Isabella — Theodore — for my sake — • 
 Oh !" — she expired. 
 
 Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corpse ; but 
 Theodore threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove 
 him from it. He printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold* 
 hands, and uttered every expression that despairing love could 
 dictate. 
 
 Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted 
 Hippolita to her apartment ; but, in the middle of the court, 
 they were met by Manfred, who, distracted with his own 
 thoughts, and anxious once more to behold his daughter, was 
 advancing to the chamber where she lay. As the moon was now 
 at its height, he read, in the countenances of this unhappy com- 
 pany, the event he dreaded. 
 
 "What ! is she dead?" cried he, in wild confusion. A clap 
 of thunder at that instant shook the castle to its foundations; 
 the earth rocked, and the clank of more than mortal armour 
 was heard behind. Frederick and Jerome thought the last day 
 was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore along with them, 
 rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared, the 
 walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a 
 mighty force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense 
 magnitude, appeared in the centre of the ruins. 
 
 "Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!" said the 
 vision : and having pronounced these words, accompanied by a 
 clap of thunder, it ascended solemnly towards heaven, where, the 
 clouds parting asunder, the form of St. Nicholas was seen, and 
 receiving Alfonso's shade, they were soon wrapt from mortal 
 eyes in a blaze of glory. 
 
 The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the 
 divine will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita. 
 
 "My lord," said she, to the desponding Manfred, "behold the 
 vanity of human greatness ! Conrad is gone ! Matilda is no 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 575 
 
 more ! in Theodore we view the true Prince of Otranto. By 
 what miracle he is so, I know not — suffice it to us — our doom 
 is pronounced ! shall we not, can we but dedicate the few de- 
 plorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the farther wrath 
 of Heaven ? Heaven ejects us — whither can we fly, but to yon 
 holy cells that yet offer us a retreat ?" 
 
 "Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my 
 crimes!" replied Manfred, "my heart at last is open to thy 
 devout admonitions. Oh ! could — but it cannot be — ye are 
 lost in wonder — let me at last do justice on myself ! To heap 
 shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left to offer 
 to offended Heaven. My story has drawn down these judg- 
 ments : let my confession atone — but ah ! what can atone for 
 usurpation, and a murdered child ! a child murdered in a con- 
 secrated place ! List, sirs, and may this bloody record be a 
 warning to future tyrants ! 
 
 "Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land. Ye would 
 interrupt me ; ye would say he came not fairly to his end. It is 
 most true ; why else this bitter cup, which Manfred must drink 
 to the dregs ? Ricardo, my grandfather, was his chamberlain — 
 I would draw a veil over my ancestor's crimes — but it is in vain ! 
 Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will declared Ricardo his 
 heir. His crimes pursued him — yet he lost no Conrad, no 
 Matilda ! I pay the price of usurpation for all ! A storm over- 
 took him. Haunted by his guilt, he vowed to St. Nicholas to 
 found a church and two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. 
 The sacrifice was accepted : the saint appeared to him in a dream, 
 and promised that Ricardo's posterity should reign in Otranto 
 until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit 
 the castle, and as long as issue male from Ricardo's loins should 
 remain to enjoy it. Alas ! alas ! nor male nor female, except 
 myself, remains of all his wretched race ! — I have done — the 
 woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man 
 can be Alfonso's heir, I know not — yet I do not doubt it. His 
 are these dominions ; I resign them — yet I knew not Alfonso 
 had an heir — I question not the will of Heaven — poverty and 
 prayer must fill up the woeful space, until Manfred shall be 
 summoned to Ricardo." 
 
576 HORACE WALPOLE 
 
 "What remains is my part to declare," said Jerome. "When 
 Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land, he was driven by a storm to 
 the coast of Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and 
 his train, as your lordship must have heard, was separated from 
 him." 
 
 "It is most true," said Manfred : "and the title you give 
 me is more than an outcast can claim — • well ! be it so — 
 proceed." 
 
 Jerome blushed, and continued. "For three months Lord 
 Alfonso was wind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured 
 of a fair virgin, named Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her 
 to forbidden pleasures. They were married. Yet deeming this 
 amour incongruous with the holy vow of arms by which he was 
 bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials, until his return 
 from the Crusade, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her 
 for his lawful wife. He left her pregnant. During his absence, 
 she was delivered of a daughter : but scarce had she felt a 
 mother's pangs, ere she heard the fatal rumour of her lord's 
 death, and the succession of Ricardo. What could a friendless, 
 helpless woman do ? Would her testimony avail ? Yet, my 
 lord, I have an authentic writing — ^" 
 
 "It needs not," said Manfred : "the horrors of these days, the 
 vision we have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond 
 a thousand parchments. Matilda's death, and my expul- 
 sion " 
 
 "Be composed, my lord," said Hippolita ; "this holy man did 
 not mean to recall your griefs." 
 
 Jerome proceeded : — 
 
 "I shall not dwell on what is needless, — the daughter of 
 which Victoria was delivered, was, at her maturity, bestowed in 
 marriage on me. Victoria died ; and the secret remained locked 
 in my breast. Theodore's narrative has told the rest." 
 
 The friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the 
 remaining part of the castle. In the morning, Manfred signed 
 his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of Hip- 
 pohta, and each took on them the habit of rehgion in the neigh- 
 bouring convents. Frederick offered his daughter to the new 
 prince, which Hippolita's tenderness for Isabella concurred to 
 
THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO 577 
 
 promote; but Theodore's grief was too fresh to admit the 
 thought of another love ; and it was not until after frequent dis- 
 courses with Isabella, of his dear Matilda, that he was persuaded 
 he could know no happiness but in the society of one with whom 
 he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken pos- 
 session of his soul. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 
 
 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 PLACE, ITALY AND FRANCE; TIME, 1584 
 PART I. CHAPTER XIX 
 
 [The Journey to Udolpho] 
 
 At length the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. 
 The immense pine-forests which at that period overhung these 
 mountains, and between which the road wound, excluded all 
 view but of the cliffs aspiring above, except that now and then an 
 opening through the dark woods allowed the eye a momentary 
 glimpse of the country below. The gloom of these shades, their 
 solitary silence, except when the breeze swept over their sum- 
 mits, the tremendous precipices of the mountains that came 
 partially- to the eye, each assisted to raise the solemnity of 
 Emily's ^ feelings into awe : she saw only images of gloomy gran- 
 deur, or of dreadful sublimity, around her ; other images, equally 
 gloomy, and equally terrible, gleamed on her imagination. She 
 was going she scarcely knew whither, under the dominion of a 
 person from whose arbitrary disposition she had already suffered 
 so much; to marry, perhaps, a man who possessed neither her 
 affection nor esteem ; or to endure, beyond the hope of succour, 
 whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge, might 
 dictate. — The more she considered what might be the motive 
 of the journey, the more she became convinced that it was for 
 the purpose of concluding her nuptials with Count Morano, with 
 the secrecy which her resolute resistance had made necessary to 
 the honour, if not to the safety, of Montoni. From the deep 
 
 1 Emily St. Aubert, an orphan, was consigned by her father at his death to the guardian- 
 ship of his widowed sister, Madame Cheron. The latter has now become the wife of the 
 unscrupulous Montoni. The travellers mentioned here are Emily and Montoni and his 
 wife. 
 
 578 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 579 
 
 solitudes into which she was emerging, and from the gloomy 
 castle of which she had heard some mysterious hints, her sick 
 heart recoiled in despair, and she experienced that, though her 
 mind was already occupied by peculiar distress, it was still alive 
 to the influence of new and local circumstance ; why else did 
 she shudder at the image of this desolate castle ? 
 
 As the travellers still ascended among the pine-forests, steep 
 rose over steep, the mountains seemed to multiply as they went, 
 and what was the summit of one eminence proved to be only the 
 base of another. At length they reached a little plain, where the 
 drivers stopped to rest the mules, when a scene of such extent 
 and magnificence opened below, as drew even from Madame 
 Montoni a note of admiration. Emily lost for a moment her 
 sorrows in the immensity of nature. Beyond the amphitheatre of 
 mountains that stretched below, whose tops appeared as numer- 
 ous almost as the waves of the sea, and whose feet were concealed 
 by the forests — extended the campagna of Italy, where cities 
 and rivers and woods, and all the glow of cultivation, were mingled 
 in gay confusion. The Adriatic bounded the horizon, into which 
 the Po and the Brenta, after winding through the whole extent 
 of the landscape, poured their fruitful waves. Emily gazed 
 long on the splendours of the world she was quitting, of which the 
 whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to 
 increase her regret on leaving it : for her, Valancourt ^ alone was 
 in that world ; to him alone her heart turned, and for him alone 
 fell her bitter tears. 
 
 From this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend 
 among the pines, till they entered a narrow pass of the moun- 
 tains, which shut out every feature of the distant country, and in 
 its stead exhibited only tremendous crags impending over the 
 road, where no vestige of humanity, or even of vegetation, ap- 
 peared, except here and there the trunk and scathed branches of 
 an oak, that hung nearly headlong from the rock into which its 
 strong roots had fastened. This pass, which led into the heart 
 of the Apennines, at length opened to day, and a scene of moun- 
 tains stretched in long perspective, as wild as any the travellers 
 had yet passed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their base, 
 
 ^ Emily's betrothed. He was not acknowledged by Madame Montoni. 
 
580 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 and crowned the ridgy precipice that rose perpendicularly from 
 the vale, while, above, the rolling mists caught the sun-beams, 
 and touched their cliffs with all the magical colouring of light and 
 shade. The scene seemed perpetually changing, and its features 
 to assume new forms, as the winding road brought them to the 
 eye in different attitudes ; while the shifting vapours, now 
 partially concealing their minuter beauties, and now illuminating 
 them with splendid tints, assisted the illusions of the sight. 
 
 Though the deep valleys between these mountains were for 
 the most part clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening 
 presented a perspective of only barren rocks, with a cataract 
 flashing from their summit among broken cliffs, till its waters, 
 reaching the bottom, foamed along with louder fury ; and some- 
 times pastoral scenes exhibited their 'green delights' in the nar- 
 row vales, smiling amid surrounding horror. There herds and 
 flocks of goats and sheep browsing under the shade of hanging 
 woods, and the shepherd's little cabin reared on the margin of a 
 clear stream, presented a sweet picture of repose. 
 
 Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far 
 less of the sublime than had those of the Alps which guard the 
 entrance of Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt 
 those emotions of indescribable awe which she had so continually 
 experienced in her passage over the Alps. 
 
 Towards the close of day the road wound into a deep valley. 
 Mountains, whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, 
 almost surrounded it. To the east a vista opened, and exhibited 
 the Apennines in their darkest horrors ; and the long perspective 
 of retiring summits rising over each other, their ridges clothed 
 with pines, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur than any that 
 Emily had yet seen. The sun had just sunk below the top of the 
 mountains she was descending, whose long shadow stretched 
 athwart the valley; but his sloping rays, shooting through an 
 opening of the chffs, touched with a yellow gleam the summits 
 of the forest that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed in 
 full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle that 
 spread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. 
 The splendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the 
 contrasted shade which involved the valley below. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 581 
 
 'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several 
 hours, 'is Udolpho.' 
 
 Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she 
 understood to be Montoni's ; for, though it was now lighted up 
 by the setting sun, the gothic greatness of its features, and its 
 mouldering walls of dark gray stone, rendered it a gloomy and 
 sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on its walls, 
 leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper 
 as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battle- 
 ments above were still tipped with splendour. From those, too, 
 the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the 
 solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it 
 seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance 
 on all who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight 
 deepened, its features became more awful in obscurity ; and 
 Emily continued to gaze, till its clustering towers were alone seen 
 rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the 
 carriages soon after began to ascend. 
 
 The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific 
 images in her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti 
 start up from under the trees. At length the carriages emerged 
 upon a heathy rock, and soon after reached the castle gates, where 
 the deep tone of the portal bell, which was struck upon to give 
 notice of their arrival, increased the fearful emotions that had 
 assailed Emily. While they waited till the servant within 
 should come to open the gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice : 
 but the gloom that overspread it allowed her to distinguish little 
 more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls of the ram- 
 parts, and to know that it was vast, ancient, and dreary. From 
 the parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent 
 of the whole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, 
 was of gigantic size, and was defended by two round towers 
 crowned by overhanging turrets embattled, where, instead of 
 banners, now waved long grass and wild plants that had taken 
 root among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh, 
 as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around them. The 
 towers were united by a curtain pierced and embattled also, below 
 which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis surmounting 
 
582 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 the gates : from these the walls of the ramparts extended to 
 other towers overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, 
 appearing on a gleam that lingered in the west, told of the ravages 
 of war. — Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of evening. 
 
 While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were 
 heard within the gates, and the undrawing of bolts ; after which 
 an ancient servant of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge 
 folds of the portal to admit his lord. As the carriage- wheels 
 rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she 
 seemed as if she was going into her prison ; the gloomy court into 
 which she passed, served to confirm the idea ; and her imagina- 
 tion, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even more terrors 
 than her reason could justify. 
 
 Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass- 
 grown and more wild than the first, where, as she surveyed 
 through the twilight its desolation — • its lofty walls overtopped 
 with briony, moss, and nightshade, and the embattled towers 
 that rose above — long suffering and murder came to her 
 thoughts. One of those instantaneous and unaccountable con- 
 victions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed 
 her with its horror. The sentiment was not diminished when 
 she entered an extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of 
 evening, which a light glimmering at a distance through a long 
 perspective of arches only rendered more striking. As a servant 
 brought the lamp nearer, partial gleams fell upon the pillars and 
 the pointed arches, forming a strong contrast with their shadows 
 that stretched along the pavement and the walls. 
 
 The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people 
 from making any other preparations for his reception than could 
 be had in the short interval since the arrival of the servant who 
 had been sent forward from Venice ; and this, in some measure, 
 may account for the air of extreme desolation that everywhere 
 appeared. 
 
 The servant who came to light Montoni bowed in silence, and 
 the muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy. 
 Montoni noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, 
 and passed on ; while his lady, following, and looking round with 
 a degree of surprise and discontent which she seemed fearful of 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 583 
 
 expressing, and Emily, surveying the extent and grandeur of 
 the hall in timid wonder, approached a marble staircase. The 
 arches here opened to a lofty vault, from the centre of which 
 hung a tripod lamp which a servant was hastily lighting ; and 
 the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor leading into several 
 upper apartments, and a painted window stretching nearly 
 from the pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually 
 visible. 
 
 Having crossed the foot of the staircase and passed through an 
 ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, 
 wainscoted with black larch- wood, the growth of the neighbour- 
 ing mountains, were scarcely distinguishable from darkness 
 itself. 
 
 'Bring more light,' said Montoni as he entered. 
 
 The servant, setting down his lamp, was withdrawing to obey 
 him ; when Madame Montoni observing that the evening air of 
 this mountainous region was cold, and that she should like a 
 fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought. 
 
 While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame 
 Montoni sat silently on a couch at the upper end of it waiting 
 till the servant returned, Emily was observing the singular 
 solemnity and desolation of the apartment, viewed as- it now was 
 by the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large Venetian 
 mirror that duskily reflected the scene, with the tall figure of 
 Montoni passing slowly along, his arms folded, and his coun- 
 tenance shaded by the plume that waved in his hat. 
 
 From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind pro- 
 ceeded to the apprehension of what she might suffer in it, tiU 
 the remembrance of Valancourt, far, far distant ! came to her 
 heart, and softened it into sorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her : 
 but trying to conceal her tears, she walked away to one of the 
 high windows that opened upon the ramparts, below which spread 
 the woods she had passed in her approach to the castle. But the 
 night shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond and their 
 indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon, 
 where a red streak yet glimmered in the west. The valley 
 between was sunk in darkness. 
 
 The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of 
 
584 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 the door, was scarcely less gloomy. The old servant who had 
 received them at the gates now entered, bending under a load 
 of pine branches, while two of Montoni's Venetian servants 
 followed with lights. 
 
 The fire was now lighted ; Carlo swept the hearth, placed 
 chairs, wiped the dust from a large marble table that stood near 
 it, and then left the room. 
 
 Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Mon- 
 toni made several attempts at conversation, but his sullen an- 
 swers repulsed her, while Emily sat endeavouring to acquire 
 courage enough to speak to him. At length, in a tremulous 
 voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir, the motive of this sudden jour- 
 ney ? ' — After a long pause she recovered sufficient courage to 
 repeat the question. 
 
 'It does not suit me to answer inquiries,' said Montoni, 'nor 
 does it become you to make them ; time may unfold them all ; 
 but I desire I may be no further harassed, and I recommend it to 
 you to retire to your chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a 
 more rational conduct than that of yielding to fancies, and to a 
 sensibility which, to call it by the gentlest name, is only a weak- 
 ness.' 
 
 Emily rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam,' said she to 
 her aunt with an assumed composure that could not disguise her 
 emotion. 
 
 'Good night, my dear,' said Madame Montoni in a tone of 
 kindness which her niece had never before heard from her ; and 
 the unexpected endearment brought tears to Emily's eyes. 
 She curtsied to Montoni, and was retiring. 'But you do not 
 know the way to your chamber,' said her aunt. Montoni called 
 the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and bade him send 
 Madame Montoni's woman ; with whom, in a few minutes, 
 Emily withdrew. 
 
 'Do you know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as 
 they crossed the hall. 
 
 'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange 
 rambhng place ! I have been lost in it already ; they call it the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 585 
 
 double chamber over the south rampart, and I went up this great 
 staircase to it. My lady's room is at the other end of the castle.' 
 
 Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, 
 as they passed through which Annette resumed her chat : — 
 'What a wild lonely place this is, ma'am ! I shall be quite 
 frightened to Hve in it. How often and often have I wished 
 myself in France again ! I little thought, when I came with my 
 lady to see the world, that I should ever be shut up in such a 
 place as this, or I would never have left my own country ! This 
 way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe in 
 giants again, and such like, for this is just hke one of their castles ; 
 and some night or other, I suppose, I shall see fairies too hopping 
 about in that great old hall, that looks more Hke a church, with 
 its huge pillars, than anything else.' 
 
 'Yes/ said Emily smiling, and glad to escape from more serious 
 thought, 'if we come to the corridor about midnight and look 
 down into the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a 
 thousand lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the 
 sound of dehcious music ; for it is in such places as this, you 
 know, that they come to hold their revels. But I am afraid, 
 Annette, you will not be able to pay the necessary penance for 
 such a sight : and if once they hear your voice, the whole scene 
 will vanish in an instant.' 
 
 'O ! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the 
 corridor this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue ; 
 it shall not be my fault if the show vanishes. — But do you think 
 they will come ? ' 
 
 'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to 
 say it will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.' 
 
 'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you : 
 but I am not so much afraid of fairies as of ghosts ; and they say 
 there are a plentiful many of them about the castle; now I 
 should be frightened to death if I should chance to see any of 
 them. But hush, ma'amselle, walk softly ! I have thought 
 several times something passed by me.' 
 
 'Ridiculous ! ' said Emily ; 'you must not indulge such fancies.' 
 
 'O ma'am ; they are not fancies, for aught I know ; Benedetto 
 says these dismal galleries and halls are lit for nothing but ghosts 
 
586 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 to live in ; and I verily believe, if I live long in them, I shall turn 
 to one myself ! ' 
 
 'I hope,' said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni 
 to hear of these weak fears ; they would highly displease 
 him.' 
 
 'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined 
 Annette. 'No, no, I do know better than to do so; though, if 
 the signor can sleep sound, nobody else in the castle has any 
 right to lie awake, I am sure.' Emily did not appear to notice 
 this remark. 
 
 'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back 
 staircase. O ! if I see anything, I shall be frightened out of my 
 wits ! ' 
 
 'That will scarcely be possible,' said Emily smiling, as she 
 followed the winding of the passage which opened into another 
 gallery ; and then Annette perceiving that she had missed her way 
 while she had been so eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, 
 wandered about through other passages and galleries, till at 
 length, frightened by their intricacies and desolation, she called 
 aloud for assistance : but they were beyond the hearing of the 
 servants, who were on the other side of the castle, and Emily 
 now opened the door of a chamber on the left. 
 
 'O ! do not go in there, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'you will 
 only lose yourself further.' 
 
 'Bring the light forward,' said Emily, 'we may possibly find 
 our way through these rooms.' 
 
 Annette stood at the door in an attitude of hesitation, with the 
 light held up to show the chamber, but the feeble rays spread 
 through not half of it. ' Why do you hesitate ? ' said Emily ; 
 'let me see whither this room leads.' 
 
 Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of 
 spacious and ancient apartments, some of which were hung with 
 tapestry, and others wainscoted with cedar and black larch- 
 wood. What furniture there was, seemed to be almost as old as 
 the rooms, and retained an appearance of grandeur, though 
 covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with damp and with 
 age. 
 
 'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle !' said Annette: 'no- 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 587 
 
 body has lived in them for many, many years, they say. Do let 
 us go.' 
 
 'They may open upon the great staircase, perhaps,' said Emily, 
 passing on till she came to a chamber hung with pictures, and 
 took the light to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field 
 of battle. — He was darting his spear upon a man who lay under 
 the feet of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating 
 attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with 
 a look of vengeance, and the countenance, with that expression, 
 struck Emily as resembhng Montoni. She shuddered, and 
 turned from it. Passing the light hastily over several other 
 pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black silk. The 
 singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped 
 before it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could 
 thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. 
 ' Holy Virgin ! what can this mean ? ' exclaimed Annette. ' This is 
 surely the picture they told me of at Venice.' 
 
 'What picture?' said Emily. 'Why, a picture — a picture,' 
 repHed Annette hesitatingly, ' — but I never could make out 
 exactly what it was about either.' 
 
 'Remove the veil, Annette.' 
 
 'What! I, ma'amselle ! — I! not for the world!' Emily, 
 turning round, saw Annette's countenance grow pale. ' And pray 
 what have you heard of this picture to terrify you so, my good 
 girl ? ' said she. ' Nothing, ma'amselle : I have heard nothing, 
 only let us find our way out.' 
 
 ' Certainly, but I wish first to examine the picture ; take the 
 light, Annette, while I hft the veil. Annette took the hght, and 
 immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to 
 stay, who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at 
 length followed her. 'What is the reason of this, Annette?' 
 said Emily, when she overtook her; 'what have you heard 
 concerning that picture, which makes you so unwiUing to stay 
 when I bid you ? ' 
 
 'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle,' rephed Annette, 
 'nor any thing about the picture; only I have heard there is 
 something very dreadful belonging to it — and that it has been 
 covered up in black ever since — and that nobody has looked at it 
 
588 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 for a great many years — and it somehow has to do with the 
 owner of this castle before Signor Montoni came to the posses- 
 sion of it — and ' 
 
 'Well, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you 
 say — that you know nothing about the picture.' 
 
 'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise 
 never to tell : — but ' 
 
 'Well,' said Emily, who perceived that she was struggUng 
 between her inclination to reveal a secret and her apprehension 
 for the consequence, 'I will inquire no further ' 
 
 'No, pray, ma'am, do not.' 
 
 'Lest you should tell all,' interrupted Emily. 
 
 Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the 
 extremity of this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after 
 some further perplexity, once more at the top of the marble 
 staircase, where Annette left Emily, while she went to call one 
 of the servants of the castle to show them to the chamber for 
 which they had been seeking. 
 
 While she was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the 
 picture ; an unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a 
 servant had checked her inquiries on this subject, as well as con- 
 cerning some alarming hints which Annette had dropped respect- 
 ing Montoni : though her curiosity was entirely awakened, and 
 she had perceived that her questions might easily be answered. 
 She was now, however, inclined to go back to the apartment and 
 examine the picture ; but the lonehness of the hour and of the 
 place, with the melancholy silence that reigned around her, con- 
 spired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the mystery at- 
 tending this picture, to prevent her. She determined, however, 
 when daylight should have reanimated her spirits, to go thither 
 and remove the veil. As she leaned from the corridor over the 
 staircase, and her eyes wandered round, she again observed with 
 wonder, the vast strength of the walls, now somewhat decayed, 
 and the pillars of solid marble that rose from the hall and sup- 
 ported the roof. 
 
 A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily 
 to her chamber, which was in a remote part of the castle, and at 
 the very end of the corridor from whence the suite of apartments 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 589 
 
 opened through which they had been wandering. The lonely 
 aspect of her room made Emily unwilling that Annette should 
 leave her immediately, and the dampness of it chilled her with 
 more than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant of the castle, 
 to bring some wood and light a fire. 
 
 'Ay, lady, it's many a year since a fire was Hghted here,' said 
 Caterina. 
 
 'You need not tell us that, good woman,' said Annette ; 'every 
 room in the castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to 
 Hve here : for my part, I wish I was at Venice again.' Emily 
 waved her hand for Caterina to fetch the wood. 
 
 'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber,' 
 said Annette, while Emily surveyed it in silence, and saw that it 
 was lofty and spacious like the others she had seen, and, like 
 many of them, too, had its walls lined with dark larch-wood. 
 The bed and other furniture was very ancient, and had an air of 
 gloomy grandeur, like all she had seen in the castle. One of the 
 high casements, which she opened, overlooked a rampart, but the 
 view beyond was hid in darkness. 
 
 In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, 
 and to restrain the tears which every now and then came to her 
 eyes. She wished much to inquire when Count Morano was 
 expected at the castle ; but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary 
 questions, and to mention family concerns to a servant, withheld 
 her. Meanwhile, Annette's thoughts were engaged upon another 
 subject : she dearly loved the marvellous, and had heard of a 
 circumstance, connected with the castle, that highly gratified 
 this taste. Having been enjoined not to mention it, her inclina- 
 tion to tell it was so strong that she was every instant on the point 
 of speaking what she had heard ; such a strange circumstance, 
 too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe punishment ; 
 but she knew that Montoni might impose one much severer, and 
 she feared to incur it by offending him. 
 
 Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled 
 for a while the gloom of her chamber. She told Annette that her 
 lady had inquired for her ; and Emily was once again left to her 
 own reflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the 
 stern manners of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked 
 
59° 
 
 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 now, as she had been when she first witnessed them. The ten- 
 derness and affection to which she had been accustomed till she 
 lost her parents, had made her particularly sensible to any 
 degree of unkindness, and such a reverse as this no apprehension 
 had prepared her to support. 
 
 To call off her attention from subjects that pressed heavily on 
 her spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. 
 As she walked around it she passed a door that was not quite shut ; 
 and perceiving that it was not the one through which she entered, 
 she brought the light forward to discover whither it led. She 
 opened it, and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep 
 narrow staircase that wound from it, between two stone walls. 
 She wished to know to what it led, and was the more anxious 
 since it communicated so immediately with her apartment ; but 
 she wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing 
 the door, therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but upon 
 further examination perceived that it had no bolts on the chamber 
 side, though it had two on the other. By placing a heavy chair 
 against it, she in some measure remedied the defect : yet she was 
 still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this remote room 
 alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and which 
 could not be perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she 
 wished to entreat of Madame Montoni that Annette might 
 have leave to remain with her all night ; but was deterred by an 
 apprehension of betraying what would be thought childish fears 
 and by an unwillingness to increase the apt terrors of Annette. 
 
 Her gloomy reflections were soon after interrupted by a foot- 
 step in the corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with 
 some supper sent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near 
 the fire, she made the good girl sit down and sup with her ; and 
 when their little repast was over, Annette, encouraged by her 
 kindness, and stirring the wood into a blaze, drew her chair upon 
 the hearth, nearer to Emily, and said, — 'Did you ever hear, 
 ma'amselle, of the strange accident that made the signor lord of 
 this castle ? ' 
 
 'What wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, 
 concealing the curiosity occasioned by the mysterious hints she 
 had formerly heard on that subject. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 591 
 
 *I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, looking 
 round the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto 
 told me as we travelled together : says he, "Annette, you don't 
 know about this castle here, that we are going to?" "No," 
 says I, "Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you know?" But, 
 ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would not tell you for the 
 world ; for I promised never to tell, and they say that the signor 
 does not Uke to have it talked of.' 
 
 'If you promised to keep this secret,' said Emily, 'you do 
 right not to mention it.' 
 
 Annette paused a moment, and then said, '0, but to you, 
 ma'amselle, to you I may tell it safely, I know.' 
 
 Emily smiled : ' I certainly shall keep it as faithfully as yourself, 
 Annette.' 
 
 Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded — 
 'This castle, you must know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very 
 strong, and has stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was 
 not Signor Montoni's always, nor his father's ; no : but, by some 
 law or other, it was to come to the signor if the lady died un- 
 married.' 
 
 'What lady?' said Emily. 
 
 'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette : 'it is the lady I 
 am going to tell you about, ma'amselle : but, as I was saying, this 
 lady lived in the castle, and had everything very grand about her, 
 as you may suppose, ma'amselle. The signor used often to 
 come to see her, and was in love with her, and offered to marry 
 her : for, though he was somehow related, that did not signify. 
 But she was in love with somebody else, and would not have 
 him, which made him very angry, as they say ; and you know, 
 ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is when he is angry. 
 Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have 
 him. But, as I was saying, she was very melancholy and un- 
 happy, and all that, for a long time, and — Holy Virgin ! what 
 noise is that ? did not you hear a sound, ma'amselle ?' 
 
 'It was only the wind,' said Emily; 'but do come to the end 
 of your story.' 
 
 'As I was saying — O, where was I ? — as I was saying — she 
 was very melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to 
 
592 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 walk about upon the terrace, there, under the windows, by her- 
 self, and cry so ! It would have done your heart good to hear her. 
 That is — I don't mean good, but it would have made you cry 
 too, as they tell me.' 
 
 'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.' 
 
 'All in good time, ma'am: all this I heard before at Venice, 
 but what is to come I never heard till to-day. This happened a 
 great many* years ago, when Signer Montoni was quite a young 
 man. The lady — they called her Signora Laurentini, was very 
 handsome, but she used to be in great passions too, sometimes, 
 as well as the signor. Finding he could not make her listen to 
 him — what does he do, but leave the castle, and never comes 
 near it for a long time ! but it was all one to her ; she was just as 
 unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening — Holy 
 St. Peter! ma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that lamp, see 
 how blue it burns ! ' She looked fearfully round the chamber. 
 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily, 'why will you indulge those 
 fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your story, I am weary.' 
 
 Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a 
 lower voice. 'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of 
 the year, it might be about the middle of September, I suppose, 
 or the beginning of October ; nay, for that matter, it might be 
 November, for that, too, is the latter end of the year ; but that I 
 cannot say for certain, because they did not tell me for certain 
 themselves. However, it was at the latter end of the year, this 
 grand lady walked out of the castle into the woods below, as she 
 had often done before, all alone, only her maid was with her. 
 The wind blew cold, and strewed the leaves about, and whistled 
 dismally among those great old chestnut-trees that we passed, 
 ma'amselle, as we came to the castle — for Benedetto showed me 
 the trees as he was talking — the wind blew cold, and her woman 
 would have persuaded her to return : but all would not do, for 
 she was fond of walking in the woods at evening time, and if the 
 leaves were falling about her, so much the better. 
 
 ' Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, 
 and she did not return ; ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve 
 o'clock came, and no lady ! Well, the servants thought, to be 
 sure, some accident had befallen her, and they went out to seek 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 593 
 
 her. They searched all night long, but could not find her, or 
 any trace of her : and, from that day to this, ma'amselle, she has 
 never been heard of.' 
 
 'Is this true, Annette ?' said Emily in much surprise. 
 
 'True, ma'am !' said Annette with a look of horror, 'yes, it is 
 true, indeed. But they do say,' she added, lowering her voice, 
 'they do say, that the signora has been seen several times since 
 walking in the woods and about the castle in the night : several 
 of the old servants, who remained here some time after, declare 
 they saw her ; and since then, she has been seen by some of the 
 vassals, who have happened to be in the castle at night. Carlo 
 the old steward could tell such things, they say, if he would !' 
 
 'How contradictory is this, Annette !' said Emily; 'you say 
 nothing has been since known of her, and yet she has been seen !' 
 
 'But all this was told me for a great secret,' rejoined Annette, 
 without noticing the remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would 
 not hurt either me or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it 
 again.' Emily remained silent, and Annette repeated her last 
 sentence. 
 
 'You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,' replied Emily ; 
 'and let me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, 
 and never mention what you have just told me to any other 
 person. Signer Montoni, as you say, may be angry if he hears of 
 it, but what inquiries were made concerning the lady ? ' 
 
 'O ! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the signor laid claim 
 to the castle directly, as being the next heir ; and they said, that 
 is, the judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he 
 could not take possession of it till so many years were gone by, 
 and then, if after all the lady could not be found, why she would 
 be as good as dead, and the castle would be his own ; and so it is 
 his own. But the story went round, and many strange reports 
 were spread, so very strange, ma'amselle, that I shall not tell 
 them.' 
 
 'That is stranger still, Annette,' said Emily smiling, and rous- 
 ing herself from her reverie. 'But when Signora Laurentini was 
 afterwards seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her ?' 
 
 ' Speak — speak to her ! ' cried Annette with a look of terror ; 
 'no, to be sure.' 
 
594 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 'And why not ?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further. 
 
 'Holy Mother ! speak to a spirit !' 
 
 'But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless 
 they had approached and spoken to it ? ' 
 
 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell. How can you ask such shocking 
 questions? But nobody ever saw it come in or go out of the 
 castle ; and it was in one place now, and then the next minute in 
 quite another part of the castle ; and then it never spoke, and if 
 it was ahve, what should it do in the castle if it never spoke? 
 Several parts of the castle have never been gone into since, they 
 say for that very reason.' 
 
 'What, because it never spoke,' said Emily, trying to laugh 
 away the fears that began to steal upon her. 
 
 'No, ma'amselle, no,' rephed Annette rather angrily: 'but 
 because something has been seen there. They say, too, there is 
 an old chapel adjoining the west side of the castle, where any 
 time at midnight you may hear such groans ! — it makes one 
 shudder to think of them ; — and strange sights have been seen 
 there ' 
 
 'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,' said Emily. 
 
 ' Silly tales, ma'amselle ! 0, but I will tell you one story about 
 this, if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold 
 winter's night that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, 
 she says, to keep old Carlo and his wife company, and so he 
 recommended her afterwards to the signor, and she has lived here 
 ever since) — Caterina was sitting with them in the Uttle hall : 
 says Carlo, "I wish we had some of those figs to roast, that Ue in 
 the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and I am loth to fetch 
 them; do, Caterina," says he, "for you are young and nimble, 
 do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them ; they 
 lie," says he, "in such a corner of the store-room, at the end of the 
 north gallery ; here, take the lamp," says he, "and mind, as you 
 go up the great staircase, that the wind through the roof does 
 not blow it out." So with that Caterina took the lamp — Hush ! 
 ma'amselle, I surely heard a noise.' 
 
 Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, 
 listened attentively ; but everything was still, and Annette pro- 
 ceeded : 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 595 
 
 'Caterina went to the north gallery, that is, the wide gallery 
 we passed, ma'am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she 
 
 went with the lamp in her hand, thinking of nothing at all 
 
 There, again ! ' cried Annette suddenly — ' I heard it again ! — 
 it was not fancy, ma'amselle !' 
 
 'Hush!' said Emily, trembling. They listened, and con- 
 tinuing to sit quite still, Emily heard a slow knocking against the 
 wall. It came repeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and 
 the chamber door slowly opened. — It was Caterina, come to tell 
 Annette that her lady wanted her. Emily, though she now 
 perceived who it was, could not immediately overcome her 
 terror ; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scolded Cate- 
 rina heartily for thus alarming them ; and was also terrified lest 
 what she had told had been overheard. — Emily, whose mind was 
 deeply impressed by the chief circumstance of Annette's rela- 
 tion, was unwilling to be left alone, in the present state of her 
 spirits ; but to avoid offending Madame Montoni and betraying 
 her own weakness, she struggled to overcome the illusions of fear, 
 and dismissed Annette for the night. 
 
 When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange his- 
 tory of Signora Laurentini, and then to her own strange situation, 
 in the wild and solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the 
 castle and the power of a man to whom only a few preceding 
 months she was an entire stranger ; who had already exercised 
 an usurped authority over her, and whose character she now 
 regarded with a degree of terror apparently justified by the fears 
 of others. She knew that he had invention equal to the concep- 
 tion, and talents to the execution, of any project, and she greatly 
 feared he had a heart too void of feeling to oppose the perpetra- 
 tion of whatever his interest might suggest. She had long ob- 
 served the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been 
 witness to the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received 
 from her husband. To these circumstances, which conspired to 
 give her just cause for alarm, were now added those thousand 
 nameless terrors which exist only in active imaginations, and 
 which set reason and examination equally at defiance. 
 
 Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the 
 eve of her departure from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and 
 
596 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 all that he had said to dissuade her from venturing on the journey. 
 His fears had often since appeared to her prophetic — now they 
 seemed confirmed. Her heart, as it gave her back the image of 
 Valancourt, mourned in vain regret ; but reason soon came with a 
 consolation, which, though feeble at first, acquired vigour from 
 reflection. She considered that, whatever might be her suffer- 
 ings, she had withheld from involving him in misfortune, and 
 that whatever her future sorrows could be, she was at least free 
 from self-reproach. 
 
 Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the 
 wind along the corridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze 
 of the wood had long been extinguished, and she sat with her 
 eyes fixed on the dying embers, till a loud gust, that swept through 
 the corridor, and shook the doors and casements, alarmed her ; 
 for its violence had moved the chair she had placed as a fastening, 
 and the door leading to the private staircase stood half open. 
 Her curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She took the 
 lamp to the top of the steps, and stood hesitating whether to go 
 down ; but again the profound stillness and the gloom of the 
 place awed her ; and determining to inquire further when day- 
 light rhight assist the search, she closed the door, and placed 
 against it a stronger guard. 
 
 She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the 
 table ; but its gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted 
 it ; for, by its uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes 
 flit past her curtains, and ghde into the remote obscurity of her 
 chamber. — The castle clock struck one before she closed her 
 eyes to sleep. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind the glooms of super- 
 stition, but not those of apprehension. The Count Morano was 
 the first image that occurred to her waking thoughts, and then 
 came a train of anticipated evils which she could neither conquer 
 nor avoid. 
 
 To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her 
 misfortunes, she attempted to read ; but her attention wandered 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 597 
 
 from the page, and at length she threw aside the book, and de- 
 termined to explore the adjoining chambers of the castle. Her 
 imagination was pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, and 
 an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as she 
 walked through rooms obscure and desolate, where no footsteps 
 had passed probably for many years, and remembered the strange 
 history of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to 
 her recollection the veiled picture which had attracted her 
 curiosity on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. 
 As she passed through the chambers that led to this, she found 
 herself somewhat agitated ; its connexion with the late lady of 
 the castle, and the conversation of Annette, together with 
 the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the object 
 that excited a faint degree of terror. But a terror of this nature, 
 as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high 
 expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of fascina- 
 tion, to seek even the object from which we appear to shrink. 
 Emily passed on with faltering steps ; and having paused a 
 moment at the door before she attempted to open it, she then 
 hastily entered the chamber, and went towards the picture, which 
 appeared to be enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung 
 in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then with a 
 timid hand lifted the veil ; but instantly let it fall — perceiving 
 that what it had concealed was no picture, and before she could 
 j leave the chamber she dropped senseless on the floor. 
 I When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what 
 j she had seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She 
 I had scarcely strength to remove from the room, and regain her 
 own ; and when arrived there, wanted courage to remain alone. 
 I Horror occupied her mind, and excluded for a time all sense of 
 ^ past and dread of future misfortune : she seated herself near the 
 casement because from thence she heard voices, though distant, 
 on the terrace, and might see people pass ; and these, trifling as 
 , they were, were reviving circumstances. When her spirits had 
 I recovered their tone, she considered whether she should mention 
 1 when she had seen to Madame Montoni ; and various and impor- 
 ! tant motives urged her to do so, among which the least was the 
 I hope of the rehef which an overburdened mind finds in speak- 
 
598 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 ing of the subjects of its interest. But she was aware of the terri- 
 ble consequences which such a communication might lead to ; 
 and, dreading the indiscretion of her aunt, at length endeavoured 
 to arm herself with resolution to observe a profound silence on 
 the subject. 
 
 [Emily finds herself a prisoner in Udolpho, and a victim of the persecutions 
 of Montoni. After sufering many terrifying experiences both at the hands of 
 her tormentor and because of the mysterious character of the place, she 
 manages, with the help of two servants and of M. Du Pont, also a prisoner, 
 to make her escape and return to France.] 
 
 PART II. CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 Blanche^ soon after went to dress for dinner, at which the whole 
 party met in good spirits and good humour, except the countess, 
 whose vacant mind, overcome by the langour of idleness, would 
 neither suffer her to be happy herself, or to contribute to the 
 happiness of others. Mademoiselle Beam, attempting to be 
 witty, directed her badinage against Henri ; who answered be- 
 cause he could not well avoid it, rather than from any inclination 
 to notice her, whose liveliness sometimes amused, but whose 
 conceit and insensibility often disgusted him. 
 
 The cheerfulness with which Blanche rejoined the party 
 vanished on her reaching the margin of the sea ; she gazed with 
 apprehension upon the vast expanse of waters which, at a dis- 
 tance, she had beheld only with delight and astonishment ; and 
 it was by a strong effort that she so far overcame her fears as to 
 follow her father into the boat. 
 
 As she silently surveyed the vast horizon bending round the 
 distant verge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture 
 struggled to overcome a sense of personal danger. A light 
 breeze played on the water and on the silk awning of the boat, 
 and waved the fohage of the receding woods that crowned the 
 cliffs for many miles, and which the count surveyed with the 
 pride of conscious property, as well as with the eye of taste. 
 
 1 Blanche and Henri are the children of Count and Countess de Villefort, gento' of 
 Languedoc. Mile. Beam is the companion of the Countess. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 599 
 
 At some distance among these woods stood a pavilion, which 
 had once been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation 
 still made one of romantic beauty. Thither the count had 
 ordered coffee and other refreshments to be carried ; and thither 
 the sailors now steered their course, following the windings of the 
 shore round many a woody promontory and circhng bay ; while 
 the pensive tones of horns and other wind instruments, played by 
 the attendants in a distant boat, echoed among the rocks, and 
 died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued her fears ; a 
 delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and held her in silence ; 
 and she was too happy to remember even the convent, or her 
 former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her present 
 fehcity. 
 
 The countess felt less unhappy than she had done since the 
 moment of her leaving Paris ; for her mind was now under some 
 degree of restraint. She feared to indulge its wayward hu- 
 mours, and even wished to recover the count's good opinion. On 
 his family, and on the surrounding scene, he looked with tem- 
 pered pleasure and benevolent satisfaction, while his son exhibited 
 the gay spirits of youth, anticipating new deHghts, and regretless 
 of those that were passed. 
 
 After near an hour's rowing, the party landed, and ascended a 
 little path overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from 
 the point of the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, 
 appeared the pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a 
 glimpse of its portico between the trees, to be built of variegated 
 marble. As she followed the countess, she often turned her eyes 
 with rapture towards the ocean, seen beneath the dark fohage 
 far below, and from thence upon the deep woods, whose silence 
 and impenetrable gloom awakened emotions more solemn, but 
 scarcely less dehghtful. 
 
 The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible on a very 
 short notice, for the reception of its visitors ; but the faded 
 colours of its painted walls and ceiHng, and the decayed drapery 
 of its once magnificent furniture, declared how long it had been 
 neglected and abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. 
 While the party partook of a collation of fruit and coffee, the 
 horns, placed in a distant part of the woods where an echo 
 
6oo MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 sweetened and prolonged their melancholy tones, broke softly 
 on the stillness of the scene. . . . One window opened upon a 
 romantic glade, where the eye roved among woody recesses, 
 and the scene was bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves ; 
 from another the woods receding disclosed the distant summits 
 of the Pyrenees ; a third fronted an avenue, beyond which the 
 gray towers of Chateau-le-Blanc and the picturesque part of its 
 ruin were seen partially among the fohage ; while a fourth gave, 
 between the trees, a glimpse of the green pastures and villages 
 that diversify the banks of the Aude. The Mediterranean, 
 with the bold chffs that overlooked its shores, were the grand 
 objects of a fifth window ; and the others gave, in different points 
 of view, the wild scenery of the woods. 
 
 After wandering for some time in these, the party returned 
 to the shore, and embarked ; and, the beauty of the evening 
 tempting them to extend their excursion, they proceeded further 
 up the bay. A dead calm had succeeded the light breeze that 
 wafted them hither, and the men took to their oars. Around, 
 the waters were spread into one vast expanse of polished mirror, 
 reflecting the gray cliffs and feathery woods that overhung 
 its surface, the glow of the western horizon, and the dark clouds 
 that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see the 
 dipping oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading circles 
 they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected land- 
 scape, without destroying the harmony of its features. 
 
 Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster 
 of high towers touched with the splendour of the setting rays ; 
 and soon after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint 
 swell of choral voices from a distance. 
 
 'What voices are those upon the air?' said the count, looking 
 round and listening; — but the strain had ceased. 'It seemed 
 to be a vesper hymn which I have often heard in my convent,' 
 said Blanche. 
 
 'We are near the monastery, then,' observed the count; 
 and the boat soon after doubhng a lofty headland, the monastery 
 of St. Claire appeared, seated near the margin of the sea ; where 
 the cHffs suddenly sinking formed a low shore within a small bay 
 almost encircled with woods, among which partial features of 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 6oi 
 
 the edifice were seen — the great gate and Gothic window of the 
 hali, the cloisters, and the side of a chapel more remote ; while 
 a venerable arch, which had once led to a part of the fabric 
 now demolished, stood a majestic ruin, detached from the main 
 building, beyond which appeared a grand perspective of the 
 woods. On the grey walls the moss had fastened, and round the 
 pointed windows of the chapel the ivy and the briony hung in 
 many a fantastic wreath. 
 
 All without was silent and forsaken : but while Blanche gazed 
 with admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was height- 
 ened by the strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a 
 cloudy sunset, a sound of many voices, slowly chanting, arose 
 from within. The count bade his men rest on their oars. The 
 monks were singing the hymn of vespers, and some female voices 
 mingled with the strain ; which rose, by soft degrees-, till the high 
 organ and the choral sounds swelled into full and solemn harmony. 
 The strain soon after dropped into sudden silence, and was 
 renewed in a low and still more solemn key ; till at length the holy 
 chorus died away, and was heard no more. — Blanche sighed ; 
 tears trembled in her eyes ; and her thoughts seemed wafted with 
 the sounds to heaven. While a rapt stillness prevailed in the 
 boat, a train of friars, and then of nuns veiled in white, issued from 
 the cloisters, and passed under the shade of the woods to the main 
 body of the edifice. 
 
 The countess was the first of her party to awaken from this 
 pause of silence. 
 
 'These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,' 
 
 said she ; ' twilight is coming on : pray let us return, or it will be 
 
 dark before we get home.' 
 
 I The count, looking up, now perceived that the twilight of 
 
 ( evening was anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east 
 
 I a tempest was collecting : a heavy gloom came on, opposing and 
 
 contrasting the glowing splendour of the setting sun : the clamor- 
 
 ' ous sea-fowl skimmed in fleet circles upon the surface of the sea, 
 
 I dipping their light pinions in the wave, as they fled away in search 
 
 I of shelter. The boatmen pulled hard at their oars. But the 
 
 I thunder that now muttered at a distance, and the heavy drops 
 
 I that began to dimple the water, made the count determine to 
 
6o2 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 put back to the monastery for shelter ; and the course of the 
 boat was immediately changed. As the clouds approached the 
 west, their lurid darkness changed to a deep ruddy glow, which, 
 by reflection, seemed to fire the tops of the woods and the 
 shattered towers of the monastery. 
 
 The appearance of the heavens alarmed the countess and 
 Mademoiselle Beam ; whose expressions of apprehension dis- 
 tressed the count, and perplexed his men ; while Blanche con- 
 tinued silent — now agitated with fear, and now with admiration, 
 as she viewed the grandeur of the clouds, and their effect on the 
 scenery, and listened to the long, long peals of thunder that 
 rolled through the air. 
 
 The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the 
 count sent a servant to announce his arrival, and to entreat 
 shelter of the superior ; who soon after appeared at the great 
 gate attended by several monks. The party immediately 
 disembarked ; and having hastily crossed the lawn — for the 
 shower was now heavy — were received at the gate by the 
 superior ; who, as they entered, stretched forth his hand and gave 
 his blessing ; and they passed into the great hall, where the lady- 
 abbess waited, attended by several nuns clothed, like herself, 
 in black, and veiled in white. The veil of the abbess was, 
 however, thrown half back, and discovered a countenance 
 whose chaste dignity was sweetened by the smile of welcome 
 with which she addressed the countess ; whom she led with 
 Blanche and Mademoiselle Beam into the convent parlour, 
 while the count and Henri were conducted by the superior to 
 the refectory. 
 
 While the lady-abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed 
 with the countess, Blanche withdrew to a window ; the lower 
 panes of which being without painting, allowed her to observe 
 the progress of the storm over the Mediterranean ; whose dark 
 waves, that had so lately slept, now came boldly swelling in 
 long succession to the shore, where they burst in white foam, 
 and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulphureous 
 tint overspread the long line of clouds that hung above the 
 western horizon ; beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking 
 out illumined the distant shores of Languedoc, as well as the 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 603 
 
 tufted summits of the nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam 
 on the western waves. The rest of the scene was in deep gloom, 
 except where a sunbeam, darting between the clouds, glanced 
 on the white wings of the sea-fowl that circled high among them, 
 or touched the swelling sail of a vessel which was seen labouring 
 in the storm. Blanche for some time anxiously watched the 
 progress of the bark as it threw the waves in foam around it ; 
 and, as the Hghtnings flashed, looked to the opening heavens 
 with many a sigh for the fate of the poor mariners. 
 
 The sun at length set, and the heavy clouds which had long 
 impended, dropped over the splendour of his course ; the vessel, 
 however, was yet dimly seen ; and Blanche continued to observe 
 it, till the quick succession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of 
 the whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and 
 she joined the abbess ; who, having exhausted all her topics of 
 conversation with the countess, had now leisure to notice her. 
 
 But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of 
 thunder ; and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, 
 summoned the inhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the 
 windows she gave another look to the ocean ; where, by the 
 momentary flash that illumined the vast body of the waters, 
 she distinguished the vessel she had observed before, amidst a 
 sea of foam, breaking the billows — the mast now bowing to the 
 waves and then rising high in air. 
 
 She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the lady- 
 abbess and the countess to the chapel. Meanwhile some of the 
 count's servants, having gone by land to the chateau for carriages, 
 returned soon after vespers had concluded ; when, the storm 
 being somewhat abated, the count and his family returned home. 
 Blanche was surprised to discover how much the windings of 
 the shore had deceived her concerning the distance of the chateau 
 from the monastery ; whose vesper bell she had heard on the 
 preceding evening from the windows of the west saloon, and whose 
 towers she would also have seen from thence, had not twilight 
 I veiled them. 
 
 j On their arrival at the chateau, the countess, affecting more 
 I fatigue than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the 
 I count, with his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room; 
 
6o4 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 where they had not been long when they heard, in a pause of 
 the gust, a firing of guns ; which the count understanding to be 
 signals of distress from some vessel in the storm, went to a 
 window that opened towards the Mediterranean, to observe 
 further ; but the sea was now involved in utter darkness, and the 
 loud bowlings of the tempest had again overcome every other 
 sound. Blanche, remembering the bark which she had before 
 seen, now joined her father with trembling anxiety. In a few 
 moments the report of guns was again borne along the wind, 
 and as suddenly wafted away ; a tremendous burst of thunder 
 followed ; and in the flash that had preceded it, and which 
 seemed to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel 
 was discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves, 
 at some distance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness again 
 involved the scene ; but soon a second flash showed the bark, 
 with one sail unfurled, driving towards the coast. Blanche 
 hung upon her father's arm with looks full of the agony of 
 united terror and pity ; which were unnecessary to awaken the 
 heart of the count, who gazed upon the sea with a piteous expres- 
 sion, and, perceiving that no boat could live in the storm, forbore 
 to send one ; but he gave orders to his people to carry torches out 
 upon the cliff — - hoping they might prove a kind of beacon to 
 the vessel, or at least warn the crew of the rocks they were ap- 
 proaching. While Henri went out to direct on what part of the 
 cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche remained with her father 
 at the window, catching every now and then, as the lightnings 
 flashed, a glimpse of the vessel : and she soon saw with reviving 
 hope the torches flaming on the blackness of night, and, as they 
 waved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping billows. 
 When the firing of guns was repeated, the torches were tossed 
 high in the air, as if answering the signal, and the firing was then 
 redoubled ; but though the wind bore the sound away, she 
 fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much 
 nearer the shore. 
 
 The count's servants were now seen running to and fro on the 
 rocks : some venturing almost to the points of the crags, and 
 bending over, held out their torches fastened to long poles : 
 while others, whose steps could be traced only by the course of 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 605 
 
 the lights, descended the steep and dangerous path that wound 
 to the margin of the sea, and with loud halloos hailed the 
 mariners; whose shrill whistle, and then feeble voices, were 
 heard at intervals mingling with the storm. Sudden shouts 
 from the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche 
 to an almost intolerable degree ; but her suspense concerning 
 the fate of the mariners was soon over, when Henri, running 
 breathless into the room, told that the vessel was anchored 
 in the bay below, but in so shattered a condition, that it was 
 feared she would part before the crew could disembark. The 
 count immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist in 
 bringing them to shore, and that such of these unfortunate 
 strangers as could not be accommodated in the adjacent ham- 
 let, should be entertained at the chateau. Among the latter 
 were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur du Pont, Ludovico, and 
 Annette; who, having embarked at Leghorn, and reached 
 Marseilles, were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons when 
 this storm overtook them. They were received by the count 
 with his usual benignity ; who, though Emily wished to have 
 proceeded immediately to the monastery of St. Claire, would 
 not allow her to leave the chateau that night; and, indeed, the 
 terror and fatigue she had suffered would scarcely have per- 
 mitted her to go farther. 
 
 In Monsieur du Pont the count discovered an old acquaintance, 
 and much joy and congratulation passed between them ; after 
 which Emily was introduced by name to the count's family, 
 whose hospitable benevolence dissipated the Httle embarrassment 
 which her situation had occasioned her; and the party were 
 soon seated at the supper-table. The unaffected kindness 
 of Blanche, and the lively joy she expressed on the escape of 
 the strangers, for whom her pity had been so much interested, 
 gradually revived Emily's languid spirits ; and Du Pont, relieved 
 from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the full contrast 
 between his late situation on a dark and tremendous ocean, 
 and his present one in a cheerful mansion, where he was sur- 
 rounded with plenty, elegance, and smiles of welcome. 
 
 Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall was telling of all the 
 dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so 
 
6o6 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 heartily upon her own and Ludovico's escape, and on her present 
 comforts, that she often made all that part of the chateau ring 
 with merriment and laughter. Ludovico's spirits were as gay 
 as her own ; but he had discretion enough to restrain them, and 
 tried to check hers, though in vain ; till her laughter at length 
 ascended to my lady^s chamber ; who sent to inquire what oc- 
 casioned so much uproar in the chateau, and to command silence. 
 Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required ; 
 but her pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to 
 her native country, many interesting remembrances were 
 awakened ; all the events and sufferings she had experienced 
 since she quitted it, came in long succession to her fancy, and 
 were chased only by the image of Valancourt ; with whom to 
 beHeve herself once more in the same land, after they had been so 
 long and so distantly separated, gave her emotions of indescrib- 
 able joy ; but which afterwards yielded to anxiety and apprehen- 
 sion, when she considered the long period that had elapsed since 
 any letter had passed between them, and how much might have 
 happened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the 
 thought that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, 
 might have forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, 
 that she would scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibihty. 
 She determined to inform him on the following day of her arrival 
 in France ; which it was scarcely possible he could know but by 
 a letter from herself : and after soothing her spirits with the 
 hope of soon hearing that he was well and unchanged in his 
 affections, she at length sunk to repose. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee ^ 
 came to Emily's chamber with the keys of that suite of rooms 
 which had been particularly appropriated to the late marchioness. 
 These extended along the north side of the chateau, forming 
 part of the old building ; and as Emily's room was in the south, 
 they had to pass over a great extent of the castle, and by the 
 chambers of several of the family, whose observation Dorothee 
 
 ' An old servant on the estate who has interested Emily in the story of the Villcroi family, 
 former possessors of the castle. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 607 
 
 was anxious to avoid, since it might excite inquiry and raise 
 reports, such as would displease the count. She therefore re- 
 quested that Emily would wait half an hour before they ventured 
 forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone to 
 bed. It was nearly one before the chateau was perfectly still, 
 or Dorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this 
 interval, her spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the re- 
 membrance of past events, and by the prospect of entering again 
 upon places where these had occurred, and in which she had not 
 been for so many years. Emily too was affected ; but her 
 feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear. From the 
 silence into which reflection and expectation had thrown them, 
 they at length roused themselves, and left the chamber. 
 Dorothee at first carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so 
 much with infirmity and alarm, that Emily took it from her, 
 and offered her arm to support her feeble steps. 
 
 They had to descend the great staircase, and, after passing 
 over a wide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led 
 to the suite of rooms they were in quest of. They stepped 
 cautiously along the open corridor that ran round the great hall, 
 and into which the chambers of the count, countess, and the 
 Lady Blanche, opened ; and from thence, descending the chief 
 staircase, they crossed the hall itself. Proceeding through the 
 servants' hall, where the dying embers of a wood fire still glim- 
 mered on the hearth, and the supper-table was surrounded by 
 chairs that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of 
 the back staircase. Old Dorothee here paused, and looked 
 around: 'Let us Hsten,' said she, 'if anything is stirring; 
 ma'amselle, do you hear any voice?' — 'None,' said Emily, 
 'there certainly is no person up in the chateau, besides ourselves.' 
 — 'No, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, 'but I have never been here 
 at this hour before, and, after what I know, my fears are not 
 wonderful.' — 'What do you know ?' said Emily. — 'O ma'am- 
 selle, we have no time for talking now ; let us go on. That door 
 on the left is the one we must open.' 
 
 They proceeded ; and having reached the top of the staircase, 
 Dorothee applied the key to the lock. 'Ah,' said she, as she 
 endeavoured to turn it, 'so many years have passed since this 
 
6o8 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 was opened, that I fear it will not move.' Emily was more 
 successful, and they presently entered a spacious and ancient 
 chamber. 
 
 'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the last time I 
 passed through this door — I followed my poor lady's corpse ! ' 
 
 Emily, struck by the circumstance, and affected by the dusky 
 and solemn air of the apartment, remained silent ; and they passed 
 on through a long suite of rooms, till they came to one more 
 spacious than the rest, and rich in the remains of faded magnifi- 
 cence. 
 
 'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' said Dorothee faintly, 'we are 
 going into the chamber where my lady died ! that door opens into 
 it. Ah, ma'amselle ! why did you persuade me to come?' 
 
 Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs with which the apart- 
 ment was furnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and 
 try to compose her spirits. 
 
 'How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly 
 to my mind ! ' said Dorothee ; ' it seems as if it was but yesterday 
 since all that sad affair happened ! ' 
 
 ' Hark ! what noise is that ? ' said Emily. 
 
 Dorothee, half starting from her chair, looked round the 
 apartment, and they listened; but, everything remaining still, 
 the old woman spoke again upon the subject of her sorrow : 
 'This saloon, ma'amselle, was in my lady's time the finest apart- 
 ment in the chateau, and it was fitted up according to her own 
 taste. All this grand furniture, — but you can now hardly see 
 what it was for the dust, and our light is none of the best — ah ! 
 how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time ! all 
 this grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the 
 fashion of some in the Louvre there, except those large glasses, 
 and they came from some outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. 
 How the colours are faded already ! — since I saw it last ! ' 
 
 'I understood that was twenty years ago,' observed Emily. 
 
 'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'and well remembered, 
 but all the time between then and now seems as nothing. That 
 tapestry used to be greatly admired at : it tells the stories out 
 of some famous book or other, but I have forgot the name.' 
 
 Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and dis- 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 609 
 
 covered by verses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath 
 each scene, that it exhibited stories from some of the most 
 celebrated ancient romances. 
 
 Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and 
 unlocked the door that led into the late marchioness's apartment, 
 and Emily passed into a lofty chamber hung round with dark 
 arras, and so spacious, that the lamp she held up did not show its 
 extent ; while Dorothee, when she entered, had dropped into a 
 chair, where sighing deeply, she scarcely trusted herself with the 
 view of a scene so affecting to her. It was some time before 
 Emily perceived through the dusk the bed on which the marchion- 
 ess was said to have died : when, advancing to the upper end of 
 the room, she discovered the high canopied tester of dark green 
 damask, with the curtains descending to the floor in the fashion 
 of a tent, half drawn, and remaining apparently as they had 
 been left twenty years before ; and over the whole bedding was 
 thrown a counterpane, or pall, of black velvet, that hung down 
 to the floor. Emily shuddered as she held the lamp over it, 
 and looked within the dark curtains, where she almost expected 
 to have seen a human face ; and, suddenly remembering the 
 horror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame 
 Montoni in the turret chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted ; 
 and she was turning from the bed, when Dorothee, who had 
 now reached it, exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin ! methinks I see my 
 lady stretched upon that pall — as when last I saw her ! ' 
 
 Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily 
 again within the curtains, but the blackness of the pall only 
 appeared ; while Dorothee was compelled to support herself 
 upon the side of the bed, and presently tears brought her some 
 relief. 
 
 'Ah !' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was here I sat 
 on that terrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her 
 last words, and saw all her sufferings — here she died in my 
 arms ! ' 
 
 'Do not indulge these painful recollections,' said Emily; 
 'let us go. Show me the picture you mentioned, if it will not 
 too much affect you.' 
 
 'It hangs in the oriel,' rising and going towards a small door 
 
6io MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 near the bed's head, which she opened ; and Emily followed with 
 the light into the closet of the late marchioness. 
 
 'Alas ! there she is, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, pointing to 
 the portrait of a lady ; ' there is her very self ! just as she looked 
 when she came first to the chateau. You see, madam, she was 
 all-blooming like you, then — and so soon to be cut off ! ' 
 
 While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining 
 the picture, which bore a strong resemblance to the miniature, 
 though the expression of the countenance in each was somewhat 
 different ; but still she thought she perceived something of that 
 pensive melancholy in the portrait, which so strongly character- 
 ised the miniature. 
 
 'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at 
 you together,' said Dorothee ; who, when the request was com- 
 plied with, exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, 
 as she gazed upon it, thought that she had somewhere seen a 
 person very like it, though she could not now recollect who this 
 was. 
 
 In this closet were many memorials of the departed mar- 
 chioness ; a robe and several articles of her dress were scattered 
 upon the chairs, as if they had just been thrown off. On the 
 floor were a pair of black satin slippers ; and on the dressing-table 
 a pair of gloves, and a long black veil, which, as Emily took it up 
 to examine, she perceived was dropping to pieces with age. 
 
 'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'my lady's hand 
 laid it there ; it has never been moved since ! ' 
 
 Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. 'I well 
 remember seeing her take it off,' continued Dorothee ; ' it was on 
 the night before her death, when she had returned from a httle 
 walk I had persuaded her to take in the gardens, and she seemed 
 refreshed by it. I told her how much better she looked, and I 
 remember what a languid smile she gave me ; but, alas ! she little 
 thought, or I either, that she was to die that night.' 
 
 Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it 
 suddenly over Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round 
 her, descending even to her feet ; and as she endeavoured to 
 throw it off, Dorothee entreated that she would keep it on for one 
 moment. 'I thought,' added she, 'how like you would look to 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 6ii 
 
 my dear mistress, in that veil ; — may your life, ma'amselle, 
 be a happier one than hers ! ' 
 
 Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again 
 on the dressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every 
 object on which her eye fixed seemed to speak of the marchioness. 
 In a large oriel window of painted glass stood a table with a silver 
 crucifix, and a prayer-book open ; and Emily remembered with 
 emotion what Dorothee had mentioned concerning her custom of 
 playing on her lute in this window, before she observed the lute 
 itself lying on a corner of the table, as if it had been carelessly 
 placed there by the hand that had so often awakened it. 
 
 ' This is a sad, forlorn place ! ' said Dorothee ; ' for when my 
 dear lady died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber 
 either ; and my lord never came into the rooms after ; so they 
 remain just as they did when my lady was removed for inter- 
 ment.' 
 
 While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, 
 which was a Spanish one, and remarkably large ; and then, with 
 a hesitating hand, she took it up and passed her fingers over the 
 chords. They were out of tune, but uttered a deep and full 
 sound. Dorothee started at their well-known tones, and seeing 
 the lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This is the lute my lady marchion- 
 ess loved so ! I remember when last she played upon it — it was 
 on the night that she died. I came as usual to undress her ; 
 and, as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music 
 from the oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was sitting 
 there, I stepped softly to the dooi, which stood a Httle open, 
 to listen ; for the music — though it was mournful — was so 
 sweet ! There I saw her, with the lute in her hand, looking 
 upwards ; and the tears fell upon her cheeks, while she sung a 
 vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn ! and her voice trembled, 
 as it were : and then she would stop for a moment, and wipe away 
 her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O ! I had often 
 listened to my lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this ; 
 it made me cry almost to hear it. She had been at prayers, I 
 fancy, for there was the book open on the table beside her — aye, 
 and there it lies open still ! Pray let us leave the oriel, ma'am- 
 selle,' added Dorothee, 'this is a heart-breaking place.' 
 
6i2 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once 
 more upon the bed ; when, as they came opposite to the open 
 door leading to the saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam which the 
 lamp threw into it, thought she saw something glide along into 
 the obscurer part of the room. Her spirits had been much 
 affected by the surrounding scene, or it is probable this circum- 
 stance, whether real or imaginary, would not have affected her 
 in the degree it did ; but she endeavoured to conceal her emotion 
 from Dorothee, who, however, observing her countenance 
 changed, inquired if she was ill. 
 
 'Let us go,' said Emily faintly; 'the air of these rooms is 
 unwholesome:' but when she attempted to do so, considering 
 that she must pass through the apartment where the phantom 
 of her terror had appeared, this terror increased ; and, too faint 
 to support herself, she sat down on the side of the bed. 
 
 Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a considera- 
 tion of the melancholy catastrophe which had happened on this 
 spot, endeavoured to cheer her ; and then, as they sat together on 
 the bed, she began to relate other particulars concerning it, and 
 this without reflecting that it might increase Emily's emotion, 
 but because they were particularly interesting to herself. 'A 
 little before my lady's death,' said she, 'when the pains were gone 
 off, she called me to her ; and stretching out her hand to me, I 
 sat down just there — where the curtain falls upon the bed. 
 How well I remember her look at the time — death was in it ! — ^ I 
 can almost fancy I see her now. There she lay, ma'amselle — 
 her face was upon the pillow there ! This black counterpane was 
 not upon the bed then ; it was laid on after her death, and 
 she was laid out upon it.' 
 
 Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could 
 have seen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The 
 edge of the white pillow only appeared above the blackness of 
 the pall ; but, as her eyes wandered over the pall itself, she fancied 
 she saw it move. Without speaking, she caught Dorothee's 
 arm, who, surprised by the action, and by the look of terror which 
 accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to the bed, where, 
 in the next moment, she too saw the pall slowly lifted and fall 
 again. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 613 
 
 Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed, and gazed 
 upon the bed ; and at length said — 'It is only the wind that 
 waves it, ma'amselle ! we have left all the doors open ; see how 
 the air waves the lamp too — it is only the wind.' 
 
 She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more 
 violently agitated than before ; but Emily, somewhat ashamed 
 of her terrors, stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced 
 that the wind only had occasioned her alarm ; when, as she 
 gazed within the curtains, the pall moved again, and in the next 
 moment the apparition of a human countenance rose above it. 
 
 Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the 
 chamber as fast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving 
 open the doors of all the rooms through which they passed. 
 When they reached the staircase, Dorothee threw open a cham- 
 ber-door, where some of the female servants slept, and sunk 
 breathless on the bed ; while Emily, deprived of all presence of 
 mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion of her 
 terror from the astonished servants : and though Dorothee, 
 when she could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, 
 and was joined by Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with 
 the servants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the 
 remainder of the night in a room near to these terrific chambers. 
 
 ^ 4: 4^ ^ 4: Hi 41 
 
 From this night the terror of the servants increased to such 
 an excess, that several of them determined to leave the chateau, 
 and requested their discharge of the count, who, if he had any 
 faith in the subjects of their alarm, thought proper to dissemble 
 it, and, anxious to avoid the inconvenience that threatened him, 
 employed ridicule, and then argument, to convince them they 
 had nothing to apprehend from supernatural agency. But fear 
 had rendered their minds inaccessible to reason ; and it was now 
 that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for 
 the kindness he had received from the count, by offering to watch, 
 during a night, in the suite of rooms reputed to be haunted. 
 'He feared,' he said, 'no spirits ; and if anything of human form 
 appeared — he would prove that he dreaded that as little.' 
 
 The count paused upon the offer ; while the servants, who 
 heard it, looked upon one another in doubt and amazement : and 
 
6i4 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 Annette, terrified for the safety of Ludovico, employed tears 
 and entreaties to dissuade him from his purpose. 
 
 'You are a bold fellow,' said the count, smiling; 'think well of 
 what you are going to encounter before you finally determine 
 upon it. However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will 
 accept your offer, and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.* 
 
 'I desire no reward, your Excellenza,'' rephed Ludovico, 'but 
 your approbation. Your Excellenza has been sufficiently good to 
 me already ; but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to 
 my enemy, if he should appear.' 
 
 'Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,' replied the 
 count, throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants : 
 'neither can bars nor bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide 
 through a key-hole as easily as through a door. ' 
 
 'Give me a sword, my lord count,' said Ludovico, 'and I will 
 lay all the spirits that shall attack me in the Red Sea. ' 
 
 'Well,' said the count, 'you shall have a sword, and good cheer 
 too ; and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage 
 enough to remain another night in the chateau, since your bold- 
 ness will certainly, for this night at least, confine all the mahce 
 of the spectre to yourself.' 
 
 Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of 
 his fellow-servants, and at length they resolved to await the 
 event of Ludovico 's rashness. 
 
 Emily was surprised and concerned when she heard of his 
 intention, and was frequently inclined to mention what she had 
 witnessed in the north apartments to the count ; for she could 
 not entirely divest herself of fears for Ludovico's safety, though 
 her reason represented these to be absurd. The necessity, 
 however, of concealing the secret with which Dorothee had in- 
 trusted her, and which must have been mentioned with the late 
 occurrence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the 
 north apartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her 
 apprehension ; and she tried only to soothe Annette, who held 
 that Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed ; and who was much 
 less affected by Emily's consohng efforts than by the manner of 
 old Dorothee, who often, as she exclaimed 'Ludovico,' sighed, 
 and threw up her eyes to Heaven. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 615 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 The count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened 
 and prepared for the reception of Ludovico ; but Dorothee, 
 remembering what she had lately witnessed there, feared to 
 obey ; and not one of the other servants daring to venture 
 thither the rooms remained shut up till the time when Ludovico 
 was to retire thither for the night, an hour for which the whole 
 household waited with impatience. 
 
 After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the count, attended 
 him in his closet, where they remained for near half an hour ; 
 and on leaving which, his lord delivered to him a sword. 
 
 ' It has seen service in mortal quarrels,' said the count jocosely ; 
 'you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. To- 
 morrow let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the 
 chateau.' 
 
 Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. 'You shall be 
 obeyed, my lord,' said he; 'I will engage that no spectre shall 
 disturb the peace of the chateau after this night.' 
 
 They now returned to the supper-room, where the count's 
 guests awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of 
 the north apartments ; and Dorothee, being summoned for the 
 keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who then led the way, followed 
 by most of the inhabitants of the chateau. Having reached the 
 back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back, and refused 
 to go further ; but the rest followed him to the top of the stair- 
 case, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round 
 him, while he appHed the key to the door, during which they 
 watched him with as much eager curiosity as if he had been 
 performing some magical rite. 
 
 Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it ; and 
 Dorothee, who had lingered far behind, was called forward, 
 under whose hand the door opened slowly ; and, her eye glancing 
 within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sudden shriek, and re- 
 treated. At this signal of alarm the greater part of the crowd 
 hurried down the stairs ; and the count, Henri, and Ludovico 
 were left alone to pursue the inquiry, who instantly rushed into 
 the apartment — Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had 
 
6i6 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 just time to draw from the scabbard ; the count with the lamp 
 in his hand ; and Henri carrying a basket containing provision 
 for the courageous adventurer. 
 
 Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing 
 appeared to justify alarm, they passed on to the second ; and 
 here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more 
 tempered step. The count had now leisure to smile at the dis- 
 composure into which he had been surprised, and to ask Ludovico 
 in which room he designed to pass the night. 
 
 'There are several chambers beyond these, your Excellenza,' 
 said Ludovico, pointing to a door, ' and in one of them is a bed, 
 they say. I will pass the night there ; and when I am weary of 
 watching, I can he down.' 
 
 'Good,' said the count; 'let us go on. You see these rooms 
 show nothing but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have 
 been so much engaged since I came to the chateau, that I have 
 not looked into them till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell 
 the housekeeper to-morrow, to throw open these windows. 
 The damask hangings are dropping to pieces : I will have them 
 taken down, and this antique furniture removed.' 
 
 'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair so massy with 
 gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, 
 more than anything else.' 
 
 'Yes,' said the count, stopping a moment to survey it, 'there 
 is a history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it 
 — let us pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had 
 imagined : it is many years since I was in them. But where 
 is the bed-room you speak of, Ludovico ? — these are only ante- 
 chambers to the great drawing-room. I remember them in their 
 splendour.' 
 
 'The bed, my lord,' repHed Ludovico, 'they told me was in a 
 room that opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.' 
 
 'O, here is the saloon,' said the count, as they entered the 
 spacious apartment in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. 
 He here stood for a moment, surveying the rehcs of faded 
 grandeur which 'it exhibited — the sumptuous tapestry — the 
 long and low sofas of velvet, with frames heavily carved and 
 gilded — the floor inlaid with small squares of fine marble, and 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 617 
 
 covered in the centre with a piece of very rich tapestry work — 
 the casements of painted glass — and the large Venetian mirrors, 
 of a size and quality such as at that period France could not make, 
 which reflected on every side the spacious apartment. These 
 had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this had 
 been the state-room of the chateau, and here the marchioness 
 had held the assemblies that made part of the festivities of her 
 nuptials. If the wand of a magician could have recalled the 
 vanished groups — many of them vanished even from the earth 
 — that once had passed over these polished mirrors, what a 
 varied and contrasted picture would they have exhibited with 
 the present ! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and a splendid 
 and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one glimmer- 
 ing lamp, which the count held up, and which scarcely served 
 to show the three forlorn figures that stood surveying the room, 
 and the spacious and dusky walls around them. 
 
 'Ah ! ' said the count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, 
 'how the scene is changed since last I saw it ! I was a young 
 man then ; and the marchioness was alive and in her bloom ; 
 many other persons were here, too, who are now no more ! 
 There stood the orchestra ; here we tripped in many a sprightly 
 maze — the walls echoing to the dance ! Now, they resound 
 only one feeble voice — and even that will, ere long, be heard 
 no more ! My son, remember that I was once as young as your- 
 self, and that you must pass away like those who have preceded 
 you — like those who, as they sung and danced in this once gay 
 apartment, forgot that years are made up of moments, and that 
 every step they took carried them nearer to their graves. But 
 such reflections are useless, I had almost said criminal, unless 
 they teach us to prepare for eternity ; since otherwise they cloud 
 our present happiness, without guiding us to a future one. But 
 enough of this — let us go on.' 
 
 Ludovico now opened the door of the bedroom, and the 
 count, as he entered, was struck with the funereal appearance 
 which the dark arras gave to it. He approached the bed with 
 an emotion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to be covered with 
 the pall of black velvet, paused : 'What can this mean ? ' said he, 
 as he gazed upon it. 
 
6i8 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 'I have heard, my lord,' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet 
 looking within the canopied curtains, ' that the Lady Marchioness 
 de Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till she was 
 removed to be buried ; and this perhaps, signor, may account 
 for the pall.' 
 
 The count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged 
 in thought, and evidently much affected. Then, turning to 
 Ludovico, he asked him with a serious air whether he thought 
 his courage would support him through the night ? ' If you 
 doubt this,' added the count, 'do not be ashamed to own it; 
 I will release you from your engagement, without exposing you 
 to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.' 
 
 Ludovico paused ; pride, and something very like fear, seemed 
 struggling in his breast : pride, however, was victorious ; — • he 
 blushed, and his hesitation ceased. 
 
 'No, my lord,' said he, 'I will go through with what I have 
 begun; and I am grateful for your consideration. On that 
 hearth I will make a fire, and, with the good cheer in this basket, 
 I doubt not I shall do well.' 
 
 'Be it so,' said the count; 'but how will you beguile the te- 
 diousness of the night, if you do not sleep ? ' 
 
 'When I am weary, my lord,' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not 
 fear to sleep ; in the meanwhile I have a book that will entertain 
 me.' 
 
 'Well,' said the count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but 
 if you should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my 
 apartment. I have too much confidence in your good sense and 
 courage to believe you will be alarmed on slight grounds, or suffer 
 the gloom of this chamber, or its remote situation, to overcome 
 you with ideal terrors. To-morrow I shall have to thank you 
 for an important service ; these rooms shall then be thrown open, 
 and my people will be convinced of their error. Good night, 
 Ludovico ; let me see you early in the morning, and remember 
 what I lately said to you.' 
 
 ' I will, my lord ; good night to your Excellenza, — let me at- 
 tend you with the Hght.' 
 
 He lighted the count and Henri through the chambers to the 
 outer door. On the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 619 
 
 the affrighted servants had left ; and Henri, as he took it up, 
 again bade Ludovico good night, who having respectfully returned 
 the wish, closed the door upon them, and fastened it. Then, as 
 he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined the rooms through 
 which he passed, with more minuteness than he had done before, 
 for he apprehended that some person might have concealed him- 
 self in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, 
 however, but himself was in these chambers ; and leaving open 
 the doors through which he passed, he came again to the great 
 drawing-room, whose spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat 
 awed him. For a moment he stood, looking back through the 
 long suite of rooms he had quitted ; and as he turned, perceiving 
 a light and his own figure reflected in one of the large mirrors, he 
 started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its dark 
 surface ; but he paused not to examine them, and returned 
 hastily into the bed-room, as he surveyed which, he observed 
 the door of the oriel, and opened it. All within was still. On 
 looking round, his eye was arrested by the portrait of the deceased 
 marchioness, upon which he gazed for a considerable time with 
 great attention and some surprise ; and then, having examined 
 the closet, he returned into the bed-room, where he kindled a 
 wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his spirits, which 
 had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the place, for gusts 
 of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now drew a 
 small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine and 
 some cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When 
 he had finished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, 
 not feeHng disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he 
 had spoken of. — It was a volume of old Provengal tales. — 
 Having stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, trimmed his lamp, 
 and drawn his chair upon the hearth, he began to read, and 
 his attention was soon wholly occupied by the scenes which the 
 page disclosed. 
 
 The count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, 
 whither those of the party who had attended him to the north 
 apartment had retreated, upon hearing Dorothee's scream, 
 and who were now earnest in their inquiries concerning those 
 chambers. The count rallied his guests on their precipitate 
 
620 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which had occasioned 
 it ; and this led to the question, Whether the spirit, after it has 
 quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth ; and if it 
 is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible to the 
 sense ? The baron was of opinion that the first was probable, 
 and the last was possible; and he endeavoured to justify this 
 opinion by respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, 
 which he quoted. The count, however, was decidedly against 
 him ; and a long conversation ensued, in which the usual argu- 
 ments on these subjects were on both sides brought forward 
 with skill, and discussed with candour, but without converting 
 either party to the opinion of his opponent. The effect of their 
 conversation on their auditors was various. Though the count 
 had much the superiority of the baron in point of argument, he 
 had considerably fewer adherents ; for that love, so natural to 
 the human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with 
 wonder and astonishment^ attached the majority of the company 
 to the side of the baron ; and though many of the count's prop- 
 ositions were unanswerable, his opponents were inclined to 
 believe this the consequence of their own want of knowledge on 
 so abstracted a subject, rather than that arguments did not 
 exist which were forcible enough to conquer his. 
 
 Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father's 
 glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then en- 
 deavoured to forget the superstitious tales she had been told in 
 her convent. Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep 
 attention to the discussion of what was to her a very interesting 
 question ; and remembering the appearance she had witnessed 
 in the apartment of the late marchioness, she was frequently 
 chilled with awe. Several times she was on the point of mention- 
 ing what she had seen ; but the fear of giving pain to the count, 
 and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and awaiting 
 in anxious expectation the event of Ludo vice's intrepidity, she 
 determined that her future silence should depend upon it. 
 
 When the party had separated for the night, and the count 
 retired to his dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate 
 scenes he had lately witnessed in his own mansion deeply 
 affected him, but at length he was aroused from his reverie and 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 621 
 
 his silence. 'What music is that I hear?' said he suddenly 
 to his valet ; ' Who plays at this late hour ! ' 
 
 The man made no reply ; and the count continued to listen, 
 and then added, ' That is no common musician ; he touches the 
 instrument with a delicate hand — • who is it, Pierre ? ' 
 
 ' My lord ! ' said the man hesitatingly. 
 
 'Who plays that instrument?' repeated the count. 
 
 'Does not your lordship know, then ? ' said the valet. 
 
 'What mean you?' said the count, somewhat sternly. 
 
 'Nothing, my lord, I meant nothing,' rejoined the man sub- 
 missively — 'only — - that music — goes about the house at 
 midnight often, and I thought your lordship might have heard 
 it before.' 
 
 ' Music goes about the house at midnight ! Poor fellow ! — 
 does nobody dance to the music, too ?' 
 
 'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my lord ; the sounds come 
 from the woods, they say, though they seem so near ; — but then 
 a spirit can do anything. ' 
 
 'Ah, poor fellow !' said the count, 'I perceive you are as silly 
 as the rest of them ; to-morrow you will be convinced of your 
 ridiculous error. But hark ! — what voice is that ? ' 
 
 'Oh, my lord ! that is the voice we often hear with the music' 
 
 'Often !' said the count : 'How often, pray ? It is a very fine 
 one.' 
 
 'Why, my lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or 
 three times ; but there are those who have lived here longer, 
 that have heard it often enough.' 
 
 'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the count, as he still lis- 
 tened — ' and now what a dying cadence ! This is surely some- 
 thing more than mortal ! ' 
 
 'That is what they say, my lord,' said the valet ; 'they say it 
 is nothing mortal that utters it; and if I might say my 
 thoughts ' 
 
 ' Peace ! ' said the count, and he listened till the strain died 
 away. 
 
 'This is strange !' said he, as he turned from the window — 
 '^ Close the casements, Pierre.' 
 
 Pierre obeyed, and the count soon after dismissed him ; but 
 
62 2 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 did not so soon lose the remembrance of the music, which long 
 vibrated in his fancy in tones of melting sweetness, while surprise 
 and perplexity engaged his thoughts. 
 
 Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard now and 
 then the faint echo of a closing door as the family retired to 
 rest, and then the hall clock at a great distance strike twelve. 
 'It is midnight,' said he, — and he looked suspiciously round 
 the spacious chamber. The fire on the hearth was now nearly 
 expiring; for, his attention having been engaged by the book 
 before him, he had forgotten everything besides ; but he soon 
 added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though the night 
 was stormy, but because he was cheerless ; and having again 
 trimmed his lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair 
 nearer to the crackHng blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind that 
 howled mournfully at the casements, endeavoured to abstract 
 his mind from the melancholy that was stealing upon him, 
 and again took up his book. It had been lent to him by Dorothee, 
 who had formerly picked it up in an obscure corner of the mar- 
 quis's library, and who, having opened it and perceived some of 
 the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her own 
 entertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining 
 it from its proper station. The damp corner into which it had 
 fallen had caused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the 
 leaves to be so discoloured with spots, that it was not without 
 difficulty the letters could be traced. Some of the tales in the 
 book now before Ludovico were of simple structure, and exhibited 
 nothing of the magnificent machinery and heroic manners which 
 usually characterised the fables of the twelfth century, and of this 
 description was the one he now happened to open. 
 
 Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, 
 for he felt drowsy ; and after putting more wood on the fire, and 
 taking another glass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair 
 on the hearth. In his dream he still beheld the chamber where 
 he really was, and once or twice started from imperfect slumbers, 
 imagining he saw a man's face looking over the high back of his 
 arm-chair. This idea had so strongly impressed him, that when 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 623 
 
 he raised his eyes he almost expected to meet other eyes fixed 
 upon his own ; and he quitted his seat, and looked behind the 
 chair, before he felt perfectly convinced that no person was 
 there. 
 
 Thus closed the hour. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 The count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, 
 and anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apart- 
 ment ; but the outer door having been fastened on the preceding 
 night, he was obliged to knock loudly for admittance. Neither 
 the knocking nor his voice was heard ; but considering the dis- 
 tance of this door from the bedroom, and that Ludovico, wearied 
 with watching, had probably fallen into a deep sleep, the count 
 was not surprised on receiving no answer ; and leaving the door, 
 he went down to walk in his grounds. 
 
 It was a grey autumnal morning. The sun, rising over 
 Provence, gave only a feeble light, as his rays struggled through 
 the vapours that ascended from the sea, and floated heavily 
 over the woodtops, which were now varied with many a mellow 
 tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but the waves yet 
 violently agitated, and their course was traced by long lines of 
 foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels 
 near the shore that were weighing anchor to depart. The still 
 gloom of the hour was pleasing to the count, and he pursued his 
 way through the woods sunk in deep thought. 
 
 Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk 
 along the brow of the promontory that overhung the Mediter- 
 ranean. Her mind was not now occupied with the occurrences 
 of the chateau, and Valancourt was the subject of her mournful 
 thoughts ; whom she had not yet taught herself to consider 
 with indifference, though her judgment constantly reproached 
 her for the affection that lingered in her heart, after her esteem for 
 him was departed.^ 
 
 As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, 
 
 ^ Certain follies of which Valancourt had been guilty in Paris had been greatly 
 exaggerated to Emily by Count de Villefort, who had misjudged him. 
 
624 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 they called up a variety of contending emotions, that almost over- 
 came her spirits : but her first impulse was to avoid him, and 
 immediately leaving the tower, she returned with hasty steps 
 towards the chateau. As she passed along, she remembered the 
 music she had lately heard near the tower, with the figure which 
 had appeared ; and in this moment of agitation she was inclined 
 to beHeve that she had then heard and seen Valancourt; but 
 other recollections soon convinced her of her error. On turning 
 into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person walking 
 slowly in the gloom at some little distance ; and, her mind engaged 
 by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this to be 
 Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps ; and 
 before she could recover recollection enough to avoid him, he 
 spoke, and she then knew the voice of the count, who expressed 
 some surprise on finding her walking at so early an hour, and made 
 a feeble effort to rally her on her love of solitude. But he soon 
 perceived this to be more a subject of concern than of light 
 laughter, and changing his manner, affectionately expostulated 
 with Emily on thus indulging unavailing regret, who, though she 
 acknowledged the justness of all he said, could not restrain 
 her tears while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic. 
 
 When they returned to the chateau, Emily retired to her 
 apartment, and Count de Villefort to the door of the north 
 chambers. This was still fastened ; but being now determined 
 to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his calls more loudly than be- 
 fore ; after which a total silence ensued ; and the count, finding 
 all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length began to fear 
 that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of an 
 imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He there- 
 fore left the door with an intention of summoning his servants 
 to force it open, some of whom he now heard moving in the 
 lower part of the chateau. 
 
 To the count's inquiries, whether they had seen or heard 
 Luaovico, they replied, in affright, that not one of them had 
 ventured on the north side of the chateau since the preceding 
 night. 
 
 'He sleeps soundly then,' said the count, 'and is at such a dis- 
 tance from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admit- 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 625 
 
 tance to the chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an 
 instrument and follow me.' 
 
 The servant stood mute and dejected ; and it was not till 
 nearly all the household were assembled, that the count's orders 
 were obeyed. In the meantime, Dorothee was telling of a door 
 that opened from a gallery leading from the great staircase into 
 the last ante-room of the saloon ; and this being much nearer 
 to the bed-chamber, it appeared probable that Ludovico might 
 be easily awakened by an attempt to open it. Thither, there- 
 fore, the count went : but his voice was as ineffectual at this door 
 as it had proved at the remoter one : and now, seriously inter- 
 ested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon the door 
 with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and 
 withheld the blow. It appeared on the first glance to be of ebony, 
 so dark and close was its grain, and so high its polish ; but it 
 proved to be only of larch wood, of the growth of Provence, 
 then famous for its forests of larch. The beauty of its polished 
 hue, and of its delicate carvings, determined the count to spare 
 this door, and he returned to that leading from the back stair- 
 case ; which, being at length forced, he entered the first ante- 
 room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of his 
 servants, the rest awaiting the event of the inquiry on the stairs 
 and landing-place. 
 
 All was silent in the chambers through which the count passed ; 
 and, having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico ; 
 after which, still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of 
 the bed-room and entered. 
 
 The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for 
 Ludovico, for not even the breathings of a person in sleep was 
 heard ; and his uncertainty was soon terminated, since, the 
 shutters being all closed, the chamber was too dark for any 
 object to be distinguished in it. 
 
 The count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the 
 room to do so, stumbled over something and fell to the floor; 
 when his cry occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows 
 who had ventured thus far, that they instantly fled, and the 
 count and Henri were left to finish the adventure. 
 
 Henri then sprung across the room, and opening a window- 
 
626 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 shutter, they perceived that the man had fallen over a chair 
 near the hearth in which Ludovico had been sitting ; — for he 
 sat there no longer, nor could he any where be seen by the im- 
 perfect light that was admitted into the apartment. The count, 
 seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, that he might be 
 enabled to examine further ; and Ludovico, not yet appearing, 
 he stood for a moment suspended in astonishment, and scarcely 
 trusting his senses, till his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced 
 to examine whether he was there asleep . No person, however, was 
 in it ; and he proceeded to the oriel, where everything remained as 
 on the preceding night, but Ludovico was no where to be found. 
 
 The count now checked his amazement, considering that 
 Ludovico might have left the chambers during the night, over- 
 come by the terrors which their lonely desolation and the recol- 
 lected reports concerning them had inspired. Yet, if this had 
 been the fact, the man would naturally have sought society, and 
 his fellow-servants had all declared they had not seen him ; the 
 door of the outer room also had been found fastened with the 
 key on the inside. It was impossible, therefore, for him to have 
 passed through that ; and all the outer doors of this suite were 
 found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys 
 also within them. The count, being then compelled to believe 
 that the lad had escaped through the casements, next examined 
 them ; but such as opened wide enough to admit the body of a 
 man were found to be carefully secured either by iron bars or by 
 shutters, and no vestige appeared of any person having attempted 
 to pass them ; neither was it probable that Ludovico would have 
 incurred the risk of breaking his neck by leaping from a window, 
 when he might have walked safely through a door. 
 
 The count's amazement did not admit of words ; but he re- 
 turned once more to examine the bed-room, where was no 
 appearance of disorder, except that occasioned by the late over- 
 throw of the chair, near which had stood a small table ; and on 
 this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the book he had been reading, 
 and the remnant of his flask of wine, still remained. At the 
 foot of the table, too, was the basket with some fragments of 
 provision and wood. 
 
 Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 627 
 
 reserve ; and though the count said little, there was a seriousness 
 in his manner that expressed much. It appeared that Ludovico 
 must have quitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for 
 the count could not believe that any supernatural means had 
 occasioned this event ; yet, if there was any such passage, it 
 seemed inexplicable why he should retreat through it ; and it 
 was equally surprising, that not even the smallest vestige should 
 appear, by which his progress could be traced. In the rooms 
 everything remained as much in order as if he had just walked 
 out by the common way. 
 
 The count himself assisted in lifting the arras with which the 
 bed-chamber, saloon, and one of the ante-rooms were hung, that 
 he might discover if any door had been concealed behind it ; 
 but, after a laborious search, none was found : and he at length 
 quitted the apartments, having secured the door of the last 
 ante-chamber, the key of which he took into his own possession. 
 He then gave orders that strict search should be made for Ludo- 
 vico, not only in the chateau, but in the neighbourhood ; and 
 retiring with Henri to his closet, they remained there in conver- 
 sation for a considerable time ; and, whatever was the subject 
 of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and his 
 manners were particularly grave and reserved whenever the 
 topic which now agitated the count's family with wonder and 
 alarm was introduced. 
 
 On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed 
 strengthened in all his former opinions concerning the proba- 
 bihty of apparitions, though it was difficult to discover what 
 connexion there could possibly be between the two subjects, 
 or to account for this effect, otherwise than by supposing that 
 the mystery attending Ludovico, by exciting awe and curiosity, 
 reduced the mind to a state of sensibility which rendered it more 
 liable to the influence of superstition in general. It is however 
 certain, that from this period the baron and his adherents became 
 more bigoted in their own systems than before, while the terrors 
 of the count's servants increased to an excess that occasioned 
 many of them to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest re- 
 mained only till others could be procured to supply their places. 
 
 The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuc- 
 
628 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 cessful ; and after several days of indefatigable inquiry, poor 
 Annette gave herself up to despair, and the other inhabitants 
 of the chateau to amazement. 
 
 Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disas- 
 trous fate of the late marchioness, and with the mysterious 
 connexion which she fancied had existed between her and St. 
 Aubert, was particularly impressed by the late extraordinary 
 event, and much concerned for the loss of Ludovico. whose 
 integrity and faithful services claimed both her esteem and 
 gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the quiet 
 retirement of her convent ; but every hint of this was received 
 with real sorrow by Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside 
 by the count, for whom she felt much of the respectful love and 
 admiration of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, 
 she at length mentioned the appearance which they had wit- 
 nessed in the chamber of the deceased marchioness. At any 
 other period he would have smiled at such a relation, and have 
 believed that its object had existed only in the distempered fancy 
 of the relater ; but he now attended to Emily with seriousness ; 
 and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise that this 
 occurrence should rest in silence. 'Whatever may be the cause 
 and the import of these extraordinary occurrences,' added the 
 count, 'time only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye 
 upon all that passes in the chateau, and shall pursue every pos- 
 sible means of discovering the fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, 
 we must be prudent and silent. I will myself watch in the north 
 chambers ; but of this we will say nothing till the night arrives 
 when I purpose doing so.' 
 
 The count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also 
 a promise of silence concerning what she had already, or might 
 in future witness of an extraordinary nature : and this ancient 
 servant now related to him the particulars of the Marchioness 
 de Villeroi's death, with some of which he appeared to be already 
 acquainted, while by others he was evidently surprised and 
 agitated. After listening to this narrative, the count retired 
 to his closet, where he remained alone for several hours ; and 
 when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner surprised 
 and alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 629 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 4: 4i 4: H: ^ ^ H( 
 
 St. Foix stopped to observe the picture which the party ^ 
 in the cave presented, where the elegant form of Blanche was 
 finely contrasted by the majestic figure of the count, who was 
 seated by her on a rude stone ; and each was rendered more 
 impressive by the grotesque habits and strong features of the 
 guides and other attendants, who were in the background of 
 the piece. The effect of the Kght, too, was interesting : on the 
 surrounding figures it threw a strong though pale gleam, and 
 glittered on their bright arms ; while upon the fohage of a gigan- 
 tic larch, that impended its shade over the cliff above, appeared 
 a red, dusky tint, deepening almost imperceptibly into the black- 
 ness of night. 
 
 While St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and 
 yellow, rose over the eastern summits, from among embattled 
 clouds, and showed dimly the grandeur of the heavens, the mass 
 of vapours that rolled half-way down the precipice beneath, 
 and the doubtful mountains. 
 
 From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of 
 the guides repeating his name, which was reverberated from 
 cliff to cliff, till a hundred tongues seemed to call him ; when he 
 soon quieted the fears of the count and the Lady Blanche by 
 returning to the cave. As the storm, however, seemed approach- 
 ing, they did not quit their place of shelter; and the count, 
 seated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured to 
 divert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects relating 
 to the natural history of the scenes among which they wandered. 
 
 As Blanche sat attentive to the narrative that rendered the 
 scenes doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while 
 she considered that she was on the very ground once polluted 
 by these events, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound 
 that came on the wind — it was the distant bark of a watch-dog. 
 The travellers Hstened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew 
 stronger, fancied that the sound came from no great distance; 
 
 1 Count de Villefort and his daughter Blanche are returning home after a visit to the 
 Chateau de St. Foix, accompanied by the Chevalier de St. Foix, Blanche's betrothed. 
 
630 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 and the guides having Httle doubt but that it proceeded from the 
 inn they were in search of, the count determined to pursue his 
 way. The moon now afforded a stronger though still an uncer- 
 tain light, as she moved among broken clouds ; and the travel- 
 lers, led by the sound, re-commenced their journey along the 
 brow of the precipice, preceded by a single torch that now 
 contended with the moonlight ; for the guides, believing they 
 should reach the inn soon after sunset, had neglected to provide 
 more. In silent caution they followed the sound, which 
 was heard but at intervals, and which, after some time, entirely 
 ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to point their course 
 to the quarter whence it had issued ; but the deep roaring of a 
 torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came to 
 a tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid 
 all further progress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did 
 the count and St. Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in 
 search of a bridge, which, however rude, might convey them to 
 the opposite side ; and they at length confessed, what the count 
 had begun to suspect, that they had been for some time doubtful 
 of their way, and were now certain only that they had lost it. 
 
 At a little distance was discovered a rude and dangerous 
 passage, formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the 
 chasm, united the opposite precipices, and which had been felled 
 probably by the hunter to facilitate his chase of the izard or the 
 wolf. The whole party, the guides excepted, shuddered at the 
 prospect of crossing this Alpine bridge, whose sides afforded no 
 kind of defence, and from which to fall was to die. The guides, 
 however, prepared to lead over the mules, while Blanche stood 
 trembhng on the brink and hstening to the roar of the waters, 
 which were seen descending from rocks above overhung with 
 lofty pines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep 
 abyss, where their white surges gleamed faintly in the moonlight. 
 The poor animals proceeded over this perilous bridge with in- 
 stinctive caution, neither frightened by the noise of the cataract, 
 nor deceived by the gloom which the impending foliage threw 
 athwart their way. It was now that the solitary torch, which 
 had been hitherto of little service, was found to be an inestimable 
 treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking, but endeavouring 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 631 
 
 to re-collect all her firmness and presence of mind, preceded by 
 her lover and supported by her father, followed the red gleam of 
 the torch in safety to the opposite cliff. 
 
 As they went on, the heights contracted and formed a narrow 
 pass, at the bottom of which the torrent they had just crossed 
 was heard to thunder. But they were again cheered by the 
 bark of a dog keeping watch, perhaps over the flocks of the 
 mountains to protect them from the nightly descent of the wolves. 
 The sound was much nearer than before ; and while they re- 
 joiced in the hope of soon reaching a place of repose, a light was 
 seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at a height consider- 
 ably above the level of their path, and was lost and seen again, 
 as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and then 
 admitted its rays. The guides halloed with all their strength, 
 but the sound of no human voice was heard in return ; and at 
 length, as a more effectual means of making themselves known, 
 they fired a pistol. But while they listened in anxious expecta- 
 tion, the noise of the explosion was alone heard echoing among 
 the rocks, and it gradually sunk into silence, which no friendly 
 hint of man disturbed. The light, however, that had been 
 seen before, now became plainer, and soon after voices were 
 heard indistinctly on the wind ; but upon the guides repeating 
 the call, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light disappeared. 
 
 The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath th,e pres- 
 sure of anxiety, fatigue, and apprehension ; and the united 
 efforts of the count and St. Foix could scarcely support her spirits. 
 As they continued to advance, an object was perceived on a point 
 of rock above, which, the strong rays of the moon then falling 
 on it, appeared to be a watch-tower. The count, from its situa- 
 tion and some other circumstances, had little doubt that it was 
 such; and beheving that the light had proceeded from thence, 
 he endeavoured to re-animate his daughter's spirits by the near 
 prospect of shelter and repose, which, however rude the accom- 
 modation, a ruined watch-tower might afford. 
 
 'Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the 
 Pyrenees,' said the count, anxious only to call Blanche's atten- 
 tion from the subject of her fears; 'and the method by which 
 they give intelligence of the approach of the enemy is, you know, 
 
632 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 by fires kindled on the summits of these edifices. Signals have 
 thus sometimes been communicated from post to post along a 
 frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then, as occa- 
 sion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their fortresses 
 and the forests, and march forth to defend perhaps the entrance 
 of some grand pass, where, planting themselves on the heights, 
 they assail their astonished enemies, who wind along the glen 
 below, with fragments of the shattered cliff, and pour death and 
 defeat upon them. The ancient forts and watch-towers over- 
 looking the grand passes of the Pyrenees are carefully preserved ; 
 but some of those in inferior stations have been suffered to fall 
 into decay, and are now frequently converted into the more 
 peaceful habitation of the hunter or the shepherd, who after a 
 day of toil retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets, 
 near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chase, or the anxiety of 
 collecting his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the 
 nightly storm.' 
 
 'But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?' said the 
 Lady Blanche. 
 
 *No,' replied the count; 'they are sometimes the asylum of 
 French and Spanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with 
 contraband goods from their respective countries ; and the 
 latter are particularly numerous, against whom strong parties 
 of the king's troops are sometimes sent. But the desperate 
 resolution of these adventurers, — who, knowing that if they 
 are taken they must expiate the breach of the law by the most 
 cruel death, travel in large parties well armed, — often daunts 
 the courage of the soldiers. The smugglers who seek only 
 safety, never engage when they can possibly avoid it ; the mili- 
 tary also, who know that in these encounters danger is certain, 
 and glory almost unattainable, are equally reluctant to fight ; 
 an engagement therefore very seldom happens ; but when it 
 does, it never concludes till after the most desperate and bloody 
 conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche,' added the count : 
 ' I have wearied you with a dull subject ; but see yonder, in the 
 moonlight, is the edifice we have been in search of, and we are 
 fortunate to be so near it before the storm bursts.' 
 
 Blanche, looking up, perceived that they were at the foot of 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 633 
 
 the cliff, on whose summit the building stood, but no Hght now 
 issued from it ; the barking of the dog too had for some time 
 ceased ; and the guides began to doubt whether this was really 
 the object of their search. From the distance at which they 
 surveyed it, shown imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared 
 to be of more extent than a single watch-tower ; but the difficulty 
 was how to ascend the height, whose abrupt acclivities seemed 
 to afford no kind of path-way. 
 
 While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the 
 cliff, the count, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, 
 under the shadov/ of the woods, endeavoured again to beguile 
 the time by conversation, but again anxiety abstracted the mind 
 of Blanche : and he then consulted apart with St. Foix, whether 
 it would be advisable, should a path be found, to venture to an 
 edifice which might possibly harbour banditti. They considered 
 that their own party was not small, and that several of them were 
 well armed ; and after enumerating the dangers to be incurred 
 by passing the night in the open wild, exposed perhaps to the 
 effects of a thunderstorm, there remained not a doubt that they 
 ought to endeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above, 
 at any hazard respecting the inhabitants it might harbour : but 
 the darkness, and the dead silence that surrounded it, appeared 
 to contradict the probability of its being inhabited at all. 
 
 A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, 
 in a few minutes, one of the count's servants returned with intel- 
 ligence that a path was found, and they immediately hastened 
 to join the guides, when they all ascended a little winding 
 way cut in the rock among the thickets of dwarf wood, and after 
 much toil and some danger reached the summit, where several 
 ruined towers surrounded by a massy wall rose to their view, 
 partially illumined by the moonlight. The space around the 
 building was silent, and apparently forsaken : but the count was 
 cautious. 'Step softly,' said he in a low voice, 'while we recon- 
 noitre the edifice.' 
 
 Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped 
 at a gate whose portals were terrible even in ruins ; and, after 
 a moment's hesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but 
 paused again at the head of a terrace, which, branching from it, 
 
634 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 ran along the brow of a precipice. Over this rose the main body 
 of the edifice, which was now seen to be not a watch-tower, but 
 one of those ancient fortresses that from age and neglect had 
 fallen to decay. Many parts of it, however, appeared to be still 
 entire ; it was built of grey stone, in the heavy Saxon-Gothic 
 style, with enormous round towers, buttresses of proportionable 
 strength, and the arch of the large gate which seemed to open 
 into the hall of the fabric was round, as was that of a window 
 above. The air of solemnity which must so strongly have 
 characterised the pile even in the days of its early strength, 
 was now considerably heightened by its shattered battlements 
 and half-demolished walls, and by the huge masses of ruin scat- 
 tered in its wide area, now silent and grass-grown. In this court 
 of entrance stood the gigantic remains of an oak, that seemed 
 to have flourished and decayed with the building, which it still 
 appeared frowningly to protect by the few remaining branches, 
 leafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose wide 
 extent told how enormous the tree had been in a former age. 
 This fortress was evidently once of great strength, and from its 
 situation on a point of rock impending over a deep glen, had been 
 of great power to annoy as well as to resist : the count, therefore, 
 as he stood surveying it, was somewhat surprised that it had 
 been suffered, ancient as it was, to sink into ruins, and its present 
 lonely and deserted air excited in his breast emotions of melancholy 
 awe. While he indulged for a moment these emotions, he thought 
 he heard a sound of remote voices steal upon the stillness from 
 within the building, the front of which he again surveyed with scru- 
 tinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. He now determined to 
 walk round the fort, to that remote part of it whence he thought 
 the voices had arisen, that he might examine whether any light 
 could be discerned there, before he ventured to knock at the 
 gate: for this purpose he entered upon the terrace, where the 
 remains of cannon were yet apparent in the thick walls : but 
 he had not proceeded many paces when his steps were sud- 
 denly arrested by the loud barking of a dog within, and which he 
 fancied to be the same whose voice had been the means of bring- 
 ing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain that the 
 place was inhabited ; and the count returned to consult again 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 635 
 
 with St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for 
 its wild aspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution : 
 but after a second consultation, he submitted to the considera- 
 tions which before determined him, and which were strengthened 
 by the discovery of the dog that guarded the fort, as well as by 
 the stillness that pervaded it. He therefore ordered one of his 
 servants to knock at the gate ; who was advancing to obey him, 
 when a light appeared through the loop-hole of one of the towers, 
 and the count called loudly : but receiving no answer, he went 
 up to the gate himself, and struck upon it with an iron pointed 
 pole which had assisted him to climb the steep. When the 
 echoes had ceased that this blow had awakened, the renewed 
 barking — and there were now more than one dog — was the 
 only sound that was heard. The count stepped back a few paces 
 to observe whether the light was in the tower; and perceiving 
 that it was gone, he returned to the portal, and had lifted the 
 pole to strike again, when again he fancied he heard the murmur 
 of voices within, and paused to listen. He was confirmed in 
 the supposition, but they were too remote to be heard otherwise 
 than in a murmur, and the count now let the pole fall heavily 
 upon the gate, when almost immediately a profound silence 
 followed. It was apparent that the people within had heard 
 the sound, and their caution in admitting strangers gave him a 
 favourable opinion of them. 'They are either hunters or shep- 
 herds,' said he, 'who, like ourselves, have probably sought shelter 
 from the night within these walls, and are fearful of admitting 
 strangers, lest they should prove robbers. I will endeavour 
 to remove their fears.' So saying, he called aloud, 'We are 
 friends, who ask shelter from the night.' In a few moments 
 steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice then 
 inquired — 'Who calls ?' 'Friends, ' repeated the count : 'open 
 the gates, and you shall know more.' Strong bolts were now 
 heard to be undrawn, and a man armed with a hunting-spear 
 appeared. 'What is it you want at this hour?' said he. The 
 count beckoned his attendants, and then answered, that he 
 wished to inquire the way to the nearest cabin. 'Are you so 
 little acquainted with these mountains,' said the man, 'as not 
 to know that there is none within several leagues ? I cannot 
 
636 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 show you the way ; you must seek it — there's a moon.' Say- 
 ing this, he was closing the gate, and the count was turning away 
 half disappointed and half afraid, when another voice was heard 
 from above ; and on looking up, he saw a light and a man's face 
 at the grate of the portal. 'Stay, friend, you have lost your 
 way?' said the voice. 'You are hunters, I suppose, like our- 
 selves ? I will be with you presently.' The voice ceased, and 
 the light disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the 
 appearance of the man who had opened the gate, and she now 
 entreated her father to quit the place : but the count had ob- 
 served the hunter's spear which he carried, and the words from 
 the tower encouraged him to await the event. The gate was 
 soon opened : and several men in hunters' habits, who had heard 
 above what had passed below, appeared ; and having listened 
 some time to the count, told him he was welcome to rest there 
 for the night. They then pressed him with much courtesy to 
 enter, and to partake of such fare as they were about to sit down 
 to. The count, who had observed them attentively while they 
 spoke, was cautious and somewhat suspicious ; but he was also 
 weary, fearful of the approaching storm, and of encountering 
 Alpine heights in the obscurity of night : being likewise somewhat 
 confident in the strength and number of his attendants, he, after 
 some further consideration, determined to accept the invitation. 
 With this resolution he called his servants, who advancing round 
 the tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to 
 this conference, followed their lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. 
 Foix, into the fortress. The strangers led them on to a large 
 and rude hall, partially seen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, 
 round which four men in the hunter's dress were seated, and on 
 the hearth were several dogs stretched in sleep. In the middle 
 of the hall stood a large table, and over the fire some part of 
 an animal was boiling. As the count approached, the men 
 arose : and the dogs, half raising themselves, looked fiercely at 
 the strangers, but on hearing their masters' voices, kept their 
 postures on the hearth. 
 
 Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall ; then at 
 the men, and to her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, ad- 
 dressed himself to the hunters. 'This is an hospitable hearth,' 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 637 
 
 said he : ' the blaze of the fire is reviving after having wandered 
 so long in these dreary wilds. Your dogs are tired ; what suc- 
 cess have you had?' 'Such as we usually have,' replied one of 
 the men, who had been seated in the hall ; 'we kill our game with 
 tolerable certainty.' — 'These are fellow-hunters,' said one of 
 the men who had brought the count hither, ' that have lost their 
 way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for 
 us all.' — 'Very true, very true,' replied his companion: 'what 
 luck have you had in the chase, brothers?' 'We have killed 
 two izards, and that you will say is pretty well.' — 'You mistake, 
 friend,' said the count; 'we are not hunters, but travellers; 
 but if you will admit us to hunters' fare we shall be well con- 
 tented, and will repay your kindness.' — 'Sit down then, brother,' 
 said one of the men : 'Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, the kid 
 will soon be ready ; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma'mselle, 
 will you taste our brandy ? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as 
 ever flowed from a keg.' Blanche timidly smiled, and was going 
 to refuse, when her father prevented her, by taking, with a good- 
 humoured air, the glass offered to his daughter; and Monsieur 
 St. Foix, who was seated next her, pressed her hand, arid gave her 
 an encouraging look ; but her attention was engaged by a man 
 who sat silently by the fire, observing St. Foix with a steady and 
 earnest eye. 
 
 'You lead a jolly life here,' said the count. 'The Hfe of a 
 hunter is a pleasant and a healthy one ; and the repose is sweet 
 which succeeds to your labour.' 
 
 'Yes,' replied one of the hosts, 'our life is pleasant enough. 
 We live here only during the summer and autumnal months ; 
 in winter the place is dreary, and the swollen torrents that 
 descend from the heights put a stop to the chase.' 
 
 ' 'Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,' said the count : ' I should 
 like to pass a month in your way very well.' 
 
 ' We find employment for our guns too,' said a man who stood 
 behind the count : ' here are plenty of birds of delicious flavour, 
 that feed upon the wild thyme and herbs that grow in the valleys. 
 Now I think of It, there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone 
 gallery ; go fetch them, Jacques ; we will have them dressed.' 
 
 The count now made inquiry concerning the method of pur- 
 
638 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 suing the chase among the rocks and precipices of these romantic 
 regions, and was listening to a curious detail, when a horn was 
 sounded at the gate. Blanche looked timidly at her father, who 
 continued to converse on the subject of the chase, but whose 
 countenance was somewhat expressive of anxiety, and who often 
 turned his eyes towards that part of the hall nearest the gate. 
 The horn sounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded. 'There 
 are some of our companions returned from their day's labour,' 
 said a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate ; and in a 
 few minutes two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoulder 
 and pistols in his belt. 'What cheer, my lads? what cheer?' 
 said they, as they approached. 'What luck?' returned their 
 companions : ' have you brought home your supper ? You shall 
 have none else.' 
 
 ' Hah ! who the devil have you brought home ? ' said they in 
 bad Spanish, on perceiving the count's party ; ' are they from 
 France, or Spain ? — where did you meet with them ? ' 
 
 'They met with us; and a merry meeting too,' replied his 
 companion aloud in good French. 'This chevalier and his 
 party had lost their way, and asked a night's lodging in the fort.' 
 The others made no reply, but threw down a kind of knapsack, 
 and drew forth several brace of birds. The bag sounded heavily 
 as it fell to the ground, and the glitter of some bright metal 
 within glanced on the eye of the count, who now surveyed with 
 a more inquiring look the man that held the knapsack. He was 
 a tall, robust figure, of a hard countenance, and had short black 
 hair curling on his neck. Instead of the hunter's dress, he wore 
 a faded military uniform : sandals were laced on his broad legs : 
 and a kind of short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head 
 he wore a leather cap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient 
 Roman helmet ; but the brows that scowled beneath it would 
 have characterised those of the barbarians who conquered 
 Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier. The count at 
 length turned away his eyes, and remained silent and thoughtful, 
 till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing in an 
 obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who 
 was conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this ; but the 
 count soon after saw the same man looking over the shoulder 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 639 
 
 of the soldier as attentively at himself. He withdrew his eye 
 when that of the count met it, who felt mistrust gathering fast 
 upon his mind, but feared to betray it in his countenance, and, 
 forcing his features to assume a smile, addressed Blanche on some 
 indifferent subject. When he again looked round, he perceived 
 that the soldier and his companion were gone. 
 
 The man who was called Jacques now returned from the stone 
 gallery. 'A fire is lighted there,' said he, 'and the birds are 
 dressing ; the table, too, is spread there, for that place is warmer 
 than this.' 
 
 His companions approved of the removal, and invited their 
 guests to follow to the gallery ; of whom Blanche appeared 
 distressed and remained silent, and St. Foix looked at the 
 count, who said he preferred the comfortable blaze of the fire 
 he was then near. The hunters, however, commended the 
 warmth of the other apartment, and pressed his removal with 
 such seeming courtesy, that the count, half doubting and half 
 fearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go. The long and 
 ruinous passages through which they went, somewhat daunted 
 him ; but the thunder, which now burst in loud peals above, 
 made it dangerous to quit this place of shelter, and he forebore 
 to provoke his conductors by showing that he distrusted them. 
 The hunters led the way with a lamp : the count and St. Foix, 
 who wished to please their hosts by some instances of familiar- 
 ity, carried each a seat, and Blanche followed with faltering 
 steps. As she passed on, part of her dress caught on a nail in 
 the wall ; and while she stopped, somewhat too scrupulously, 
 to disengage it, the count, who was talking to St. Foix, and 
 neither of whom observed the circumstance, followed their 
 conductor round an abrupt angle of the passage, and Blanche 
 was left behind in darkness. The thunder prevented them from 
 hearing her call ; but, having disengaged her dress, she quickly 
 followed, as she thought, the way they had taken. A light that 
 glimmered at a distance confirmed this belief ; and she proceeded 
 towards an open door whence it issued, conjecturing the room 
 beyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of. Hear- 
 ing voices as she advanced, she paused within a few paces of the 
 chamber, that she might be certain whether she was right ; 
 
640 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 and from thence, by the Hght of a lamp that hung from the ceil- 
 ing, observed four men seated round a table, over which they 
 leaned in apparent consultation. In one of them she distin- 
 guished the features of him whom she had observed gazing at 
 St. Foix with such deep attention ; and who was now speaking 
 in an earnest, though restrained voice, till one of his companions 
 seeming to oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher 
 tone. Blanche, alarmed by perceiving that neither her father 
 nor St. Foix was there, and terrified at the fierce countenances 
 and manners of these men, was turning hastily from the chamber 
 to pursue her search of the gallery, when she heard one of the 
 men say : 
 
 'Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow 
 my advice, and there will be none — secure them, and the rest 
 are an easy prey.' Blanche, struck with these words, paused 
 a moment to hear more. 'There is nothing to be got by the 
 rest,' said one of his companions ; 'I am never for blood when I 
 can help it — dispatch the two others, and our business is done : 
 the rest may go.' 
 
 'May they so ! ' exclaimed the first rufhan with a tremendous 
 oath — 'What ! to tell how we have disposed of their master, and 
 to send the king's troops to drag us to the wheel ! You was 
 always a choice adviser — I warrant we have not yet forgot St. 
 Thomas's eve, last year.' 
 
 Blanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse 
 was to retreat from the door ; but when she would have gone, 
 her trembling frame refused to support her, and having tottered 
 a few paces to a more obscure part of the passage, she was com- 
 pelled to listen to the dreadful counsels of those who, she was 
 no longer suffered to doubt, were banditti. In the next moment 
 she heard the following words: 'Why, you would not murder 
 the whole gang?' 
 
 *I warrant our lives are as good as theirs,' replied his com- 
 rade. 'If we don't kill them, they will hang us: better they 
 should die than we be hanged.' 
 
 'Better, better,' cried his comrades. 
 
 'To commit murder is a hopeful way of escaping the gal- 
 lows ! ' said the first ruffian — ' many an honest fellow has run 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 641 
 
 his head into the noose that way, though.' There was a pause 
 for some moments, during which they appeared to be considering. 
 
 'Confound those fellows,' exclaimed one of the robbers im- 
 patiently, ' they ought to have been here by this time ; they will 
 come back presently with the old story, and no booty ; if they 
 were here, our business would be plain and easy. I see we shall 
 not be able to do business to-night, for our numbers are not 
 equal to the enemy ; and in the morning they will be for marching 
 off, and how can we detain them without force ? ' 
 
 'I have been thinking of a scheme that will do,' said one of 
 his comrades ; ' if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silently, 
 it will be easy to master the rest.' 
 
 'That's a plausible scheme, in good faith !' said another with 
 a smile of scorn — ' If I can eat my way through the prison- wall, 
 I shall be at liberty ! — How can we dispatch them silently?' 
 
 'By poison,' replied his companions. 
 
 'Well said ! that will do,' said the second ruffian; 'that will 
 give a lingering death too, and satisfy my revenge. These barons 
 shall take care how they again tempt our vengeance.' 
 
 'I knew the son the moment I saw him,' said the man whom 
 Blanche had observed gazing on St. Foix, 'though he does not 
 know me ; the father I had almost forgotten.' 
 
 'Well, you may say what you will,' said the third ruffian, 
 'but I don't beheve he is the baron ; and I am as likely to know 
 as any of you, for I was one of them that attacked him with our 
 brave lads that suffered.' 
 
 'And was not I another?' said the first ruffian. 'I tell you 
 he is the baron ; but what does it signify whether he is or not ? 
 — shall we let all this booty go out of our hands ? It is not often 
 we have such luck as this. While we run the chance of the wheel 
 for smuggling a few pounds of tobacco, to cheat the king's manu- 
 factory, and of breaking our necks down the precipices in chase 
 of our food ; and now and then rob a brother smuggler, or a 
 stragghng pilgrim, of what scarcely repays us the powder we 
 fire at them ; shall we let such a prize as this go ? Why, they 
 have enough about them to keep us for ' 
 
 'I am not for that, I am not for that,' replied the third robber ; 
 'let us make the most of them. Only, if this is the baron, I 
 
642 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 should like to have a flash the more at him, for the sake of our 
 brave comrades that he brought to the gallows.' 
 
 'Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,' rejoined the first man, 
 'but I tell you the baron is a taller man.' 
 
 'Confound your quibbling,' said the second ruffian. 'Shall 
 we let them go or not ? If we stay here much longer they will 
 take the hint, and march ofif without our leave. Let them be 
 who they will, they are rich, or why all those servants ? Did you 
 see the ring he whom you call the baron had on his finger ? — 
 it was a diamond ; but he has not got it on now : he saw me look- 
 ing at it, I warrant, and took it off.' 
 
 'Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that? She 
 has not taken that off,' observed the first ruffian, 'it hangs at 
 her neck ; if it had not sparkled so, I should not have found 
 it out, for it was almost hid by her dress : those are diamonds 
 too, and a rare many of them there must be to go round such a 
 large picture.' 
 
 * But how are we to manage this business ? ' said the second 
 ruffian, 'let us talk of that ; there is no fear of there being booty 
 enough, but how are we to secure it?' 
 
 'Aye, aye,' said his comrades ; 'let us talk of that, and remem- 
 ber no time is to be lost.' 
 
 'I am still for poison,' observed the third : 'but consider their 
 number; why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; 
 when I saw so many at the gate, I was for not letting them in, 
 you know, nor you either.' 
 
 'I thought they might be some of our enemies,' replied the 
 second; 'I did not so much mind numbers.' 
 
 'But you must mind them now,' rejoined his comrade, 'or it 
 will be worse for you. We are not more than six, and how can 
 we master ten by open force ? I tell you we must give some of 
 them a dose, and the rest may then be managed.' 
 
 'I'll tell you a better way,' rejoined the other impatiently; 
 'draw closer.' 
 
 Blanche, who had listened to this conversation in an agony 
 which it would be impossible to describe, could no longer distin- 
 guish what was said, for the ruffians now spoke in lowered voices ; 
 but the hope that she might save her friends from the plot, if 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 643 
 
 she could find her way quickly to them, suddenly re-animated 
 her spirits, and lent her strength enough to turn her steps in 
 search of the gallery. Terror, however, and darkness conspired 
 against her ; and having moved a few yards, the feeble light 
 that issued from the chamber no longer even contended with 
 the gloom, and her foot stumbling over a step that crossed the 
 passage, she fell to the ground. 
 
 The noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, 
 and then all rushed to the passage, to examine whether any 
 person was there who might have overheard their counsels. 
 Blanche saw them approaching, and perceived their fierce and 
 eager looks ; but before she could raise herself, they discovered 
 and seized her; and as they dragged her towards the chamber 
 they had quitted, her screams drew from them horrible threat- 
 enings. 
 
 Having reached the room, they began to consult what they 
 should do with her. 'Let us first know what she has heard,' 
 said the chief robber. ' How long have you been in the passage, 
 lady, and what brought you there ? ' 
 
 'Let us first secure that picture,' said one of his comrades, 
 approaching the trembHng Blanche. 'Fair lady, by your leave, 
 that picture ; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it.' 
 
 Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the 
 miniature, while another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her 
 concerning what she had overheard of their conversation ; when 
 her confusion and terror too plainly telling what her tongue feared 
 to confess, the ruffians looked expressively upon one another, 
 and two of them withdrew to a remote part of the room, as if 
 to consult further. 
 
 ' These are diamonds by St. Peter ! ' exclaimed the fellow who 
 had been examining the miniature, 'and here is a very pretty 
 picture too, 'faith ; as handsome a young chevalier as you would 
 wish to see by a summer's sun. Lady, this is your spouse, I 
 warrant, for it is the spark that was in your company just now.' 
 
 Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on 
 her, and, delivering him her purse, promised to say nothing of 
 what had passed if he would suffer her to return to her friends. 
 
 He smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his atten- 
 
644 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 tion was called off by a distant noise ; and while he listened, he 
 grasped the arm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared she would 
 escape from him, and she again shrieked for help. 
 
 The approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other 
 part of the chamber. 'We are betrayed,' said they; 'but let 
 us Hsten a moment, perhaps it is only our comrades come in 
 from the mountains, and if so, our work is sure — listen !' 
 
 A distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a 
 moment : but in the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, 
 the clashing of swords, mingled with the voices of loud contention 
 and with heavy groans, was distinguished in the avenue leading 
 to the chamber. While the ruffians prepared their arms, they 
 heard themselves called by some of their comrades afar off, and 
 then a shrill horn was sounded without the fortress, a signal, it 
 appeared, they too well understood ; for three of them, leaving 
 the Lady Blanche to the care of the fourth, instantly rushed 
 from the chamber. 
 
 While Blanche, trembling and nearly fainting, was supplicat- 
 ing for release, she heard amid the tumult that approached, the 
 voice of St. Foix ; and she had scarcely renewed her shriek, when 
 the door of the room was thrown open, and he appeared much 
 disfigured with blood, and pursued by several ruffians. Blanche 
 neither saw nor heard any more ; her head swam, her sight failed, 
 and she became senseless in the arms of the robber who had 
 detained her. 
 
 When she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light that 
 trembled round her, that she was in the same chamber; but 
 neither the count, St. Foix, nor any other person appeared, and 
 she continued for some time entirely still, and nearly in a state 
 of stupefaction. But the dreadful images of the past returning, 
 she endeavoured to raise herself, that she might seek her friends ; 
 when a sullen groan at a little distance reminded her of St. Foix, 
 and of the condition in which she had seen him enter this room ; 
 then, starting from the floor by a sudden effort of horror, she 
 advanced to the place whence the sound had proceeded, where 
 a body was lying stretched upon the pavement, and where, by 
 the glimmering light of a lamp, she discovered the pale and 
 disfigured countenance of St. Foix. Her horrors at that moment 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 645 
 
 may be easily imagined. He was speechless ; his eyes were 
 half closed ; and on the hand which she grasped in the agony 
 of despair cold damps had settled. While she vainly repeated 
 his name, and called for assistance, steps approached, and a 
 person entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived, was not 
 the count her father; but what was her astonishment, when, 
 supplicating him to give his assistance to St. Foix, she discovered 
 Ludovico ! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but imme- 
 diately bound up the wounds of the chevalier, and perceiving 
 that he had fainted probably from loss of blood, ran for water ; 
 but he had been absent only a few moments, when Blanche heard 
 other steps approaching ; and while she was almost frantic with 
 apprehension of the ruffians, the light of a torch flashed upon the 
 walls, and then Count de Villefort appeared with an affrighted 
 countenance, and breathless with impatience, calling upon his 
 daughter. At the sound of his voice she rose, and ran to his 
 arms, while he, letting fall the bloody sword he held, pressed her 
 to his bosom in a transport of gratitude and joy, and then 
 hastily inquired for St. Foix, who now gave some signs of life. 
 Ludovico soon after returning with water and brandy, the 
 former was applied to his lips, and the latter to his temples and 
 hands, and Blanche, at length, saw him unclose his eyes, and then 
 heard him inquire for her : but the joy she felt on this occasion 
 was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said it would 
 be necessary to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, 
 'The banditti that are out, my lord, were expected home an 
 hour ago, and they will certainly find us if we delay. That shrill 
 horn, they know, is never sounded by their comrades but on most 
 desperate occasions, and it echoes among the mountains for many 
 leagues round. I have known them brought home by its sound 
 even from the Pied de Melicant. Is any one standing watch at 
 the great gate, my lord ? ' 
 
 'Nobody,' replied the count; 'the rest of my people are now 
 scattered about, I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect 
 them together, and look out yourself, and Hsten if you hear 
 the feet of mules.' 
 
 Ludovico then hurried away, and the count consulted as to 
 the means of removing St. Foix, who could not have borne the 
 
646 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 motion of a mule, even if his strength would have supported 
 him in the saddle. 
 
 While the count was telling that the banditti, whom they had 
 found in the fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed 
 that he was himself wounded, and that his left arm was entirely 
 useless ; but he smiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound 
 was trifling. 
 
 The count's servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, 
 now appeared, and soon after Ludovico. 'I think I hear mules 
 coming along the glen, my lord,' said he, 'but the roaring of the 
 torrent below will not let me be certain : however, I have brought 
 what will serve the chevalier,' he added, showing a bear's skin 
 fastened to a couple of long poles, which had been adapted for 
 the purpose of bringing home such of the banditti as happened 
 to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovico spread it on the 
 ground, and, placing the skins of several goats upon it, made a 
 kind of bed, into which the chevalier, who was however now 
 much revived, was gently lifted ; and the poles being raised upon 
 the shoulders of the guides, whose footing among these steeps 
 could best be depended upon, he was borne along with an easy 
 motion. Some of the count's servants were also wounded, but 
 not materially; and their wounds being bound up, they now 
 followed to the great gate. As they passed along the hall, a loud 
 tumult was heard at some distance, and Blanche was terrified. 
 'It is only those villains in the dungeon, my lady,' said Ludovico. 
 'They seem to be bursting it open,' said the count. 'No, my 
 lord,' replied Ludovico, 'it has an iron door; we have nothing 
 to fear from them ; but let me go first, and look out from the 
 rampart.' 
 
 They quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing 
 before the gates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard 
 no sound, except that of the torrent below, and of the early 
 breeze sighing among the branches of the old oak that grew in 
 the court ; and they were now glad to perceive the first tints of 
 dawn over the mountain-tops. When they had mounted their 
 mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide, led them by an 
 easier path than that by which they had formerly ascended 
 into the glen. 'We must avoid that valley to the east, my lord,' 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 647 
 
 said he, 'or we may meet the banditti; they went out that 
 way in the morning.' 
 
 The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found them- 
 selves in a narrow valley that stretched towards the north-west. 
 The morning-light upon the mountains now strengthened fast, 
 and gradually discovered the green hillocks that skirted the 
 winding feet of the cHffs, tufted with cork-tree and evergreen 
 oak. The thunder-clouds, being dispersed, had left the sky 
 perfectly serene, and Blanche was revived by the fresh breeze and 
 by the view of verdure which the late rain had brightened. 
 Soon after, the sun arose, when the dripping rocks, with the 
 shrubs that fringed their summits, and many a turfy slope 
 below, sparkled in his rays. A wreath of mist was seen floating 
 along the extremity of the valley ; but the gale bore it before 
 the travellers, and the sunbeams gradually drew it up towards 
 the summit of the mountains. They had proceeded about a 
 league, when St. Foix having complained of extreme faintness, 
 they stopped to give him refreshment, and that the men who 
 bore him might rest. Ludovico had brought from the fort some 
 flasks of rich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving cordial 
 not only to St. Foix but to the whole party ; though to him it 
 gave only a temporary reUef, for it fed the fever that burned in 
 his veins, and he could neither disguise in his countenance the 
 anguish he suffered, nor suppress the wish that he was arrived 
 at the inn where they had designed to pass the preceding night. 
 
 While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the 
 dark green pines, the count desired Ludovico to explain shortly 
 by what means he had disappeared from the north apartment, 
 how he came into the hands of the banditti, and how he had 
 contributed so essentially to serve him and his family, for to him 
 he justly attributed their present deliverance. Ludovico was 
 going to obey him, when suddenly they heard the echo of a pistol- 
 shot from the way they had passed, and they rose in alarm hastily 
 to pursue their route.^ 
 
 ^ They reach home safely. Ludovico explains that his mysterious disappearance 
 from the north chamber was due to his seizure by these bandits from whom the party 
 has escaped. The bandits used to conceal their spoils in the castle vaults ; to avoid 
 detection they spread the report that the castle was haunted. 
 
648 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 CHAPTER LV 
 ******* 
 
 [The Mystery of the Veiled Portrait Solved] 
 
 It may be remembered that in a chamber of Udolpho hung a 
 black veil, whose singular situation had excited Emily's curiosity, 
 and which afterwards disclosed an object that had overwhelmed 
 her with horror; for, on lifting it, there appeared, instead of 
 the picture she had expected, within a recess of the wall, a human 
 figure, of ghastly paleness, stretched at its length, and dressed 
 in the habihments of the grave. What added to the horror of 
 the spectacle, was, that the face appeared partly decayed and 
 disfigured by worms, which were visible on the features and 
 hands. On such an object it will be readily believed that no 
 person could endure to look twice. Emily, it may be recollected, 
 had, after the first glance, let the veil drop, and her terror had 
 prevented her from ever after provoking a renewal of such suf- 
 fering as she had then experienced. Had she dared to look 
 again, her delusion and her fears would have vanished together, 
 and she would have perceived that the figure before her was 
 not human, but formed of wax. The history of it is somewhat 
 extraordinary, though not without example in the records of 
 that fierce severity which monkish superstition has sometimes 
 inflicted on mankind. A member of the house of Udolpho 
 having committed some offence against the prerogative of the 
 church, had been condemned to the penance of contemplating, 
 during certain hours of the day, a waxen image, made to resemble 
 a human body in the state to which it is reduced after death. 
 This penance, serving as a memento of the condition at which 
 he must himself arrive, had been designed to reprove the pride 
 of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly so much exas- 
 perated that of the Romish church ; and he had not only super- 
 stitiously observed this penance himself, which he had believed 
 was to obtain a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a con- 
 dition in his will, that his descendants should preserve the image 
 on pain of forfeiting to the church a certain part of his domain, 
 that they also might profit by the humiliating moral it con- 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 649 
 
 veyed. The figure, therefore, had been suffered to retain its 
 station in the wall Of the chamber ; but his descendants excused 
 themselves from observing the penance to which he had been 
 enjoined. 
 
 This image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising 
 that Emily should have mistaken it for the object it resembled ; 
 nor, since she had heard such an extraordinary account concern- 
 ing the disappearing of the late lady of the castle, and had such 
 experience of the character of Montoni, that she should have 
 beheved this to be the murdered body of the Lady Laurentini, 
 and that he had been the contriver of her death. 
 
 The situation in which she had discovered it occasioned her 
 at first much surprise and perplexity ; but the vigilance with 
 which the doors of the chamber where it was deposited were 
 afterwards secured, had compelled her to believe that Montoni, 
 not daring to confide the secret of her death to any person, had 
 suffered her remains to decay in this obscure chamber. The 
 ceremony of the veil, however, and the circumstance of the doors 
 having been left open even for a moment, had occasioned her 
 much wonder and some doubts ; but these were not sufficient 
 to overcome her suspicion of Montoni ; and it was the dread 
 of his terrible vengeance that had sealed her lips in silence 
 concerning what she had seen in the west chamber. 
 
 Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been 
 the sister of Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected ; but, 
 amidst the sorrow which she suffered for her untimely death, 
 she was released from an anxious and painful conjecture, occa- 
 sioned by the rash assertion of Signora Laurentini,^ concerning 
 her birth and the honour of her parents. Her faith in St. Au- 
 bert's principles would scarcely allow her to suspect that he had 
 acted dishonourably ; and she felt such reluctance to believe 
 herself the daughter of any other than her whom she had always 
 considered and loved as a mother, that she would hardly admit 
 such a circumstance to be possible : yet the likeness which it 
 had frequently been affirmed she bore to the late marchioness, 
 
 1 This unprincipled woman whose history had been curiously interwoven with that of 
 Emily's family had, because of the resemblance between Emily and the portrait of the 
 Marchioness de Villeroi, tried to convince her that she was the marchioness' daughter. 
 
650 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 the former behaviour of Dorothee the old housekeeper, the 
 assertion of Laurentini, and the mysterious attachment 
 which St. Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts as to his 
 connection with the marchioness, which her reason could neither 
 vanquish nor confirm. From these, however, she was now re- 
 lieved, and all the circumstances of her father's conduct were 
 fully explained. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI 
 
 After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the 
 chateau by the count and his family as a relative of the house of 
 Villeroi, and received, if possible, more friendly attention than 
 had yet been shown her. 
 
 Count de Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his 
 letter, which had been directed to Valancourt at Estuviere, was 
 mingled with satisfaction for the prudence which had saved 
 Emily from a share of the anxiety he now suffered ; though, 
 when he saw her still drooping under the effect of his former 
 error, all his resolution was necessary to restrain him from 
 relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary relief. 
 The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his 
 attention with this subject of his anxiety ; for the inhabitants 
 of the chateau were already busied in preparations for that 
 event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In 
 the gaiety which surrounded her, Emily vainly tried to partici- 
 pate, her spirits being depressed by the late discoveries, and by 
 the anxiety concerning the fate of Valancourt, that had been 
 occasioned by the description of his manner when he had deliv- 
 ered the ring.^ She seemed to perceive in it the gloomy wildness 
 of despair ; and when she considered to what that despair might 
 have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief. The 
 state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself 
 condemned till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insup- 
 portable ; and, in such moments, she could not even struggle 
 to assume the composure that had left her mind, but would 
 often abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour 
 
 ' After a painful meeting with Valancourt Emily had received from him a ring as a 
 sign of his unalterable affection. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 651 
 
 to soothe her spirits in the deep solitudes of the woods that 
 overbrowed the shore. Here the faint roar of foaming waves 
 that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind among the 
 branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper 
 of her mind ; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps 
 of her favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of 
 the evening clouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, 
 till the white tops of billows, riding towards the shore, could 
 scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened waters. The lines 
 engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she frequently repeated 
 with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would endeavour to check 
 the recollection and the grief they occasioned, and to turn her 
 thoughts to indifferent subjects. 
 
 ^ One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her 
 favourite spot, she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a 
 winding staircase that led to a small chamber which was less 
 decayed than the rest of the building, and whence she had often 
 gazed with admiration on the wide prospect of sea and land that 
 extended below. The sun was now setting on that tract of the 
 Pyrenees which divides Languedoc from Roussillon ; and plac- 
 ing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the 
 wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the 
 red glow of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn 
 symphony, and then accompanied it with her voice in one of the 
 simple and affecting airs to which, in happier days, Valancourt 
 had often listened in rapture. 
 
 The soft tranquiUity of the scene below, where the evening 
 breeze scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail that 
 caught the last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a 
 dipping oar was all that disturbed the trembling radiance, con- 
 spired with the tender melody of her lute to lull her mind into a 
 state of gentle sadness ; and she sung the mournful songs of past 
 times, till the remembrances they awakened were too powerful 
 for her heart, her tears fell upon the lute, over which she drooped, 
 and her voice trembled, and was unable to proceed. 
 
 Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even 
 his reflected light was fading from their highest points, Emily 
 I did not leave the watch-tower, but continued to indulge her 
 
652 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 melancholy reverie, till a footstep at a little distance startled 
 her, and on looking through the grate she observed a person 
 walking below, whom, however, soon perceiving to be Mons. 
 Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness his step had 
 interrupted. After some time she again struck her lute, and 
 sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as 
 she paused to listen, she heard it ascending the staircase of the 
 tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to 
 some degree of fear, which she might not otherwise have felt ; 
 for only a few minutes before she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. 
 The steps were quick and bounding, and in the next moment 
 the door of the chamber opened, and a person entered whose 
 features were veiled in the obscurity of twilight ; but his voice 
 could not be concealed, for it was the voice of Valancourt ! 
 At the sound, never heard by Emily without emotion, she started 
 in terror, astonishment, and doubtful pleasure ; and had scarcely 
 beheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by 
 the various emotions that contended at her heart, and almost 
 insensible to that voice whose earnest and trembling calls seemed 
 as if endeavouring to save her. Valancourt, as he hung over 
 Emily, deplored his own rash impatience in having thus sur- 
 prised her : for when he arrived at the chateau, too anxious to 
 await the return of the count, who, he understood, was in the 
 grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as he passed the 
 tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and imme- 
 diately ascended. 
 
 It was a considerable time before she revived ; but when her 
 recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions with an air 
 of reserve, and inquired, with as much displeasure as it was 
 possible she could feel in these first moments of his appearance, 
 the occasion of his visit. 
 
 'Ah, Emily !' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words — alas ! 
 I have, then, little to hope — when you ceased to esteem me, you 
 ceased also to love me ! ' 
 
 'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command 
 her trembling voice ; ' and if you had valued my esteem, you 
 would not have given me this new occasion for uneasiness.' 
 
 Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 653 
 
 of doubt to an expression of surprise and dismay ; he was silent 
 a moment, and then said, 'I had been taught to hope for a very 
 different reception ! Is it then true, Emily, that I have lost your 
 regard for ever ? Am I to believe that though your esteem for 
 me may return — your affection never can ? Can the count 
 have meditated the cruelty which now tortures me with a sec- 
 ond death ? ' 
 
 The voice in which he spoke this alarmed Emily as much as 
 his words surprised her, and with trembling impatience she 
 begged that he would explain them. 
 
 ' Can any explanation be necessary ? ' said Valancourt : ' do 
 you not know how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented ? 
 that the actions of which you once believed me guilty (and, O 
 Emily ! how could you so degrade me in your opinion, even for 
 a moment ?) — those actions I hold in as much contempt and 
 abhorrence as yourself ? Are you, indeed, ignorant that Count 
 de Villefort has detected the slanders that have robbed me of 
 all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to 
 you my former conduct ? It is surely impossible you can be 
 uninformed of these circumstances, and I am again torturing 
 myself with a false hope ! ' 
 
 The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition ; for the 
 deep twihght would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the 
 astonishment and doubting joy that fixed her features. For a 
 moment she continued unable to speak ; then a profound sigh 
 seemed to give some relief to her spirits, and she said, 
 
 'Valancourt ! I was till this moment ignorant of all the cir- 
 cumstances you have mentioned ; the emotion I now suffer may 
 assure you of the truth of this, and that though I had ceased 
 to esteem, I had not taught myself entirely to forget you.' 
 
 'This moment !' said Valancourt in a low voice, and leaning 
 for support against the window — ' this moment brings with it 
 a conviction that overpowers me ! — I am dear to you, then 
 — still dear to you, my Emily !' 
 
 ' Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied: 'is 
 it necessary that I should say — these are the first moments of 
 joy I have known since your departure, and that they repay me 
 for all those of pain I have suffered in the interval ? ' 
 
654 MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE 
 
 Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply ; but as 
 he pressed her hand to his lips, the tears that fell over it spoke 
 a language which could not be mistaken, and to which words 
 were inadequate. 
 
 Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the 
 chateau ; and then, for the first time, recollected that the count 
 had invited Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that 
 no explanation had yet been given. But while she acknowledged 
 this, her heart would not allow her to dwell for a moment on the 
 possibility of his unworthiness : his look, his voice, his manner, 
 all spoke the noble sincerity which had formerly distinguished 
 him ; and she again permitted herself to indulge the emotions 
 of a joy more surprising and powerful than she had ever before 
 experienced. 
 
 Neither Emily nor Valancourt were conscious how they 
 reached the chateau, whether they might have been transferred 
 by the spell of a fairy, for anything they could remember ; and 
 it was not till they had reached the great hall that either of them 
 recollected there were other persons in the world besides them- 
 selves. 
 
 The count then came forth with surprise and with the joyful- 
 ness of pure benevolence to welcome Valancourt, and to entreat 
 his forgiveness of the injustice he had done him ; soon after which 
 Mons. Bonnac^ joined this happy group, in which he and Valan- 
 court were mutually rejoiced to meet. 
 
 When the first congratulations were over, and the general 
 joy became somewhat more tranquil, the count withdrew with 
 Valancourt to the library, where a long conversation passed 
 between them ; in which the latter so clearly justified himself 
 of the criminal parts of the conduct imputed to him, and so can- 
 didly confessed and so feelingly lamented the follies which he 
 had committed, that the count was confirmed in his belief of 
 all he had hoped ; and while he perceived so many noble virtues 
 in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him to detest the 
 follies which before he had only not admired, he did not scruple 
 to believe that he would pass through life with the dignity of a 
 wise and good man, or to intrust to his care the future happiness 
 
 ' A friend of Valancourt's who has succeeded in clearing the latter's character. 
 
THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO 655 
 
 of Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. 
 Of this he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when 
 Valancourt had left him. While Emily Hstened to a relation of 
 the services that Valancourt had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her 
 eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure ; and the further conver- 
 sation of Count de Villefort perfectly dissipated every doubt, as 
 to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she now restored, 
 without fear, the esteem and affection with which she had for- 
 merly received him. 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 
 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 My dog had made a point on a piece of fallow-ground, and led 
 the curate and me two or three hundred yards over that and 
 some stubble adjoining, in a breathless state of expectation, on 
 a burning first of September. 
 
 It was a false point, and our labour was vain : yet, to do Rover 
 justice (for he's an excellent dog, though I have lost his pedi- 
 gree), the fault was none of his, the birds were gone : the curate 
 showed me the spot where they had lain basking, at the root of 
 an old hedge. 
 
 I stopped and cried Hem ! The curate is fatter than I ; he 
 wiped the sweat from his brow. 
 
 There is no state where one is apter to pause and look round 
 one, than after such a disappointment. It is even so in life. 
 When we have been hurrying on, impelled by some warm wish 
 or other, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left — we 
 find of a sudden that all our gay hopes are flown ; and the only 
 slender consolation that some friend can give us, is to point where 
 they were once to be found. And if we are not of that com- 
 bustible race, who will rather beat their heads in spite, than wipe 
 their brows with the curate, we look round and say, with the 
 nauseated listlessness of the king of Israel, "All is vanity and 
 vexation of spirit." 
 
 I looked round with some such grave apophthegm in my mind 
 when I discovered, for the first time, a venerable pile, to which 
 the enclosure belonged. An air of melancholy hung about it. 
 There was a languid stillness in the day, and a single crow, 
 that perched on an old tree by the side of the gate, seemed to 
 delight in the echo of its own croaking. 
 
 656 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 657 
 
 I leaned on my gun and looked ; but I had not breath enough 
 to ask the curate a question. I observed carving on the bark 
 of some of the trees : 'twas indeed the only mark of human art 
 about the place, except that some branches appeared to have 
 been lopped, to give a view of the cascade, which was formed by 
 a little rill at some distance. 
 
 Just at that instant I saw pass between the trees a young lady 
 with a book in her hand. I stood upon a stone to observe her ; 
 but the curate sat him down on the grass, and leaning his back 
 where I stood, told me, "That was the daughter of a neighbour- 
 ing gentleman of the name of Walton, whom he had seen walk- 
 ing there more than once. 
 
 "Some time ago," he said, "one Harley lived there, a whimsi- 
 cal sort of a man I am told, but I was not then in the cure ; though, 
 if I had a turn for such things, I might know a good deal of his 
 history, for the greatest part of it is still in my possession." 
 
 "His history!" said I. "Nay, you may call it what you 
 please," said the curate ; "for indeed it is no more a history than 
 it is a sermon. The way I came by it was this : some time 
 ago, a grave, oddish kind of a man boarded at a farmer's in this 
 parish : the country people called him The Ghost ; and he was 
 known by the slouch in his gait, and the length of his stride. I 
 was but little acquainted with him, for he never frequented any 
 of the clubs hereabouts. Yet for all he used to walk a-nights, 
 he was as gentle as a lamb at times ; for I have seen him playing 
 at teetotum with the children, on the great stone at the door of 
 our churchyard. 
 
 "Soon after I was made curate, he left the parish, and went 
 nobody knows whither ; and in his room was found a bundle 
 of papers, which was brought to me by his landlord. I began 
 to read them, but I soon grew weary of the task; for, besides 
 that the hand is intolerably bad, I could never find the author 
 in one strain for two chapters together ; and I don't believe 
 there's a single syllogism from beginning to end." 
 
 "I should be glad to see this medley," said I. "You shall 
 see it now," answered the curate, "for I always take it along 
 with me a-shooting." "How came It so torn?" "'Tis excel- 
 lent wadding," said the curate. — This was a plea of expediency 
 
658 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 I was not in a condition to answer; for I had actually in my 
 pocket great part of an edition of one of the German Illustrissimi, 
 for the very same purpose. We exchanged books ; and by that 
 means (for the curate is a strenuous logician) we probably 
 saved both. 
 
 When I returned to town, I had leisure to peruse the acqui- 
 sition I had made: I found it a bundle of httle episodes, put 
 together without art, and of no importance on the whole, with 
 something of nature, and little else in them. I was a good deal 
 affected with some very trifling passages in it ; and had the name 
 
 of Marmontel, or a Richardson, been on the title-page 'tis 
 
 odds that I should have wept : But 
 
 One is ashamed to be pleased with the works of one knows 
 not whom. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 Of Bashfulness — a Character — His opinion on That Subject 
 
 There is some rust about every man at the beginning ; though 
 in some nations (among the French for instance) the ideas of the 
 inhabitants, from climate, or what other cause you will, are so 
 vivacious, so eternally on the wing, that they must, even in 
 small societies, have a frequent collision ; the rust therefore will 
 wear off sooner : but in Britain it often goes with a man to his 
 grave, nay, he dares not even pen a hie jacet to speak out for 
 him after his death. 
 
 "Let them rub it off by travel," said the baronet's brother, 
 who was a striking instance of excellent metal, shamefully rusted. 
 I had drawn my chair near his. Let me paint the honest old 
 man : 'tis but one passing sentence to preserve his image in my 
 mind. 
 
 He sat in his usual attitude, with his elbow rested on his knee, 
 and his fingers pressed to his cheek. His face was shaded by 
 his hand ; yet it was a face that might once have been well 
 accounted handsome ; its features were manly and striking, and 
 
 1 The reader will remember that the Editor is accountable only for scattered chapters and 
 fragments of chapters ; the curate must answer for the rest. The number at the top, when 
 the chapter was entire, he has given as it originally stood, with the title which its author had 
 affixed to it. [Author's note.] 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 659 
 
 a certain dignity resided on his eye-brows, which were the largest 
 I remember to have seen. His person was tall and well-made ; 
 but the indolence of his nature had now inclined it to corpulency. 
 
 His remarks were few, and made only to his famihar friends ; 
 but they were such as the world might have heard with venera- 
 tion : and his heart, uncorrupted by its ways, was ever warm in 
 the cause of virtue and his friends. 
 
 He is now forgotten and gone ! The last time I was at Silton 
 Hall, I saw his chair stand in its corner by the fire-side ; there 
 was an additional cushion on it, and it was occupied by my 
 young lady's favourite lap-dog. I drew near unperceived, and 
 pinched its ears in the bitterness of my soul ; the creature howled, 
 and ran to its mistress. She did not suspect the author of its 
 misfortune, but she bewailed it in the most pathetic terms; 
 and kissing its lips, laid it gently on her lap, and covered it with 
 a cambric handkerchief. I sat in my old friend's seat ; I heard 
 the roar of mirth and gaiety around me : poor Ben Silton ! I 
 gave thee a tear then : accept of one cordial drop that falls to 
 thy memory now. 
 
 "Let them rub it off by travel." — Why, it is true, said I, 
 that will go far ; but then it will often happen, that in the velocity 
 of a modern tour, and amidst the materials through which it is 
 commonly made, the friction is so violent, that not only the rust, 
 but the metal too, will be lost in the progress. 
 
 "Give me leave to correct the expression of your metaphor," 
 said Mr. Silton, "this covering of which you complain, is not 
 always rust which is produced by the inactivity of the body on 
 which it preys; such, perhaps, is the case with me, though 
 indeed I was never cleared from my youth; but (taking it in 
 its first stage) it is rather an encrustation, which nature has 
 given for purposes of the greatest wisdom." 
 
 "You are right," I returned; "and sometimes, like certain 
 precious fossils, there may be hid under it gems of the purest 
 brilliancy." 
 
 "Nay, farther," continued Mr. Silton, "there are two distinct 
 sorts of what we call bashfulness ; this, the awkwardness of a 
 booby, which a few steps into the world will convert into the 
 pertness of a coxcomb ; that, a consciousness, which the most 
 
66o HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 delicate feelings produce, and the most extensive knowledge 
 cannot always remove." 
 
 From the incidents I have already related, I imagine it will 
 be concluded that Harley was of the latter species of bashful 
 animals ; at least, if Mr. Silton's principle be just, it may be 
 argued on this side ; for the gradation of the first mentioned sort, 
 it is certain, he never attained. Some part of his external 
 appearance was modelled from the company of those gentle- 
 men, whom the antiquity of a family, now possessed of bare 
 £250 a year, entitled its representative to approach : these in- 
 deed were not many ; great part of the property in his neigh- 
 bourhood being in the hands of merchants, who had got rich 
 by their lawful calling abroad, and the sons of stewards, who 
 had got rich by their lawful calling at home : persons so per- 
 fectly versed in the ceremonial of thousands, tens of thou- 
 sands, and hundreds of thousands (whose degrees of prece- 
 dency are plainly demonstrable from the first page of the Com- 
 plete Accomptant, or Young Man's Best Pocket Companion) 
 that a bow at church from them to such a man as Harley would 
 have made the parson look back into his sermon for some precept 
 of Christian humility. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The Man of Feeling in Love 
 
 The day before that on which he set out,^ he went to take 
 leave of Mr. Walton. — We would conceal nothing ; — there 
 was another person of the family to whom also the visit was 
 intended, on whose account, perhaps, there were some tenderer 
 feelings in the bosom of Harley than his gratitude for the friendly 
 notice of that gentleman (though he was seldom deficient in that 
 virtue) could inspire. Mr. Walton had a daughter ; and such a 
 daughter ! we will attempt some description of her by and by. 
 
 Harley's notions of the koKov^ or beautiful, were not always 
 to be defined, nor indeed such as the world would always as- 
 sent to, though we could define them. A blush, a phrase of 
 
 * We are told in Chapter XII that Harley, upon the advice of friends, decides to go up to 
 London to seek his fortune. 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 66 1 
 
 affability to an inferior, a tear at a moving tale, were to him, 
 Kke the Cestus of Cytherea, unequalled in conferring beauty. 
 For all these Miss Walton was remarkable; but as these, like 
 the above-mentioned Cestus, are perhaps still more powerful 
 when the wearer is possessed of some degree of beauty, commonly 
 so called, it happened, that, from this cause, they had more than 
 usual power in the person of that young lady. 
 
 She was now arrived at that period of life which takes, or 
 is supposed to take, from the flippancy of girlhood those spright- 
 linesses with which some good-natured old maids oblige the world 
 at three-score. She had been ushered into life (as that word is 
 used in the dialect of St. James's) at seventeen, her father being 
 then in parliament, and living in London : at seventeen, there- 
 fore, she had been a universal toast ; her health, now she was 
 four-and-twenty, was only drank by those who knew her face 
 at least. Her complexion was mellowed into a paleness, which 
 certainly took from her beauty; but agreed, at least Harley 
 used to say so, with the pensive softness of her mind. Her eyes 
 were of that gentle hazel colour which is rather mild than pierc- 
 ing; and, except when they were lighted up by good-humour, 
 which was frequently the case, were supposed by the fine gentle- 
 men to want fire. Her air and manner were elegant in the high- 
 est degree, and were as sure of commanding respect as their 
 mistress was far from demanding it. Her voice was inexpressibly 
 soft ; it was, according to that incomparable simile of Otway's, 
 
 "like the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains, 
 
 When all his httle flock's at feed before him." 
 
 The effect it had upon Harley, himself used to paint ridicu- 
 lously enough ; and ascribed it to powers, which few believed, 
 and nobody cared for. 
 
 Her conversation was always cheerful, but rarely witty ; and 
 without the smallest affectation of learning, had as much senti- 
 ment in it as would have puzzled a Turk, upon his principles 
 of female materiahsm, to account for. Her beneficence was 
 unbounded; indeed the natural tenderness of her heart might 
 have been argued, by the frigidity of a casuist, as detracting 
 from her virtue in this respect, for her humanity was a feehng, 
 
662 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 not a principle : but minds like Harley's are not very apt to 
 make this distinction, and generally give our virtue credit for 
 all that benevolence which is instinctive in our nature. 
 
 As her father had for some years retired to the country, 
 Harley had frequent opportunities of seeing her. He looked 
 on her for some time merely with that respect and admiration 
 which her appearance seemed to demand, and the opinion of 
 others conferred upon her : from this cause, perhaps, and from 
 that extreme sensibility of which we have taken frequent notice, 
 Harley was remarkably silent in her presence. He heard her 
 sentiments with peculiar attention, sometimes with looks very 
 expressive of approbation ; but seldom declared his opinion on 
 the subject, much less made compliments to the lady on the just- 
 ness of her remarks. 
 
 From this very reason it was that Miss Walton frequently 
 took more particular notice of him than of other visitors, who, 
 by the laws of precedency, were better entitled to it : it was a 
 mode of politeness she had peculiarly studied, to bring to the 
 line of that equality, which is ever necessary for the ease of our 
 guests, those whose sensibility had placed them below it. 
 
 Harley saw this ; for though he was a child in the drama of 
 the world, yet was it not altogether owing to a want of knowl- 
 edge on his part ; on the contrary, the most delicate conscious- 
 ness of propriety often kindled that blush which marred the 
 performance of it : this raised his esteem something above what 
 the most sanguine descriptions of her goodness had been able to 
 do ; for certain it is, that notwithstanding the laboured defini- 
 tions which very wise men have given us of the inherent beauty 
 of virtue, we are always inclined to think her handsomest when 
 she condescends to smile upon ourselves. 
 
 It would be trite to observe the easy gradation from esteem 
 to love : in the bosom of Harley there scarce needed a transi- 
 tion ; for there were certain seasons when his ideas were flushed 
 to a degree much above their common complexion. In times not 
 credulous of inspiration, we should account for this from some 
 natural cause ; but we do not mean to account for it at all ; it 
 were sufficient to describe its effects ; but they were sometimes 
 so ludicrous, as might derogate from the dignity of the sensations 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 663 
 
 which produced them to describe. They were treated indeed 
 as such by most of Harley's sober friends, who often laughed very 
 heartily at the awkward blunders of the real Harley, when the 
 different faculties, which should have prevented them, were 
 entirely occupied by the ideal. In some of these paroxysms of 
 fancy, Miss Walton did not fail to be introduced ; and the pic- 
 ture which had been drawn amidst the surrounding objects of 
 unnoticed levity was now singled out to be viewed through the 
 medium of romantic imagination : it was improved of course, 
 and esteem was a word inexpressive of the feeUngs which it 
 excited, 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 He sets out on his Journey — the Beggar and his Dog 
 
 He had taken leave of his aunt on the eve of his intended 
 departure ; but the good lady's affection for her nephew inter- 
 rupted her sleep, and early as it was next morning when Harley 
 came downstairs to set out, he found her in the parlour with a 
 tear on her cheek, and her caudle-cup in her hand. She knew 
 enough of physic to prescribe against going abroad of a morning 
 with an empty stomach. She gave her blessing with the draught ; 
 her instructions she had delivered the night before. They con- 
 sisted mostly of negatives, for London, in her idea, was so replete 
 with temptations that it needed the whole armour of her friendly 
 cautions to repel their attacks. 
 
 Peter stood at the door. We have mentioned this faithful 
 fellow formerly : Harley's father had taken him up an orphan, 
 and saved him from being cast on the parish ; and he had ever 
 since remained in the service of him and of his son. Harley 
 shook him by the hand as he passed, smiling, as if he had said, 
 "I will not weep." He sprung hastily into the chaise that 
 waited for him; Peter folded up the step. "My dear mas- 
 ter," said he, shaking the solitary lock that hung on either side 
 of his head, "I have been told as how London is a sad place." 
 He was choked with the thought, and his benediction could 
 not be heard : — ■ but it shall be heard, honest Peter ! where 
 these tears will add to its energy. 
 
664 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 In a few hours Harley reached the inn where he proposed 
 breakfasting, but the fulness of his heart would not suffer him 
 to eat a morsel. He walked out on the road, and gaining a 
 little height, stood gazing on the quarter he had left. He 
 looked for his wonted prospect, his fields, his woods, and his 
 hills : they were lost in the distant clouds ! He pencilled them 
 on the clouds, and bade them farewell with a sigh ! 
 
 He sat down on a large stone to take out a little pebble from 
 his shoe, when he saw, at some distance, a beggar approaching 
 him. He had on a loose sort of coat, mended with different- 
 coloured rags, amongst which the blue and the russet were the 
 predominant. He had a short knotty stick in his hand, and on 
 the top of it was stuck a ram's horn ; his knees (though he was no 
 pilgrim) had worn the stuff of his breeches ; he wore no shoes, 
 and his stockings had entirely lost that part of them which should 
 have covered his feet and ankles ; in his face, however, was the 
 plump, appearance of good humour ; he walked a good round 
 pace, and a crook-legged dog trotted at his heels. 
 
 "Our delicacies," said Harley to himself, "are fantastic; they 
 are not in nature ! that beggar walks over the sharpest of these 
 stones barefooted, whilst I have lost the most deHghtful dream 
 in the world, from the smallest of them happening to get into my 
 shoe." The beggar had by this time come up, and, pulHng off a 
 piece of hat, asked charity of Harley ; the dog began to beg 
 too : — • it was impossible to resist both ; and, in truth, the want 
 of shoes and stockings had made both unnecessary, for Harley 
 had destined sixpence for him before. The beggar, on receiving 
 it, poured forth blessings without number ; and, with a sort of 
 smile on his countenance, said to Harley "that if he wanted to 
 have his fortune told" — Harley turned his eye briskly on the 
 beggar : it was an unpromising look for the subject of a predic- 
 tion, and silenced the prophet immediately. "I would much 
 rather learn," said Harley, "what it is in your power to tell me : 
 your trade must be an entertaining one ; sit down on this stone, 
 and let me know something of your profession ; I have often 
 thought of turning fortune-teller for a week or two myself." 
 
 "Master," replied the beggar, "I like your frankness much; 
 God knows I had the humour of plain-dealing in me from a 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 665 
 
 child, but there is no doing with it in this world ; we must live as 
 we can, and lying is, as you call it, my profession, but I was in 
 some sort forced to the trade, for I dealt once in telling truth. 
 
 "I was a labourer, sir, and gained as much as to make me 
 live : I never laid by indeed : for I was reckoned a piece of a 
 wag, and your wags, I take it, are seldom rich, Mr. Harley." 
 
 "So," said Harley, "you seem to know me." 
 
 "Ay, there are few folks in the country that I don't know 
 something of : how should I tell fortunes else ?" 
 
 "True; but to go on with your story: you were a labourer, 
 you say, and a wag; your industry, I suppose, you left with 
 your old trade, but your humour you preserve to be ©f use to 
 you in your new." 
 
 "What signifies sadness, sir? a man grows lean on't : but I 
 was brought to my idleness by degrees ; first I could not work, 
 and it went against my stomach to work ever after. I was seized 
 with a jail fever at the time of the assizes being in the county 
 where I lived ; for I was always curious to get acquainted with 
 the felons, because they are commonly fellows of much mirth 
 and little thought, qualities I had ever an esteem for. In the 
 height of this fever, Mr. Harley, the house where I lay took 
 fire, and burnt to the ground ; I was carried out in that condition, 
 and lay all the rest of my illness in a barn. I got the better of 
 my disease, however, but I was so weak that I spit blood when- 
 ever I attempted to work. I had no relation living that I knew 
 of, and I never kept a friend above a week, when I was able to 
 joke ; I seldom remained above six months in a parish, so that I 
 might have died before I had found a settlement in any : thus 
 I was forced to beg my bread, and a sorry trade I found it, Mr. 
 Harley. I told all my misfortunes truly, but they were seldom 
 beheved ; and the few who gave me a halfpenny as they passed 
 did it with a shake of the head, and an injunction not to trouble 
 them with a long story. In short, I found that people don't care 
 to give alms without some security for their money ; a wooden 
 leg or a withered arm is a sort of draught upon heaven for 
 those who choose to have their money placed to account there ; 
 so I changed my plan, and, instead of telling my own misfor- 
 tunes, began to prophesy happiness to others. This I found 
 
666 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 by much the better way : folks will always listen when the tale 
 is their own, and of many who say they do not believe in 
 fortune-telling, I have known few on whom it had not a very 
 sensible effect. I pick up the names of their acquaintance ; 
 amours and Httle squabbles are easily gleaned among servants 
 and neighbours ; and indeed people themselves are the best 
 intelligencers in the world for our purpose : they dare not 
 puzzle us for their own sakes, for every one is anxious to hear 
 what they wish to believe, and they who repeat it, to laugh at 
 it when they have done, are generally more serious than their 
 hearers are apt to imagine. With a tolerable good memory, 
 and some share of cunning, with the help of walking a-nights 
 over heaths and church-yards, with this, and showing the tricks 
 of that there dog, whom I stole from the serjeant of a marching 
 regiment (and by the way, he can steal too upon occasion), I 
 make shift to pick up a livelihood. My trade, indeed, is none of 
 the honestest ; yet people are not much cheated neither who 
 give a few halfpence for a prospect of happiness, which I have 
 heard some persons say is all a man can arrive at in this world. 
 But I must bid you good day, sir, for I have three miles to walk 
 before noon, to inform some boarding-school young ladies whether 
 their husbands are to be peers of the realm or captains in the 
 army : a question which I promised to answer them by that 
 time." 
 
 Harley had drawn a shilling from his pocket ; but Virtue bade 
 him consider on whom he was going to bestow it. Virtue held 
 back his arm ; but a milder form, a younger sister of Virtue's, 
 not so severe as Virtue, nor so serious as Pity, smiled upon him : 
 his fingers lost their compression, nor did Virtue offer to catch 
 the money as it fell. It had no sooner reached the ground than 
 the watchful cur (a trick he had been taught) snapped it up, and, 
 contrary to the most approved method of stewardship, delivered 
 it immediately into the hands of his master. 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 667 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 He visits Bedlam — the Distresses of a Daughter 
 
 Of those things called Sights in London, which every stranger 
 is supposed desirous to see, Bedlam is one. To that place, 
 therefore, an acquaintance of Harley's, after having accompanied 
 him to several other shows, proposed a visit. Harley objected 
 to it, "because," said he, "I think it an inhuman practice to 
 expose the greatest misery with which our nature is afflicted to 
 every idle visitant who can afford a trifling perquisite to the 
 keeper ; especially as it is a distress which the humane must see, 
 with the painful reflection, that it is not in their power to alle- 
 viate it." He was overpowered, however, by the soHcitations of 
 his friend and the other persons of the party (amongst whom 
 were several ladies) ; and they went in a body to Moorfields. 
 
 Their conductor led them first to the dismal mansions of those 
 who are in the most horrid state of incurable madness. The 
 clanking of chains, the wildness of their cries, and the impreca- 
 tions which some of them uttered, formed a scene inexpressibly 
 shocking. Harley and his companions, especially the female 
 part of them, begged their guide to return ; he seemed surprised 
 at their uneasiness, and was with difficulty prevailed on to leave 
 that part of the house without showing them some others : who, 
 as he expressed it in the phrase of those that keep wild beasts for 
 show, were much better worth seeing than any they had passed, 
 being ten times more fierce and unmanageable. 
 
 He led them next to that quarter where those reside who, as 
 they are not dangerous to themselves or others, enjoy a certain 
 degree of freedom, according to the state of their distemper. 
 
 Harley had fallen behind his companions, looking at a man who 
 was making pendulums with bits of thread and little balls of clay. 
 He had delineated a segment of a circle on the wall with chalk, 
 and marked their different vibrations by intersecting it with 
 cross lines. A decent-looking man came up, and smiling at the 
 maniac, turned to Harley, and told him that gentleman had once 
 been a very celebrated mathematician. "He fell a sacrifice," 
 said he, "to the theory of comets; for having, with infinite 
 
668 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 labour, formed a table on the conjectures of Sir Isaac Newton, he 
 was disappointed in the return of one of those luminaries, and 
 was very soon after obliged to be placed here by his friends. If 
 you please to follow me, sir," continued the stranger, "I believe 
 I shall be able to give a more satisfactory account of the unfor- 
 tunate people you see here than the man who attends your com- 
 panions." Harley bowed, and accepted his offer. 
 
 The next person they came up to had scrawled a variety of 
 figures on a piece of slate. Harley had the curiosity to take 
 a nearer view of them. They consisted of different columns, 
 on the top of which were marked South-sea annuities, India- 
 stock, and Three per cent, annuities consol. "This," said 
 Harley's instructor, "was a gentleman well known in Change 
 Alley. He was once worth fifty thousand pounds, and had 
 actually agreed for the purchase of an estate in the West, in 
 order to realise his money ; but he quarrelled with the pro- 
 prietor about the repairs of the garden wall, and so returned to 
 town, to follow his old trade of stock- jobbing a Httle longer ; when 
 an unlucky fluctuation of stock, in which he was engaged to an 
 immense extent, reduced him at once to poverty and to madness. 
 Poor wretch ! he told me t'other day that against the next pay- 
 ment of differences he should be some hundreds above a plum." 
 
 "It is a spondee, and I will maintain it," interrupted a voice 
 on his left hand. This assertion was followed by a very rapid 
 recital of some verses from Homer. "That figure," said the 
 gentleman, "whose clothes are so bedaubed with snuff, was a 
 schoolmaster of some reputation : he came hither to be resolved 
 of some doubts he entertained concerning the genuine pro- 
 nunciation of the Greek vowels. In his highest fits, he makes 
 frequent mention of one Mr. Bentley. 
 
 "But delusive ideas, sir, are the motives of the greatest part 
 of mankind, and a heated imagination the power by which their 
 actions are incited : the world, in the eye of a philosopher, may 
 be said to be a large madhouse." " It is true," answered Harley, 
 "the passions of men are temporary madnesses; and sometimes 
 very fatal in their effects. 
 
 " From Macedonia's madman to the Swede." 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 669 
 
 "It was, indeed," said the stranger, "a very mad thing in 
 Charles to think of adding so vast a country as Russia to his 
 dominions : that would have been fatal indeed ; the balance of 
 the North would then have been lost ; but the Sultan and I 
 
 would never have allowed it." "Sir!" said Harley, with 
 
 no small surprise on his countenance. — "Why, yes," answered 
 the other, "the Sultan and I; do you know me? I am the 
 Chan of Tartary." 
 
 Harley was a good deal struck by this discovery ; he had pru- 
 dence enough, however, to conceal his amazement, and bowing 
 as low to the monarch as his dignity required, left him immedi- 
 ately, and joined his companions. 
 
 He found them in a quarter of the house set apart for the 
 insane of the other sex, several of whom had gathered about 
 the female visitors, and were examining, with rather more accu- 
 racy than might have been expected, the particulars of their dress. 
 
 Separate from the rest stood one whose appearance had some- 
 thing of superior dignity. Her face, though pale and wasted, 
 was less squalid than those of the others, and showed a dejec- 
 tion of that decent kind, which moves our pity unmixed with 
 horror : upon her, therefore, the eyes of all were immediately 
 turned. The keeper who accompanied them observed it : 
 "This," said he, "is a young lady who was born to ride in her 
 coach and six. She was beloved, if the story I have heard is true, 
 by a young gentleman, her equal in birth, though by no means 
 her match in fortune : but love, they say, is blind, and so she 
 fancied him as much as he did her. Her father, it seems, would 
 not hear of their marriage, and threatened to turn her out of 
 doors if ever she saw him again. Upon this the young gentle- 
 man took a voyage to the West Indies, in hopes of bettering his 
 fortune, and obtaining his mistress ; but he was scarce landed, 
 when he was seized with one of the fevers which are common in 
 those islands, and died in a few days, lamented by every one that 
 knew him. This news soon reached his mistress, who was at the 
 same time pressed by her father to marry a rich miserly fellow, 
 who was old enough to be her grandfather. The death of her 
 lover had no effect on her inhuman parent : he was only the more 
 earnest for her marriage with the man he had provided for her ; 
 
670 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 and what between her despair at the death of the one, and her 
 aversion to the other, the poor young lady was reduced to the con- 
 dition you see her in. But God would not prosper such cruelty ; 
 her father's affairs soon after went to wreck, and he died almost 
 a beggar." 
 
 Though this story was told in very plain language, it had 
 particularly attracted Harley's notice ; he had given it the trib- 
 ute of some tears. The unfortunate young lady had till now 
 seemed entranced in thought, with her eyes fixed on a little 
 garnet ring she wore on her finger ; she turned them now upon 
 Harley. "My Billy is no more !" said she; "do you weep for 
 my Billy ? Blessings on your tears ! I would weep too, but my 
 brain is dry; and it burns, it burns, it burns!" — She drew 
 nearer to Harley. — "Be comforted, young lady," said he, "your 
 Billy is in heaven." — "Is he, indeed ? and shall we meet again ? 
 and shall that frightful man (pointing to the keeper) not be there ? 
 — Alas ! I am grown naughty of late ; I have almost forgotten to 
 think of heaven : yet I pray sometimes ; when I can, I pray ; 
 and sometimes I sing ; when I am saddest, I sing : — You shall 
 hear me — hush ! 
 
 "Light be the earth on Billy's breast. 
 And green the sod that wraps his grave." 
 
 There was a plaintive wildness in the air not to be withstood ; 
 and, except the keeper's, there was not an unmoistened eye 
 around her. 
 
 "Do you weep again?" said she. "I would not have you 
 weep : you are like my Billy ; you are, believe me ; just so he 
 looked when he gave me this ring ; poor Billy ! 'twas the last 
 time ever we met ! — 
 
 "'Twas when the seas were roaring — I love you for resem- 
 bhng my Billy ; but I shall never love any man like him." — She 
 stretched out her hand to Harley ; he pressed it between both of 
 his, and bathed it with his tears. — "Nay, that is Billy's ring," 
 said she, "you cannot have it, indeed ; but there is another, look 
 here, which I plated to-day of some gold-thread from this bit of 
 stuff ; will you keep it for my sake ? I am a strange girl ; but 
 my heart is harmless : my poor heart ; it will burst some day ; 
 feel how it beats ! " She pressed his hand to her bosom, then 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 671 
 
 holding her head in the attitude of Hstening — ''Hark ! one, two, 
 three ! be quiet, thou little trembler ; my Billy is cold ! — but I 
 had forgotten the ring." — -She put it on his iinger. — "Fare- 
 well ! I must leave you now." — She would have withdrawn her 
 hand ; Harley held it to his lips. — "I dare not stay longer ; my 
 
 head throbs sadly: farewell!" She walked with a hurried 
 
 step to a little apartment at some distance. Harley stood fixed 
 in astonishment and pity ; his friend gave money to the keeper. 
 — Harley looked on his ring. — He put a couple of guineas into 
 the man's hand : "Be kind to that unfortunate " — He burst into 
 tears, arid left them. " 
 
 ^ 5J» Jp ^ ^ S|C S|C 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 He misses an Old Acquaintance. — An Adventure Consequent 
 
 UPON It 
 
 When they had arrived within a little way of the village they 
 journeyed to, Harley stopped short, and looked steadfastly on 
 the mouldering walls of a ruined house that stood on the road- 
 side. "Oh, heavens!" he cried, "what do I see: silent, un- 
 roofed, and desolate ! Are all the gay tenants gone ? do I hear 
 their hum no more ? Edwards, look there, look there I the scene 
 of my infant joys, my earliest friendships laid waste and ruinous I 
 That was the very school where I was boarded when you were 
 at South-hill; 'tis but a twelve-month since I saw it standing, 
 and its benches filled with little cherubs : that opposite side of the 
 road was the green on which they sported ; see it now ploughed 
 up ! I would have given fifty times its value to have saved it 
 from the sacrilege of that plough." 
 
 "Dear sir," replied Edwards, "perhaps they have left it from 
 choice, and may have got another spot as good." 
 
 "They cannot," said Harley, "they cannot; I shall never see 
 the sward covered with its daisies, nor pressed by the dance of the 
 dear innocents : I shall never see that stump decked with the 
 garlands which their Httle hands had gathered. These two thig 
 stones, which now He at the foot of it, were once the supports of a 
 hut I myself assisted to rear : I have sat on the sods within it, 
 
672 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 when we had spread our banquet of apples before us, and been 
 more blessed — Oh ! Edwards, mfinitely more blessed, than ever 
 I shall be again." 
 
 Just then a woman passed them on the road, and discovered 
 some signs of wonder at the attitude of Harley, who stood, with 
 his hands folded together, looking with a moistened eye on the 
 fallen pillars of the hut. He was too much entranced in thought 
 to observe her at all, but Edwards, civilly accosting her, desired 
 to know if that had not been the school-house, and how it came 
 into the condition in which they now saw it. 
 
 "Alack a day !" said she, "it was the school-house indeed ; but 
 to be sure, sir, the squire has pulled it down because it stood in 
 the way of his prospects." 
 
 "What ! how ! prospects ! pulled down !" cried Harley. 
 
 "Yes, to be sure, sir; and the green, where the children used 
 to play, he has ploughed up, because, he said, they hurt his 
 fence on the other side of it." 
 
 "Curses on his narrow heart," cried Harley, "that could 
 violate a right so sacred ! Heaven blast the wretch ! 
 
 "And from his derogate body never spring 
 A babe to honour him ! " 
 
 But I need not, Edwards, I need not" (recovering himself a 
 little), "he is cursed enough already : to him the noblest source 
 of happiness is denied, and the cares of his sordid soul shall 
 gnaw it, while thou sittest over a brown crust, smihng on those 
 mangled limbs that have saved thy son and his children ! " 
 
 "If you want anything with the school-mistress, sir," said 
 the woman, "I can show you the way to her house." 
 
 He followed her without knowing whither he went. 
 
 They stopped at the door of a snug habitation, where sat an 
 elderly woman with a boy and a girl before her, each of whom 
 held a supper of bread and milk in their hands. 
 
 "There, sir, is the school-mistress." 
 
 "Madam," said Harley, "was not an old venerable man 
 school-master here some time ago ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, he was, poor man; the loss of his former school- 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 673 
 
 house, I believe, broke his heart, for he died soon after it was 
 taken down, and as another has not yet been found, I have that 
 charge in the meantime." 
 
 "And this boy and girl, I presume, are your pupils ?" 
 
 "Ay, sir; they are poor orphans, put under my care by the 
 parish, and more promising children I never saw." 
 
 "Orphans?" said Harley. 
 
 "Yes, sir, of honest creditable parents as any in the parish, 
 and it is a shame for some folks to forget their relations at a 
 time when they have most need to remember them." 
 
 "Madam," said Harley, "let us never forget that we are all 
 relations." 
 
 He kissed the children. 
 
 "Their father, sir," continued she, "was a farmer here in the 
 neighbourhood, and a sober industrious man he was ; but nobody 
 can help misfortunes : what with bad crops, and bad debts, 
 which are worse, his affairs went to wreck, and both he and his 
 wife died of broken hearts. And a sweet couple they were, sir ; 
 there was not a properer man to look on in the county than 
 John Edwards, and so indeed were all the Edwardses." 
 
 "What Edwardses ?" cried the old soldier hastily. 
 
 "The Edwardses of South-hill, and a worthy family they 
 were." 
 
 "South-hill !" said he, in a languid voice, and fell back into 
 the arms of the astonished Harley. The school-mistress ran 
 for some water and a smelling-bottle, with the assistance of 
 which they soon recovered the unfortunate Edwards. He 
 stared wildly for some time, then folding his orphan grand- 
 children in his arms, 
 
 "Oh! my children, my children," he cried, "have I found 
 you thus ? My poor Jack, art thou gone ? I thought thou 
 shouldst have carried thy father's grey hairs to the grave ! and 
 these Httle ones" — his tears choked his utterance, and he fell 
 again on the necks of the children. 
 
 "My dear old man," said Harley, "Providence has sent, you 
 to relieve them ; it will bless me if I can be the means of assisting 
 you." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, sir," answered the boy; "father, when he was 
 
674 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 a-dying, bade God bless us, and prayed that if grandfather lived 
 he might send him to support us." 
 
 "Where did they lay my boy?" said Edwards. 
 
 "In the Old Churchyard," replied the woman, "hard by his 
 mother." 
 
 "I will show it you," answered the boy, "for I have wept over 
 it many a time when first I came among strange folks." 
 
 He took the old man's hand, Harley laid hold of his sister's, 
 and they walked in silence to the churchyard. 
 
 There was an old stone, with the corner broken off, and some 
 letters, half-covered with moss, to denote the names of the dead : 
 there was a cyphered R. E. plainer than the rest; it was the 
 tomb they sought. 
 
 "Here it is, grandfather," said the boy. 
 
 Edwards gazed upon it without uttering a word : the girl, 
 who had only sighed before, now wept outright; her brother 
 sobbed, but he stifled his sobbing. 
 
 "I have told sister," said he, "that she should not take it so 
 to heart ; she can knit already, and I shall soon be able to dig, 
 we shall not starve, sister, indeed we shall not, nor shall grand- 
 father neither." 
 
 The girl cried afresh ; Harley kissed off her tears as they flowed, 
 and wept between every kiss. 
 
 CHAPTER LV 
 
 He Sees Miss Walton, and is Happy 
 
 Harley was one of those few friends whom the malevolence 
 of fortune had yet left me ; I could not therefore but be sensibly 
 concerned for his present indisposition ; there seldom passed a 
 day on which I did not make inquiry about him. 
 
 The physician who attended him had informed me the evening 
 before, that he thought him considerably better than he had been 
 ^or some time past. I called next morning to be confirmed in a 
 piece of intelligence so welcome to me. 
 
 When I entered his apartment, I found him sitting on a couch, 
 leaning on his hand, with his eye turned upwards in the attitude 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 675 
 
 of thoughtful inspiration. His look had always an open benig- 
 nity, which commanded esteem ; there was now something more 
 
 — a gentle triumph in it. 
 
 He rose, and met me with his usual kindness. When I gave 
 him the good accounts I had had from his physician, ''I am 
 foolish enough," said he, " to rely but little, in this instance, upon 
 physic : my presentiment may be false ; but I think I feel myself 
 approaching to my end, by steps so easy, that they woo me to 
 approach it. 
 
 "There is a certain dignity in retiring from life at a time, when 
 the infirmities of age have not sapped our faculties. This world, 
 my dear Charles, was a scene in which I never much delighted. 
 I was not formed for the bustle of the busy, nor the dissipation 
 of the gay ; a thousand things occurred, where I blushed for the 
 impropriety of my conduct when I thought on the world, though 
 my reason told me I should have blushed to have done otherwise. 
 
 — It was a scene of dissimulation, of restraint, of disappointment. 
 I leave it to enter on that state which I have learned to believe is 
 replete with the genuine happiness attendant upon virtue. I 
 look back on the tenor of my Hfe, with the consciousness of few 
 great offences to account for. There are blemishes, I confess, 
 which deform in some degree the picture. But I know the benig- 
 nity of the Supreme Being, and rejoice at the thoughts of its 
 exercise in my favour. My mind expands at the thought I shall 
 enter into the society of the blessed, wise as angels, with the sim- 
 plicity of children." He had by this time clasped my hand, and 
 found it wet by a tear which had just fallen upon it. — His eye 
 began to moisten too — we sat for some time silent. — At last, 
 with an attempt to a look of more composure, "There are some 
 remembrances," said Harley, "which rise involuntarily on my 
 heart, and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed 
 with a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind. I 
 recollect, with the tenderest emotion, the scenes of pleasure I 
 have passed among them ; but we shall meet again, my friend, 
 never to be separated. There are some feeUngs which perhaps 
 are too tender to be suffered by the world. The world is in 
 general selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the im- 
 putation of romance or melancholy on every temper more sus- 
 
676 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 ceptible than its own. I cannot think but in those regions which 
 I contemplate, if there is any thing of mortahty left about us, 
 that these feelings will subsist ; — they are called, — perhaps 
 they are — weaknesses here ; — but there may be some better 
 modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve the name 
 of virtues." He sighed as he spoke these last words. He had 
 scarcely finished them, when the door opened^ and his aunt 
 appeared, leading in Miss Walton. ''My dear," says she, "here 
 is Miss Walton, who has been so kind as to come and inquire for 
 you herself." I could observe a transient glow upon his face. 
 He rose from his seat — "If to know Miss Walton's goodness," 
 said he, "be a title to deserve it, I have some claim." She 
 begged him to resume his seat, and placed herself on the sofa 
 beside him. I took my leave. Mrs. Margery accompanied me 
 to the door. He was left with Miss Walton alone. She in- 
 quired anxiously about his health. "I believe," said he, "from 
 the accounts which my physicians unwillingly give me, that they 
 have no great hopes of my recovery." — She started as he spoke ; 
 but recollecting herself immediately, endeavoured to flatter 
 him into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless. "I 
 know," said he, "that it is usual with persons at my time of life 
 to have these hopes, which your kindness suggests ; but I would 
 not wish to be deceived. To meet death as becomes a man, is a 
 privilege bestowed on few. — I would endeavour to make it 
 mine ; — nor do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it 
 than now : — It is that chiefly which determines the fitness of its 
 approach." "Those sen timent^," answered Miss Walton, "are 
 just ; but your good sense, Mr. Harley, will own, that life has its 
 proper value. — As the province of virtue, life is ennobled ; as 
 such, it is to be desired. — To virtue has the Supreme Director 
 of all things assigned rewards enough even here to fix its attach- 
 ment." 
 
 The subject began to overpower her. — Harley lifted his eyes 
 from the ground — "There are," said he, in a very low voice, 
 "there are attachments. Miss Walton" — His glance met hers. 
 — They both betrayed a confusion, and were both instantly 
 withdrawn. — He paused some moments — "I am in such a 
 state as calls for sincerity, let that also excuse it — It is perhaps 
 
THE MAN OF FEELING 677 
 
 the last time we shall ever meet. I feel something particularly 
 solemn in the acknowledgment, yet my heart swells to make it, 
 awed as it is by a sense of my presumption, by a sense of your 
 
 perfections" — He paused again "Let it not offend you, to 
 
 know their power over one so unworthy — It will, I believe, soon 
 cease to beat, even with that feeling which it shall lose the latest. 
 — To love Miss Walton could not be a crime ; — if to declare it is 
 one — the expiation will be made." — Her tears were now 
 flowing without control. — "Let me intreat you," said she, "to 
 have better hopes — Let not life be so indifferent to you ; if my 
 wishes can put any value on it — I will not pretend to misunder- 
 stand you — I know your worth — I have known it long — I 
 have esteemed it — What would you have me say ? — I have 
 loved it as it deserved." — He seized her hand — a languid colour 
 reddened his cheek — a smile brightened faintly in his eye. As 
 he gazed on her, it grew dim, it fixed, it closed — He sighed and 
 fell back on his seat — Miss Walton screamed at the sight — • 
 His aunt and the servants rushed into the room — They found 
 them lying motionless together. — His physician happened to 
 call at that instant. Every art was tried to recover them — • 
 With Miss Walton they succeeded — But Harley was gone for 
 ever. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION 
 
 He had hinted that he should like to be buried in a certain 
 spot near the grave of his mother. This is a weakness ; but 
 it is universally incident to humanity : 'tis at least a memorial 
 for those who survive : for some indeed a slender memorial will 
 serve ; and the soft affections, when they are busy that way, 
 will build their structures, were it but on the paring of a nail. 
 
 He was buried in the place he had desired. It was shaded 
 by an old tree, the only one in the church-yard, in which was a 
 cavity worn by time. I have sat with him in it, and counted 
 the tombs. The last time we passed there, methought he 
 looked wistfully on the tree : there was a branch of it that bent 
 towards us waving in the wind ; he waved his hand as if he 
 mimicked its motion. There was something predictive in his 
 
678 HENRY MACKENZIE 
 
 look ! perhaps it is foolish to remark it ; but there are times 
 and places when I am a child at those things. 
 
 I sometimes visit his grave ; I sit in the hollow of the tree. 
 It is worth a thousand homilies ; every noble f eehng rises within 
 me ! every beat of my heart awakens a virtue ! — but it will 
 make you hate the world — — No : there is such an air of gentle- 
 ness around, that I can hate nothing ; but, as to the world — I 
 pity the men of it. 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 
 THOMAS DAY 
 
 In the western part of England lived a gentleman of great 
 fortune, whose name was Merton. He had a large estate in the 
 Island of Jamaica, where he had passed the greater part of his 
 life, and was master of many servants, who cultivated sugar and 
 other valuable things for his advantage. He had only one son, 
 of whom he was excessively fond ; and to educate this child 
 properly, was the reason of his determining to stay some years in 
 England. Tommy Merton, who at the time he came from Ja- 
 maica, was only six years old, was naturally a very good-natured 
 boy, but unfortunately had been spoiled by too much indulgence. 
 While he lived in Jamaica, he had several black servants to wait 
 upon him, who were forbidden upon any account to contradict 
 him. If he walked, there always went two negroes with him ; 
 one of whom carried a large umbrella to keep the sun from him, 
 and the other was to carry him in his arms whenever he was tired. 
 Besides this, he was always dressed in silk or laced clothes, and 
 had a fine gilded carriage, which was borne upon men's shoulders, 
 in which he made visits to his play-fellows. His mother was so 
 excessively fond of him, that she gave him every thing he cried 
 for, and would never let him learn to read because he com- 
 plained that it made his head ache. 
 
 The consequence of this was, that, though Master Merton had 
 every thing he wanted, he became very fretful and unhappy. 
 Sometimes he ate sweetmeats till he made himself sick, and then 
 he suffered a great deal of pain, because he would not take bitter 
 physic to make him well. Sometimes he cried for things that 
 it was impossible to give him, and then, as he had never been 
 used to be contradicted, it was many hours before he could be 
 pacified. When any company came to dine at the house, he had 
 always to be helped first, and to have the most deUcate part of 
 
 679 
 
68o THOMAS DAY 
 
 the meat, otherwise he would make such a noise as disturbed 
 the whole company. When his father and mother were sitting 
 at the tea-table with their friends, instead of waiting till they were 
 at leisure to attend him, he would scramble upon the table, seize 
 the cake and bread and butter, and frequently overset the tea- 
 cups. By these pranks he not only made himself disagreeable to 
 every body else, but often met with very dangerous accidents. 
 Frequently did he cut himself with knives, at other times throw 
 heavy things upon his head, and once he narrowly escaped being 
 scalded to death by a kettle of boihng water. He was also so 
 delicately brought up, that he was perpetually ill ; the least 
 wind or rain gave him cold, and the least sun was sure to throw 
 him into a fever. Instead of playing about, and jumping, and 
 running like other children, he was taught to sit still for fear of 
 spoiling his clothes, and to stay in the house for fear of injuring 
 his complexion. By this kind of education, when Master 
 Merton came over to England, he could neither write nor read, 
 nor cipher ; he could use none of his limbs with ease, nor bear any 
 degree of fatigue ; but he was very proud, fretful and impatient. 
 Very near to Mr. Merton's seat lived a plain honest farmer, 
 whose name was Sandford. This man had, like Mr. Merton, an 
 only son, not much older than Master Merton, whose name was 
 Harry. Harry, as he had always been accustomed to run about 
 in the fields, to follow the labourers while they were ploughing, 
 and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was active, strong, hardy, 
 and fresh-coloured. He was neither so fair, nor so delicately 
 shaped as Master Merton ; but he had an honest, good-natured 
 countenance, which made every body love him ; was never out of 
 humour, and took the greatest pleasure in obliging every body. 
 If little Harry saw a poor wretch who wanted victuals, while he 
 was eating his dinner, he was sure to give him half, and sometimes 
 the whole ; nay, so very good-natured was he to eveff^lffiig, that 
 he would never go into the fields to take the eggs of poor birds, 
 or their young ones nor practise any other kind of sport which 
 gave pain to poor animals, who are as capable of feeling as we 
 ourselves, though they have no words to express their sufferings. 
 Once indeed, Harry was caught twirling a cockchafer round, 
 which he had fastened by a crooked pin to a long piece of thread : 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 68 1 
 
 but then this was through ignorance, and want of thought; 
 for as soon as his father told him that the poor helpless insect 
 felt as much, or more than he would do, were a knife thrust 
 through his hand, he burst into tears, and took the poor animal 
 home, where he fed him during a fortnight upon fresh leaves ; 
 and when he was perfectly recovered, turned him out to enjoy 
 liberty and the fresh air. Ever since that time, Harry was so 
 careful and considerate, that he would step out of the way for fear 
 of hurting a worm, and employed himself in doing kind offices to 
 all the animals in the neighbourhood. He used to stroke the 
 horses as they were at work, and fill his pockets with acorns for 
 the pigs ; if he walked in the fields, he was sure to gather green 
 boughs for the sheep, who were so fond of him, that they followed 
 him wherever he went. In the winter time, when the ground 
 was covered with frost and snow, and the poor little birds could 
 get at no food, he would often go supperless to bed, that he might 
 feed the robin-red-breasts : even toads and frogs, and spiders, 
 and such kind of disagreeable animals, which most people destroy 
 wherever they find them, were perfectly safe with Harry ; he used 
 to say, they had a right to live as well as we, and that it was cruel 
 and unjust to kill creatures only because we did not like them. 
 These sentiments made little Harry a great favorite with every 
 body ; particularly with the Clergyman of the parish, who be- 
 came so fond of him, that he taught him to read and write, and 
 had him almost always with him. Indeed, it was not surprising 
 that Mr. Barlow shewed so particular an affection for him ; for 
 besides learning, with the greatest readiness, every thing that was 
 taught him, httle Harry was the most honest, obliging creature 
 in the world. He was never discontented, nor did he ever grum- 
 ble, whatever he was desired to do. And then you might believe 
 Harry in every thing he said ; for though he could have gained 
 a plum-cake by telling an untruth, and was sure that speaking 
 the truth would expose him to a severe whipping, he never 
 hesitated in declaring it. Nor was he like many other children, 
 who place their whole happiness in eating : for give him but a 
 morsel of dry bread for his dinner, and he would be satisfied, 
 though you placed sweetmeats and fruit, and every other nicety, 
 in his way. 
 
682 THOMAS DAY 
 
 With this little boy did Master Merton become acquainted in 
 the following manner. — As he and the maid were once walking 
 in the fields on a fine summer's morning, diverting themselves 
 with gathering different kinds of wild flowers, and running after 
 butterflies, a large snake, on a sudden, started up from among 
 some long grass, and coiled itself around little Tommy's leg. 
 You may imagine the fright they were both in at this accident ; 
 the maid ran away shrieking for help, while the child, who was in 
 an agony of terror, did not dare to stir from the place where he 
 was standing. Harry, who happened to be walking near the 
 place, came running up, and asked what was the matter. Tommy, 
 who was sobbing most piteously, could not find words to tell him, 
 but pointed to his leg, and made Harry sensible of what had hap- 
 pened. Harry, who, though young, was a boy of a most coura- 
 geous spirit, told him not to be frightened : and instantly seizing 
 the snake by the neck, with as much dexterity as resolution, tore 
 him from Tommy's leg, and threw him to a great distance off. 
 
 Just as this happened, Mrs. Merton and all the family, alarmed 
 by the servant's cries, came running breathless to the place, as 
 Tommy was recovering his spirits, and thanking his brave little 
 deliverer. Her first emotions were to catch her darling up in 
 her arms, and, after giving him a thousand kisses, to ask him 
 whether he had received any hurt ? — 'No,' said Tommy, ' indeed 
 I have not, mamma ; but I believe that nasty ugly beast would 
 have bitten me, if that little boy had not come arid pulled him off.' 
 'And who are you, my dear,' said she, 'to whom we are all so 
 obliged?' 'Harry Sandford, madam.' 'Well, my child, you 
 are a dear, brave little creature, and you shall go home and dine 
 with us.' 'No, thank you, madam; my father will want me.' 
 'And who is your father, my sweet boy?' 'Farmer Sandford, 
 madam, that lives at the bottom of the hill.' 'Well, my dear, 
 you shall be my child henceforth ; will you ? ' 'If you please, 
 madam, if I may have my own father and mother too.' 
 
 Mrs. Merton instantly dispatched a servant to the Farmer's ; 
 and, taking little Harry by the hand, she led him to the mansion- 
 house, where she found Mr. Merton, whom she entertained with 
 a long account of Tommy's danger and Harry's bravery. 
 
 Harry was now in a new scene of life. He was carried through 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 683 
 
 costly apartments, where every thing that could please the eye, 
 or contribute to convenience, was assembled. He saw large 
 looking glasses in gilded frames, carved tables and chairs, curtains 
 made of the finest silk, and the very plates and knives and forks 
 were silver. At dinner he was placed close to Mrs. Merton, who 
 took care to supply him with the choicest bits, and engaged him 
 to eat, with the most endearing kindness ; — but, to the astonish- 
 ment of every body, he neither appeared pleased nor surprised 
 at any thing he saw. Mrs. Merton could not conceal her dis- 
 appointment ; for, as she had always been used to a great degree 
 of finery herself, she had expected it should make the same im- 
 pression upon every body else. At last, seeing him eye a small 
 silver cup with great attention, out of which he had been drink- 
 ing, she asked him whether he should not like to have such a fine 
 thing to drink out of ? and added, that, though it was Tommy's 
 cup, she was sure he would, with great pleasure, give it to his 
 little friend. 'Yes, that I will,' says Tommy; 'for you know, 
 mamma, I have a much finer one than that, made of gold, be- 
 sides two large ones made of silver.' 'Thank you with all my 
 heart,' said little Harry ; 'but I will not rob you of it, for I have 
 a much better one at home.' 'How !' said Mrs. Merton, 'does 
 your father eat and drink out of silver ? ' 'I don't know, madam, 
 what you call this ; but we drink at home out of long things made 
 of horn, just such as the cows wear upon their heads.' 'The 
 child is a simpleton, I think,' said Mrs. Merton; 'and why is 
 that better than silver ones ? ' ' Because,' said Harry, ' they never 
 make us uneasy.' 'Make you uneasy, my child!' said Mrs. 
 Merton, 'what do you mean?' 'Why, madam, when the man 
 threw that great thing down, which looks Just like this, I saw that 
 you were very sorry about it, and looked as if you had been just 
 ready to drop. Now, ours at home, are thrown about by all 
 the family, and no body minds it.' 'I protest,' said Mrs. Merton, 
 to her husband, ' I do not know what to say to this boy, he makes 
 such strange observations.' 
 
 The fact was, that, during dinner, one of the servants had 
 thrown down a large piece of plate, which as it was very valuable, 
 had made Mrs. Merton not only look very uneasy, but give the 
 man a very severe talk for his carelessness. 
 
684 THOMAS DAY 
 
 After dinner, Mrs. Merton filled a large glass of wine, and, 
 giving it to Harry, bade him drink it up ; but he thanked her, and 
 said he was not dry. ' But my dear,' said she, ' this is very sweet 
 and pleasant, and, as you are a good boy, you may drink it up.' 
 'Ay! but, madam, Mr. Barlow says that we must only eat when 
 we are hungry, and drink when we are dry, and that we must only 
 eat and drink such things as are easily met with ; otherwise we 
 shall grow peevish and vexed when we can't get them. And 
 this was the way that the Apostles did, who were all very good 
 men.' 
 
 Mr. Merton laughed at this. 'And pray, said he, 'little man, 
 do you know who the Apostles were?' 'Oh ! yes, to be sure I 
 do.' 'And who were they?' 'Why, sir, there was a time when 
 people were grown so very wicked, that they did not care what 
 they did and the great folks were all proud, and minded nothing 
 but eating and drinking, and sleeping, and amusing themselves ; 
 and took no care of the poor, and would not give a morsel of 
 bread to hinder a beggar from starving ; and the poor were all 
 lazy, and loved to be idle better than to work ; and little boys 
 were disobedient to their parents, and their parents took no care 
 to teach them any thing that was good ; and all the world was 
 very bad, very bad indeed. And then there came a very good 
 man indeed, whose name was Christ ; and he went about doing 
 good to every body, and curing people of all sorts of diseases, 
 and taught them what they ought to do ; and he chose out twelve 
 other very good men, and called them Apostles : and these 
 Apostles went about the world doing as he did, and teaching 
 people as he taught them. And they never minded what they 
 did eat or drink, but lived upon dry bread and water ; and when 
 any body offered them money, they would not take it, but told 
 them to be good, and give it to the poor and sick ; and so they 
 made the world a great deal better. And therefore it is not fit 
 to mind what we live upon, but we should take what we can get, 
 and be contented ; just as the beasts and birds do, who lodge in 
 the open air, and live upon herbs, and drink nothing but water ; 
 and yet they are strong, and active, and healthy.' 
 
 'Upon my word,' said Mr. Merton, ' this little man is a great 
 philosopher ; and we should be much obliged to Mr. Barlow if he 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 685 
 
 would take our Tommy under his care; for he grows a great 
 boy, and it is time that he should know something. What say 
 you, Tommy, should you like to be a philosopher? ' ' Indeed 
 papa, I don't know what a philosopher is ; but I should like to 
 be a king, because he's finer and richer than any body else, and 
 has nothing to do, and every body waits upon him, and is afraid 
 of him.' 'Well said, my dear,' replied Mrs. Merton; and rose 
 and kissed him ; ' and a king you deserve to be with such a spirit ; 
 and here's a glass of wine for you for making such a pretty an- 
 swer. And should you not like to be a king too, little Harry ? ' 
 ' Indeed, madam, I don't know what that is ; but I hope I shall 
 soon be big enough to go to plough, and to get my own living : 
 and then I shall want nobody to wait on me.' 
 
 ' What a difference there is between the children of farmers and 
 gentlemen ! ' whispered Mrs. Merton to her husband, looking 
 rather contemptuously upon Harry. ' I am not sure,' said Mr. 
 Merton, ' that for this time the advantage is on the side of our 
 son: — But should you not like to be rich, my dear? " said he 
 turning to Harry. 'No, indeed, sir.' 'No, simpleton!' said 
 Mrs. Merton ; ' and why not ? ' ' Because the only rich man I 
 ever saw, is Squire Chase, who lives hard by ; and he rides among 
 people's corn, and breaks down their hedges, and shoots their 
 poultry, and kills their dogs, and lames their cattle, and abuses the 
 poor ; and they say he does all this because he's rich, but every 
 body hates him, though they dare not tell him so to his face : — 
 and I would not be hated for any thing in the world.' ' But 
 should you not like to have a fine laced coat, and a coach to carry 
 you about, and servants to wait upon you ? ' ' As to that, madam, 
 one coat is as good as another, if it will but keep me warm ; and I 
 don't want to ride, because I can walk wherever I choose ; and 
 as to servants, I should have nothing for them to do, if I had a 
 hundred of them.' Mrs. Merton continued to look at him with 
 astonishment, but did not ask him any more questions. 
 
 In the evening, little Harry was sent home to his father, who 
 asked him what he had seen at the great house, and how he liked 
 being there ? 'Why,' rephed Harry, 'they were all very kind to 
 me, for which I'm much obliged to them : but I had rather have 
 been at home, for I never was so troubled in all my life to get a 
 
686 THOMAS DAY 
 
 dinner. There was one man to take away my plate and another 
 to give me drink, and another to stand behind my chair, just if 
 I had been lame or bhnd, and could not have waited upon myself, 
 and then there was so much to do with putting this thing on, and 
 taking another off, I thought it would never have been over : and, 
 after dinner, I was obliged to sit two whole hours without ever 
 stirring, while the lady was talking to me, not as Mr. Barlow 
 does, but wanting me to love fine clothes, and to be a king, and 
 to be rich, that I may be hated like Squire Chase.' 
 
 But at the mansion house, much of the conversation, in the 
 mean time, was employed in examining the merits of httle Harry. 
 Mrs. Merton acknowledged his bravery and openness of temper ; 
 she was also struck with the general good-nature and benevolence 
 of his character, but she contended that he had a certain grossness 
 and indeUcacy in his ideas, which distinguish the children of the 
 lower and middling classes of people from those of persons of 
 fashion. Mr. Merton on the contrary, maintained, that he had 
 never before seen a child whose sentiments and disposition would 
 do so much honour even to the most elevated situations. 
 Nothing he affirmed, was more easily acquired than those exter- 
 nal manners, and that superficial address, upon which too many 
 of the higher classes pride themselves as their greatest, or even 
 as their only accomplishment : 'nay so easily are they picked up' 
 said he 'that we frequently see them descend with the cast 
 clothes to maids and valets ; between whom and their masters 
 and mistresses there is little other difference than what results 
 from the former wearing soiled clothes and healthier counte- 
 nances. Indeed, the real seat of all superiority, even of manners, 
 must be placed in the mind : dignified sentiments, superior cour- 
 age, accompanied with genuine and universal courtesy, are always 
 necessary to constitute the real gentleman ; and where these are 
 wanting, it is the greatest absurdity to think they can be sup- 
 plied by affected tones of voice, particular grimaces, or extrava- 
 gant and unnatural modes of dress ; which far from becoming 
 the real test of gentility, have in general no other origin than the 
 caprice of barbers, tailors, actors, opera dancers, milliners, fiddlers, 
 and French servants of both sexes. 'I cannot help, therefore, 
 asserting,' said he, very seriously, 'that this little peasant has 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 687 
 
 within his mind the seeds of true gentility and dignity of char- 
 acter ; and though I shall also wish that our son may possess all 
 the common accomplishments of his rank, nothing would give 
 me more pleasure than a certainty that he would never in any 
 respect fall below the son of farmer Sandford.' 
 
 Whether Mrs. Merton fully acceded to these observations of 
 her husband, I cannot decide ; but, without waiting to hear her 
 particular sentiments, he thus went on: — 'Should I appear 
 more warm than usual upon this subject, you must pardon me, 
 my dear, and attribute it to the interest I feel in the welfare of 
 our little Tommy. I am too sensible that our mutual fondness 
 has hitherto treated him with rather too much indulgence. While 
 we have been over-solicitous to remove from him every painful 
 and disagreeable impression, we have made him too delicate and 
 fretful : our desire of constantly consulting his inclinations 
 has made us gratify even his caprices and humours ; and, while 
 we have been too studious to preserve him from restraint and 
 opposition, we have in reality been ourselves the cause that he 
 has not acquired even the common attainments of his age and 
 situation. All this I have long observed in silence ; but have 
 hitherto concealed, both from my fondness for our child, and 
 my fear of offending you : but at length a consideration of his 
 real interests has prevailed over every other motive, and has com- 
 pelled me to embrace a resolution, which I hope will not be dis- 
 agreeable to you, — that of sending him directly to Mr. Barlow, 
 provided he would take the care of him : and I think this acci- 
 dental acquaintance with young Sandford may prove the luckiest 
 thing in the world, as he is so nearly the age and size of our 
 Tommy. I will therefore propose to the Farmer, that I will for 
 some years pay for the board and education of his little boy, that 
 he may be a constant com.panion to our son.' 
 
 As Mr. Merton said this with a certain degree of firmness and 
 the proposal was in itself so reasonable and necessary, Mrs. 
 Merton did not make any objection to it, but consented, although 
 very reluctantly, to part with her son. Mr. Barlow was ac- 
 cordingly invited to dinner the next Sunday, and Mr. Merton 
 took an opportunity of introducing the subject, and making the 
 proposal to him ; assuring him, at the same time, that, though 
 
688 THOMAS DAY 
 
 there was no return within the bounds of his fortune which he 
 would not wilhngly make, yet the education and improvement 
 of his son were objects of so much importance to him, that he 
 should always consider himself as the obHged party. 
 
 To this, Mr. Barlow, after thanking Mr. Merton for the con- 
 fidence and Hberality with which he treated him, answered in 
 the following manner ; — 'I should be Httle worthy of the dis- 
 tinguished regard with which you treat me, did I not with the 
 greatest sincerity assure you, that I feel myself totally unqualified 
 for such a task. I am, Sir, a minister of the gospel, and I would 
 not exchange that character, and the severe duties it enjoins, 
 for any other situation in Ufe. But you must be sensible, that 
 the retired manner of life which I have led for these twenty years, 
 in consequence of my profession, at a distance from the gaieties 
 of the capital, and the refinements of polite life, is little adapted 
 to form such a tutor as the manners and opinions of the world 
 require for your son. Gentlemen in your situation of life are 
 accustomed to divide the world into two general classes ; those 
 that are persons of fashion, and those that are not. The first 
 class contains every thing that is valuable in life ; and therefore 
 their manners, their prejudices, their very vices, must be incul- 
 cated upon the minds of children, from the earliest period of 
 infancy ; the second comprehends the great body of mankind who, 
 under the general name of the vulgar, are represented as being 
 only objects of contempt and disgust, and scarcely worthy to be 
 put on a footing with the very beasts that contribute to the 
 pleasures and conveniences of their superiors.' 
 
 Mr. Merton could not help interrupting Mr. Barlow here, to 
 assure him, that, though there was too much truth in the obser- 
 vation, yet he must not think that either he, or Mrs. Merton, 
 carried things to that extravagant length ; and that, although 
 they wished their son to have the manners of a man of fashion, 
 they thought his morals and rehgion of infinitely more conse- 
 quence. 
 
 'If you think so. Sir,' said Mr. Barlow, 'it is more than a noble 
 lord did, whose written opinions are now considered as the oracles 
 of polite life, and more than, I believe, most of his admirers do 
 at this time. But if you allow what I have just mentioned to be 
 
THE HISTORY OF SAND FORD AND MERTON 689 
 
 the common distinctions of genteel people, you must at one glance 
 perceive how little I must be quahhed to educate a young gentle- 
 man intended to move in that sphere ; I, whose temper^ reason, 
 and religion, equally combine to make me reject the principles 
 upon which those distinctions are founded. The Christian 
 rehgion, though not exclusively, is, emphatically speaking, the 
 reHgion of the poor. Its first ministers were taken from the lower 
 orders of mankind, and to the lower orders of mankind was it 
 first proposed ; and in this, instead of feeling myself mortified 
 or ashamed, I am the more inclined to adore the wisdom and 
 benevolence of that Power by whose command it was first 
 promulgated.' 
 
 'Nothing,' said Mr. Merton, 'can be more rational or moder- 
 ate than these sentiments ; why then do you persist in pleading 
 your incapacity for an employment which you can so well dis- 
 charge ? ' 
 
 'Because,' said Mr. Barlow, 'he that undertakes the education 
 of a child, undertakes the most important duty in society, and 
 is severally answerable for every voluntary omission. The 
 same mode of reasoning, which I have just been using, is not 
 applicable here. It is out of the power of any individual, how- 
 ever strenuous may be his endeavours, to prevent the mass of 
 mankind from acquiring prejudices and corruptions : and, when 
 he finds them in that state, he certainly may use all the wisdom 
 he possesses for their reformation. But this rule will never 
 justify him, for an instant, in giving false impressions where he 
 is at liberty to instil truth, and in losing the only opportunity 
 which he perhaps may ever possess, of teaching pure moraHty 
 and religion. — How will such a man, if he has the least feeling, 
 bear to see his pupil become a slave, perhaps to the grossest 
 vices ; and to reflect, with a great degree of probability, that 
 this catastrophe has been owing to his own inactivity and im- 
 proper indulgence ? May not all human characters frequently 
 be traced back to impressions made at so early a period, that none 
 but discerning eyes would ever suspect their existence ? Yet 
 nothing is more certain ; what we are at twenty depends upon 
 
690 THOMAS DAY 
 
 what we were at fifteen ; what we are at fifteen upon what we 
 were at ten : where shall we then place the beginning of the 
 series ? — Besides, sir, the very prejudices and manners of society, 
 which seem to be an excuse for the present negligence in the early 
 education of children, act upon my mind with a contrary effect. 
 Need we fear that, after every possible precaution has been taken, 
 our pupil should not give a sufficient loose to his passions, or 
 should be in danger of being too severely virtuous ? How glori- 
 ous would be such a distinction, how much to be wished for, and 
 yet now little to be expected by any one who is moderately ac- 
 quainted with the world ! The instant he makes his entrance 
 there, he will find a universal relaxation and indifference to every 
 thing that is serious ; every thing will conspire to represent 
 pleasure and sensuality as the only business of human beings, and 
 to throw a ridicule upon every pretence to principle or restraint. 
 This will be the doctrine that he will learn at theatres, from his 
 companions, from the poHte circles into which he is introduced. 
 The ladles too will have their share in the improvement of his 
 character : they will criticize the colour of his clothes, his method 
 of making a bow, and of entering a room. They will teach him 
 that the great object of human life is to please the fair ; and that 
 the only method of doing it, is to acquire the graces. Need we 
 fear that, thus beset on every side, he should not attach a suffi- 
 cient importance to trifles, or grow fashionably languid in the 
 discharge of all his duties ? — Alas ! sir, it seems to me that this 
 will unavoidably happen in spite of all our endeavours. Let 
 us then not lose the important moment of human life, when it 
 is possible to flatter ourselves with some hopes of success in giving 
 good impressions : they may succeed : they may either preserve 
 a young man from gross immorality, or have a tendency to reform 
 him, when the first ardour of youth is passed. If we neglect this 
 awful moment, which can never return, with the view, which, I 
 must confess, I have of modern manners, it appears to me, like 
 launching a vessel in the midst of a storm, without a compass and 
 without a pilot.' 
 
 'Sir,' said Mr. Merton, 'I will make no other answer to what 
 you have now been saying, than to tell you, it adds, if possible, 
 to my esteem of your character ; and that I will deliver my son 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 691 
 
 into your hands, upon your own conditions. And as to the 
 terms — ' 
 
 'Pardon me,' repHed Mr. Barlow, 'if I interrupt you here, and 
 give you another specimen of the singularity of my opinions. I 
 am contented to take your son for some months under my care, 
 and to endeavour by every means within my power to improve 
 him. But there is one circumstance which is indispensable, 
 that you permit me to have the pleasure of serving you as a 
 friend. If you approve of my ideas and conduct, I will keep him 
 as long as you desire. In the mean time, as there are, I fear, 
 some little circumstances which have grown up, by too much 
 tenderness and indulgence, to be altered in his character, I think 
 that I shall possess more of the necessary influence and authority, 
 if I, for the present appear to him and your whole family rather 
 in the light of a friend, than that of a schoolmaster.' 
 
 However disagreeable this proposal was to the generosity of 
 Mr. Merton, he was obliged to consent to it; and little 
 Tommy was accordingly sent the next day to the vicarage, 
 which was at the distance of about two miles from his father's 
 house. 
 
 The day after Tommy came to Mr. Barlow's, as soon as break- 
 fast was over, he took him and Harry into the garden : when he 
 was there, he took a spade into his own hand, and giving Harry 
 a hoe, they both began to work with great eagerness. 'Every 
 body that eats,' says Mr. Barlow, 'ought to assist in procuring 
 food ; and therefore little Harry and I begin our daily work. 
 This is my bed, and that other is his ; we work upon it every day, 
 and he that raises the most out of it will deserve to fare the best. 
 Now, Tommy, if you choose to join us, I will mark you out a 
 piece of ground, which you shall have to yourself, and all the 
 produce shall be your own.' — 'No, indeed,' said Tommy, very 
 sulkily, 'I am a gentleman, and don't choose to slave like a 
 ploughboy.' 'Just as you please, Mr. Gentleman,' said Mr. 
 Barlow; 'but Harry and I, who are not above being useful, will 
 mind our work.' 
 
 In about two hours, Mr. Barlow said it was time to leave off ; 
 and, taking Harry by the hand, he led him into a very pleasant 
 summer-house, where they sat down ; and Mr. Barlow, taking 
 
692 THOMAS DAY 
 
 out a plate of very fine ripe cherries, divided them between Harry 
 and himself. 
 
 Tommy, who had followed, and expected his share when he 
 saw them both eating without taking any notice of him, could 
 no longer restrain his passion, but burst into a violent fit of 
 sobbing and crying. — 'What is the matter?' said Mr. Barlow 
 very coolly to him. Tommy looked upon him very sulkily, but 
 returned no answer. ' Oh ! Sir, if you don't choose to give me 
 an answer, you may be silent ; nobody is obliged to speak here.' 
 Tommy became still more disconcerted at this, and, being unable 
 to conceal his anger, ran out of the surnmer-house, and wandered 
 very disconsolately about the garden, equally surprised and 
 vexed to find that he was now in a place where nobody felt 
 any concern whether he was pleased or the contrary. 
 
 When all the cherries were eat, little Harry said — 'You 
 promised to be so good as to hear me read when we had done 
 working in the garden ; and if it is agreeable to you, I will now 
 read the story of the Flies and the Ants.' 'With all my heart,' 
 said Mr. Barlow: 'remember to read it slowly and distinctly, 
 without hesitating or pronouncing the words wrong ; and be sure 
 to read it in such a manner as to show that you understand it.' 
 
 Harry then took up the book, and read as follows : — 
 
 As they were returning home, Harry saw a very large bird 
 called a Kite, upon the ground, who seemed to have something 
 in his claws, which he was tearing to pieces. Harry, who knew 
 him to be one of those ravenous creatures which prey upon 
 others, ran up to him, shouting as loud as he could ; and the bird, 
 being frightened, flew away, and left a chicken behind him, very 
 much hurt indeed, but still alive. 'Look, sir,' said Harry, 'if 
 that cruel creature has not almost killed this poor chicken ! se^^^ 
 how he bleeds, and hangs his wings ! I will put him into my 
 bosom to recover him, and carry him home ; and he shall have 
 part of my dinner every day till he is well and able to shift for 
 himself.' 
 
 As soon as they came home, the first care of little Harry was to 
 put his wounded chicken into a basket with some fresh straw, 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 693 
 
 some water, and some bread. After that, Mr. Barlow and he 
 went to dinner. 
 
 In the meantime, Tommy who had been skulking about all 
 day, very much mortified and uneasy, came in, and, being very 
 hungry, was going to sit down to the table with the rest ; but 
 Mr. Barlow stopped him, and said, 'No, sir, as you are too much 
 of a gentleman to work, we, who are not so, do not choose to 
 work for the idle.' Upon this Tommy retired into a corner, 
 crying as if his heart would break, but more from grief than 
 passion, as he began to perceive that nobody minded his ill 
 temper. 
 
 But Httle Harry, who could not bear to see his friend so un- 
 happy, looked up half crying- into Mr. Barlow's face, and said, 
 ' Pray, sir, may I do as I please with my share of the dinner ? ' 
 'Yes, to be sure, child.' 'Why, then,' said he, getting up, 'I will 
 give it all to poor Tommy, who wants it more than I do.' Saying 
 this, he gave it to him as he sat in the corner ; and Tommy took 
 it, and thanked him, without ever turning his eyes from off the 
 ground. 'I see,' said Mr. Barlow, 'that though gentlemen are 
 above being any use themselves, they are not above taking the 
 bread that other people have been working hard for.' At this. 
 Tommy cried still more bitterly than before. 
 
 The next day, Mr. Barlgs^ and Harry went to work as before ; 
 but they had scarcely begun before Tommy came to them, and 
 desired that he might have a hoe too, which Mr. Barlow gave 
 him ; but as he had never before learned to handle one, he was 
 very awkward in the use of it, and hit himself several strokes 
 upon the legs. Mr. Barlow then laid down his own spade, and 
 shewed him how to hold and use it, by which means, in a very 
 short time, he became very expert, and worked with the greatest 
 pleasure. When their work was over, they retired all three to 
 the summer-house ; and Tommy felt the greatest joy imaginable 
 when the fruit was produced, and he was invited to take his 
 share, which seemed to him the most delicious he had ever tasted, 
 because working in the air had given him an appetite. 
 
 As soon as they had done eating, Mr. Barlow took up a book, 
 and asked Tommy whether he would read them a story out of it ? 
 but he, looking a Kttle ashamed said he had never learned to read. 
 
694 THOMAS DAY 
 
 'I am very sorry for it,' said Mr. Barlow, 'because you lose a 
 very great pleasure: then Harry shall read to you.' Harry 
 accordingly took up the book, and read the following story : — 
 
 From this time forward, Mr. Barlow and his two little pupils 
 used constantly to work in their garden every morning ; and, 
 when they were fatigued, they retired to the summer-house, 
 where little Harry, who improved every day in reading, used to 
 entertain them with some pleasant story or other, which Tommy 
 always listened to with the greatest pleasure. But, little Harry 
 going home for a week. Tommy and Mr. Barlow were left alone. 
 
 The next day, after they had done work, and were retired to 
 the summer-house as usual, Tommy expected Mr. Barlow would 
 read to him ; but, to his great disappointment, found that he 
 was busy and could not. The next day the same accident was 
 renewed, and the day after that. At this Tommy lost all pa- 
 tience, and said to himself, 'Now if I could but read like Harry 
 Sandford, I should not need to ask any body to do it for me, and 
 then I could divert myself : and why (thinks he) may not I do 
 what another has done ? To be sure, little Harry is very clever ; 
 but he could not have read if he had not been taught ; and if I 
 am taught, I dare say I shall learn to read as well as he. Well, 
 as soon as ever he comes home, I am determined to ask him 
 about it.' 
 
 The next day little Harry returned, and as soon as Tommy had 
 an opportunity of being alone with him, 'Pray, Harry,' said 
 Tommy, 'how came you to be able to read ?' 
 
 Harry. Why, Mr. Barlow taught me my letters, and then 
 spelling ; and then by putting syllables together, I learned to 
 read. — • Tommy. And could not you show me my letters ? — 
 Harry. Yes, very willingly. 
 
 Harry then 'took up a book, and Tommy was so eager and 
 attentive, that at the very first lesson he learned the whole al- 
 phabet. He was infinitely pleased with this first experiment, 
 and could scarcely forbear running to Mr. Barlow, to let him know 
 the improvement he had made ; but he thought he should sur- 
 prise him more, if he said nothing about the matter till he was 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 695 
 
 able to read a whole story. He therefore applied himself with 
 such diligence, and little Harry, who spared no pains to assist 
 his friend, was so good a master, that in about two months he 
 determined to surprise Mr. Barlow with a display of his talents. 
 Accordingly, one day, when they were all assembled in the 
 summer-house, and the book was given to Harry, Tommy stood 
 up and said, that if Mr. Barlow pleased, he would try to read. 
 'Oh! very willingly,' said Mr. Barlow, 'but I should as soon 
 expect you to fly as to read.' Tommy smiled with a conscious- 
 ness of his own proficiency, and taking up the book, read with 
 great fluency. 
 
 'Indeed,' said Mr. Barlow, when the story was ended, 'I am 
 sincerely glad to find that Tommy has made this acquisition. 
 He will now depend upon nobody, but be able to divert himself 
 whenever he pleases. All that has ever been written in our own 
 language will be from this time in his power ; whether he chooses 
 to read little entertaining stories like what we have heard to-day, 
 or to read the actions of great and good men in history, or to 
 make himself acquainted with the nature of wild beasts and birds, 
 which are found in other countries, and have been described in 
 books ; in short, I scarcely know of any thing which from this 
 moment will not be in his power ; and I do not despair of one 
 day seeing him a very sensible man, capable of teaching and 
 instructing others.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Tommy, something elated by all this praise, 'I am 
 determined now to make myself as clever as any body ; and I 
 don't doubt, though I am such a little fellow, that I know more 
 already than many grown-up people ; and I am sure, though there 
 are no less than six blacks in our house, that there is not one of 
 them who can read a story like me.' Mr. Barlow looked a little 
 grave at this sudden display of vanity ; and said rather coolly, 
 ' Pray, who has attempted to teach them any thing ? ' ' Nobody, 
 I believe,' said Tommy. 'Where is the great wonder then, if 
 they are ignorant?' rephed Mr. Barlow; 'you would probably 
 have never known any thing had you not been assisted; and 
 even now, you know very little.' 
 
696 THOMAS DAY 
 
 In this manner did Mr. Barlow begin the education of Tommy 
 Merton, who had naturally very good dispositions, although he 
 had been suffered to acquire many bad habits, that sometimes 
 prevented them from appearing. He was, in particular, very 
 passionate, and thought he had a right to command every body 
 that was not dressed as fine as himself. This opinion often led 
 him into inconveniences, and once was the occasion of his being 
 severely mortified. 
 
 This accident happened in the following manner : — One day 
 as Tommy was striking a ball with his bat, he struck it over a 
 hedge into an adjoining field, and seeing a Httle ragged boy walk- 
 ing along on that side, he ordered him, in a very peremptory 
 tone, to bring it to him. The little boy, without taking any 
 notice of what was said, walked on, and left the ball ; upon 
 which. Tommy called out more loudly than before, and asked if 
 he did not hear what was said? 'Yes,' said the boy, 'for the 
 matter of that, I am not deaf.' 'Oh! are you not?' replied 
 Tommy : 'then bring me my ball directly.' ' I don't choose it,' 
 said the boy. 'Sirrah,' said Tommy, 'if I come to you, I shall 
 make you choose it.' 'Perhaps not, my pretty little master,' 
 said the boy. 'You httle rascal,' said Tommy, who now began 
 to be very angry, 'if I come over the hedge I will thrash you 
 within an inch of your life.' To this the other made no answer 
 but by a loud laugh ; which provoked Tommy so much, that he 
 clambered over the hedge, and jumped precipitately down, in- 
 tending to have leaped into the field ; but unfortunately his foot 
 slipped, and down he rolled into a wet ditch, which was full of 
 mud and water ; there poor Tommy tumbled about for some 
 time, endeavouring to get out ; but it was to no purpose, for his 
 feet stuck in the mud or slipped ofi from the bank : his fine waist- 
 coat was dirtied all over, his white stockings, covered with mire, 
 his breeches filled with puddle water ; and, to add to his distress, 
 he first lost one shoe, and then the other ; his laced hat tumbled 
 off from his head, and was completely spoiled. In this distress 
 he must probably have remained a considerable time, had not 
 the little ragged boy taken pity on him, and helped him out. 
 Tommy was so vexed and ashamed, that he could not say a word, 
 but ran home in such a dirty plight, that Mr. Barlow, who hap- 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 697 
 
 pened to meet him, was afraid he had been considerably hurt; 
 but when he heard the accident which had happened, he could 
 not help smiling, and he advised Tommy to be more careful for 
 the future how he attempted to thrash little ragged boys. 
 
 Mr. Barlow then came to call them in to read ; and told 
 Tommy, that as he had been talking so much about good-nature 
 to animals, he had looked him out a very pretty story upon the 
 subject, and begged that he would read it well. 'That I will,' 
 said Tommy ; ' for I begin to like reading extremely : and I 
 think that I am happier too since I learned it ; for now I can al- 
 ways divert myself.' 'Indeed,' answered Mr. Barlow, 'most 
 people find it so. When any one can read, he will not find the 
 knowledge any burthen to him : and, it is his own fault if he is 
 not constantly amused. This is an advantage. Tommy, which a 
 Gentleman, since you are so fond of the word, may more par- 
 ticularly enjoy, because he has so much time at his own disposal ; 
 and it is much better that he should distinguish himself by having 
 more knowledge and improvement than others, than by fine 
 clothes, or any such trifles, which any one may have that can 
 purchase them, as well as himself.' 
 
 Tommy then read, with a clear and distinct voice, the following 
 story of 
 
 The Good-natured Little Boy 
 
 A LITTLE Boy went out, one morning, to walk to a village about 
 five miles from the place where he lived, and carried with him, in 
 a basket, the provision that was to serve him the whole day. As 
 he was walking along, a poor little half-starved dog came up to 
 him, wagging his tail, and seeming to entreat him to take com- 
 passion on hiin. The little boy at first took no notice of him, but 
 at length, remarking how lean and famished the creature seemed 
 to be, he said, 'This animal is certainly in very great necessity : 
 if I give him part of my provision, I shall be obliged to go home 
 hungry myself ; however, as he seems to want it more than I do, 
 he shall partake with me.' Saying this, he gave the dog part of 
 what he had in the basket, who ate as if he had not tasted victuals 
 for a fortnight. 
 
698 THOMAS DAY 
 
 The little Boy then went on a little farther, his dog still follow- 
 ing him, and fawning upon him with the greatest gratitude and 
 affection : when he saw a poor old horse lying upon the ground, 
 and groaning as if he was very ill : he went up to him, and saw 
 that he was almost starved, and so weak that he was unable to 
 rise. 'I am very much afraid,' said the little Boy, 'if I stay to 
 assist this horse, that it will be dark before I can return ; and I 
 have heard that there are several thieves in the neighbourhood : 
 however, I will try ; it is doing a good action to attempt to re- 
 Heve him ; and God Almighty will take care of me.' He then 
 went and gathered some grass, which he brought to the horse's 
 mouth, who immediately began to eat with as much relish as if 
 his chief disease was hunger. He then fetched some water in his 
 hat, which the animal drank up, and seemed immediately to be 
 so much refreshed that, after a few trials, he got up, and began 
 grazing. 
 
 The little Boy then went on a little farther, and saw a man 
 wading about in a pond of water, without being able to get out 
 of it, in spite of all his endeavours. 'What is the matter, good 
 man,' said the Httle Boy to him ; 'can't you find your way out of 
 this pond?' 'No, God bless you, my worthy master, or miss,' 
 said the man ; ' for such I take you to be by your voice ; I have 
 fallen into this pond, and know not how to get out again, as I 
 am quite blind, and I am almost afraid to move for fear of being 
 drowned.' 'Well,' said the Httle Boy^ 'though I shall be wetted 
 to the skin, if you will throw me your stick, I will try to help 
 you out of it.' The blind man then threw the stick to that side 
 on which he heard the voice ; the little Boy caught it, and went 
 into the water, feeling very carefully before him, lest he should 
 unguardedly go beyond his depth ; at length he reached the blind 
 man, took him very carefully by the hand, and led him out. The 
 blind man then gave him a thousand blessings, and told him he 
 could grope his way home ; and the little Boy ran on as hard as 
 he could to prevent being benighted. 
 
 But he had not proceeded far, before he saw a poor Sailor, 
 who had lost both his legs in an engagement by sea, hopping along 
 upon crutches. ' God bless you, my little master! ' said the sailor ; 
 *I have fought many a battle with the French, to defend poor 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 699 
 
 old England : but now I am crippled, as you see, and have neither 
 victuals nor money, although I am almost famished.' The little 
 Boy could not resist his inclination to relieve him ; so he gave 
 him all his remaining victuals, and said, 'God help you, poor 
 man ! this is all I have, otherwise you should have more.' He 
 then ran along and presently arrived at the town he was going to, 
 did his business, and returned towards his own home, with all 
 the expedition he was able. 
 
 But he had not gone much more than half way, before the 
 night shut in extremely dark, without either moon or stars to 
 light him. The poor little Boy used his utmost endeavours to find 
 his way, but unfortunately missed it in turning down a lane 
 which brought him into a wood, where he wandered about a 
 great while without being able to find any path to lead him out. 
 Tired out at last, and hungry, he felt himself so feeble, that he 
 could go no farther, but set himself down upon the ground, crying 
 most bitterly. In this situation he remained for some time, till 
 at last the little dog, who had never forsaken him, came up to 
 him, wagging his tail, and holding something in his mouth. The 
 little Boy took it from him, and saw it was a handkerchief nicely 
 pinned together, which somebody had dropped, and the dog had 
 picked up ; and on opening it, he found several sHces of bread 
 and meat, which the Uttle Boy ate with great satisfaction, and 
 felt himself extremely refreshed with his meal. 'So,' said the 
 Httle Boy, ' I see that if I have given you a breakfast, you have 
 given me a supper ; and a good turn is never lost, done even to 
 a dog.' 
 
 He then once more attempted to escape from the wood ; but 
 it was to no purpose ; he only scratched his legs with briars, and 
 slipped down in the dirt, without being able to find his way out. 
 He was just going to give up all farther attempts in despair, 
 when he happened to see a horse feeding before him, and, going 
 up to him, saw, by the light of the moon, which just then began 
 to shine a little, that it was the very same he had fed in the 
 morning. 'Perhaps,' said the little Boy, 'this creature, as I 
 have been so good to him, will let me get upon his back, and he 
 may bring me out of the wood, as he is accustomed to feed in 
 this neighbourhood.' The little Boy then went up to the horse, 
 
700 THOMAS DAY 
 
 speaking to him and stroking him, and the horse let him mount 
 his back without opposition ; and then proceeded slowly through 
 the wood grazing as he went, till he brought him to an opening, 
 which led to the high road. The little Boy was much rejoiced 
 at this, and said, 'If I had not saved this creature's life in the 
 morning, I should have been obliged to have staid here all night ; 
 I see by this, that a good turn is never lost.' 
 
 But the poor little Boy had yet a greater danger to undergo ; 
 for, as he was going along a solitary lane, two men rushed out 
 upon him, laid hold of him, and were going to strip him of his 
 clothes ; but just as they were beginning to do it, the little dog 
 bit the leg of one of the men with so much violence, that he left 
 the little Boy and pursued the dog, that ran howling and barking 
 away. In this instant a voice was heard that cried out, 'There 
 the rascals are ; let us knock them down ! ' which frightened the 
 remaining man so much, that he ran away, and his companion 
 followed him. The little Boy then looked up, and saw that it 
 was the Sailor, whom he had relieved in the morning, carried 
 upon the shoulders of the bHnd man whom he had helped out of 
 the pond. 'There, my little dear,' said the Sailor, 'God be 
 thanked ! we have come in time to do you a service, in return 
 for what you did us in the morning. As I lay under a hedge I 
 heard these villains talk of robbing a little boy, who, from the 
 description, I concluded must be you : but I was so lame, that 
 I should not have been able to come time enough to help you, if 
 1 had not met this honest blind man, who took me upon his back 
 while I showed him the way.' 
 
 The little Boy thanked them very sincerely for thus defending 
 him ; and they went all together to his father's house, which was 
 not far off ; where they were all kindly entertained with a supper 
 and a bed. The httle Boy took care of his faithful dog as long 
 as he lived, and never forgot the importance and necessity of 
 doing good to others, if we wish them to do the same to us. 
 
 'Upon my word,' said Tommy, when he had finished, 'I am 
 vastly pleased with this story ; and I think that it may very 
 likely be true, for I have myself observed that every thing seems 
 to love little Harry here, merely because he is good-natured to it. 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 701 
 
 I was much surprised to see the great dog, the other day, which I 
 have never dared to touch for fear of being bitten, fawning upon 
 him, and licking him all over : it put me in mind of the story of 
 Androcles and the Lion.' 'That dog,' said Mr. Barlow, 'will 
 be equally fond of you, if you are kind to him : for nothing equals 
 the sagacity and gratitude of a dog. But since you have read a 
 story about a good-natured boy, Harry shall read you another, 
 concerning a boy of a contrary disposition.' 
 
 Mr. Barlow told them they had better leave ofif [reading] for the 
 present; and go to some other employment. They therefore 
 went into their garden to resume the labour of their house ; but 
 found, to their unspeakable regret, that, during their absence, 
 an accident had happened, which had entirely destroyed all their 
 labours : a violent storm of wind and rain had risen that morn- 
 ing, which, blowing full against the walls of their newly-con- 
 structed house, had levelled it with the ground. Tommy could 
 scarcely refrain from crying when he saw the ruins lying around ; 
 but Harry, who bore the loss with more composure, told him not 
 to mind it, for it could be easily repaired, and they would build 
 it stronger the next time. 
 
 Harry then went up to the spot, and after examining it some 
 time told Tommy that he believed he had found out the reason 
 of their misfortune. — 'What is it?' said Tommy. — 'Why,' 
 said Harry, 'it is only because we did not drive these stakes, 
 which are to bear the whole weight of our house, far enough into 
 the ground : and, therefore, when the wind blew against the flat 
 side of it with so much violence, it could not resist. And now 
 I remember to have seen the workmen, when they begin a build- 
 ing, dig a considerable way into the ground, to lay the foundation 
 fast : and I should think that, if we drove these stakes a great 
 way into the ground, it would produce the same effect, and we 
 should have nothing to fear from any future storms.' 
 
 Mr. Barlow then came into the garden, and the two boys 
 shewed him their misfortune, and asked him whether he did not 
 think that driving the stakes further in would prevent such an 
 accident for the future? Mr. Barlow told them he thought it 
 
702 
 
 THOMAS DAY 
 
 would ; and that, as they were too short to reach to the top of 
 the stakes he would assist them. He then went in and brought a 
 wooden mallet, with which he struck the tops of the stakes, and 
 drove them so fast into the ground, that there was no longer 
 any danger of their being shaken by the weather. Harry and 
 Tommy then applied themselves with so much assiduity to their 
 work, that they in a very short time had repaired all the damage, 
 and advanced it as far as it had been before. 
 
 The next thing that was necessary to be done, was putting on 
 a roof ; for hitherto they had constructed nothing but the walls. 
 For this purpose they took several other long poles, which they 
 had laid across their building where it was most narrow : and 
 upon these they placed straw in considerable quantities, so that 
 they now imagined they had constructed a house that would 
 completely screen them from the weather. But in this, un- 
 fortunately, they were again mistaken ; for a very violent shower 
 of rain coming just as they had finished their building, they took 
 shelter under it, and remarked for some time, with infinite 
 pleasure, how dry and comfortable it kept them : but at last, 
 the straw that covered it being completely soaked through, and 
 the water having no vent to run off, by reason of the flatness 
 of the roof, the rain began to penetrate in considerable quantities. 
 
 For some time Harry and Tommy bore the inconveniency ; 
 but it increased so much, that they were soon obliged to leave it 
 and seek for shelter in the house. When they were thus secured, 
 they began again to consider the affair of the house ; and Tommy 
 said, that it surely must be because they had not put straw enough 
 upon it. 'No,' said Harry ; 'I think that cannot be the reason ; 
 I rather imagine that it must be owing to our roof lying so flat : 
 for I have observed, that all the houses that I have ever seen, 
 have their roofs in a shelving posture, by which means the wet 
 continually runs off from them, and falls to the ground ; whereas 
 ours, being quite fiat, detained almost all the rain that fell upon 
 it, which must necessarily soak deeper and deeper into the straw, 
 till it penetrated quite through.' 
 
 They therefore agreed to remedy this defect; and for this 
 purpose they took several poles of an equal length, the one end 
 of which they fastened to the side of the house, and let the other 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 703 
 
 two ends meet in the middle ; by which means they formed a roof, 
 exactly like that which we commonly see upon buildings : they 
 also took several poles, which they tied across the others, to keep 
 them firm in their places, and give the roof additional strength : 
 and, lastly, they covered the whole with straw or thatch, and 
 for fear the thatch should be blown away they stuck several pegs 
 in different places, and put small pieces of stick crosswise from 
 peg to peg, to keep the straw in its place. When this was done, 
 they found they had a very tolerable house ; only the sides, being 
 formed of brushwood alone, did not sufficiently exclude the wind. 
 To remedy this inconvenience, Harry, who was chief architect, 
 procured some clay, and mixing it up with water, to render it 
 sufficiently soft, he daubed it all over the walls, both within and 
 without, by which means the wind was excluded, and the house 
 rendered much warmer than before. 
 
 One day ^ Tommy was surprised by an unexpected visit from his 
 father, who met him with open arms, and told him, that he was 
 now come to take him back to his own house. 'I have heard,' 
 said he, 'such an account of your present behaviour, that the 
 past is entirely forgotten ; and I begin to glory in owning you 
 for a son.' He then embraced him with the transports of an 
 afifectionate father who indulges the strongest sentiments of his 
 heart, but sentiments he had long been forced to restrain. 
 
 Tommy returned his father's caresses with genuine warmth, 
 but with a degree of respect and humility he had once been Httle 
 accustomed to use. 'I will accompany you home, sir,' said he, 
 'with the greatest readiness: for I wish to see my mother, and 
 hope to give her some satisfaction by my future behaviour. You 
 have both had too much to complain of in the past ; and I am 
 unworthy of such affectionate parents.' He then turned his 
 face aside, and shed a tear of real virtue and gratitude, which he 
 instantly wiped away as unworthy the composure and fortitude 
 of his new character. 
 
 'But, sir,' added he, 'I hope you will not object to my detaining 
 
 ' This happens after Tommy has been under Mr. Barlow's instruction long enough to 
 have become a credit to the method. 
 
704 
 
 THOMAS DAY 
 
 you a little longer, while I return my acknowledgments to all 
 the family, and take my leave of Harry.' — 'Surely,' said Mr, 
 Merton, ' you can entertain no doubt on that subject : and to 
 give you every opportunity of discharging all your duties to a 
 family, to which you owe so much, I intend to take a dinner 
 with Mr. Sandford, whom I now see coming home, and then 
 to return with you in the evening.' 
 
 At this instant, farmer Sandford approached, and very re- 
 spectfully saluting Mr. Merton, invited him to walk in. But Mr. 
 Merton, after returning his civiHty, drew him aside, as if he had 
 some private business to communicate. When they were alone, 
 he made him every acknowledgment that gratitude could sug- 
 gest: 'but words,' added Mr. Merton, 'are very insufficient to 
 return the favours I have received : for it is to your excellent 
 family, together with the virtuous Mr. Barlow, that I owe the 
 preservation of my son. Let me, therefore, entreat you to ac- 
 cept of what this pocket-book contains as a slight proof of my 
 sentiments : and lay it out in whatever manner you please, for 
 the advantage of your family.' 
 
 Mr. Sandford, who was a man both of sense and humour, took 
 the book, and examining the inside, found that it contained bank 
 notes to the amount of some hundred pounds. He then carefully 
 shut it up again, and returning it to Mr. Merton, told him, 'that 
 he was infinitely obliged to him for the generosity which prompted 
 him to such a princely act ; but, as to the present itself he must 
 not be ofif ended if he declined it.' Mr. Merton still more as- 
 tonished at such disinterestedness, pressed him with every argu- 
 ment he could think of ; he desired him to consider the state of 
 his family ; his daughters unprovided for ; his son himself, with 
 dispositions that might adorn a throne, brought up to labour ; 
 and his own advancing age, which demanded ease and respite, 
 and an increase of the conveniences of life. 
 
 And now Mr. Merton, having made the most affectionate 
 acknowledgments to all this worthy and happy family, among 
 whom he did not forget the honest Black ^ whom he promised to 
 
 • A negro who had rescued Tommy from an angry bull. 
 
THE HISTORY OF SANDFORD AND MERTON 705 
 
 provide for, summoned his son to accompany him home. 
 Tommy arose, and with the sincerest gratitude, bade adieu to 
 Harry and all the rest. — 'I shall not be long without you,' said 
 he to Harry ; ' to your example I owe most of the Httle good that 
 I can boast : you have taught me how much better it is to be 
 useful than rich or fine : how much more amiable to be good than 
 to be great. Should I ever be tempted to relapse, even for an 
 instant, into any of my former habits, I will return hither for 
 instruction, and I hope you will again receive me.' Saying this, 
 he shook his friend Harry affectionately by the hand, and, with 
 watery eyes, accompanied his father home. 
 
NATURE AND ART 
 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 At a time when the nobility of Britain were said, by the poet 
 laureate, to be the admirers and protectors of the arts, and were 
 acknowledged by the whole nation to be the patrons of music — 
 William and Henry, youths under twenty years of age, brothers, 
 and the sons of a country shopkeeper who had lately died in- 
 solvent, set out on foot for London, in the hope of procuring by 
 their industry a scanty subsistence. 
 
 As they walked out of their native town, each with a small 
 bundle at his back, each observed the other drop several tears : 
 but, upon the sudden meeting of their eyes, they both smiled 
 with a degree of disdain at the weakness in which they had 
 been caught. 
 
 "I am sure," said William (the elder), "I don't know what 
 makes me cry." 
 
 "Nor I neither," said Henry; "for though we may never see 
 this town again, yet we leave nothing behind us to give us reason 
 to lament." 
 
 "No," replied William, "nor anybody who cares what becomes 
 of us." 
 
 "But I was thinking," said Henry, now weeping bitterly, " that, 
 if my poor father were alive, he would care what was to become 
 of us : he would not have suffered us to begin this long journey 
 without a few more shillings in our pockets." 
 
 At the end of this sentence, William, who had with some effort 
 suppressed his tears while his brother spoke, now uttered, with a 
 voice almost inarticulate, — "Don't say any more; don't talk 
 any more about it. My father used to tell us, that when he was 
 gone we must take care of ourselves : and so we must. I only 
 
 706 
 
NATURE AND ART 707 
 
 wish," continued he, giving way to his grief, "that I had never 
 done anything to offend him while he was living." 
 
 "That is what I wish too," cried Henry. "If I had always 
 been dutiful to him while he was alive, I would not shed one 
 tear for him now that he is gone ; but I would thank Heaven 
 that he has escaped from his creditors." 
 
 In conversation such as this, wherein their sorrow for their 
 deceased parent seemed less for his death than because he had 
 not been so happy when living as they ought to have made him ; 
 and wherein their own outcast fortune was less the subject of 
 their grief, than the reflection what their father would have en- 
 dured could he have beheld them in their present situation ; 
 — in conversation such as this, they pursued their journey till 
 they arrived at that metropolis, which has received for centuries 
 past, from the provincial towns, the bold adventurer of every 
 denomination ; has stamped his character with experience and 
 example ; and, while it has bestowed on some coronets and 
 mitres — on some the lasting fame of genius — to others has 
 dealt beggary, infamy, and untimely death. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 After three weeks passed in London, a year followed, during 
 which William and Henry never sat down to a dinner, or went 
 into a bed, without hearts glowing with thankfulness to that 
 Providence who had bestowed on them such unexpected bless- 
 ings ; for they no longer presumed to expect (what still they 
 hoped they deserved) a secure pittance in this world of plenty. 
 Their experience, since they came to town, had informed 
 them that to obtain a permanent livelihood is the good fortune but 
 of a part of those who are in want of it : and the precarious 
 earning of half-a-crown, or a shilling, in the neighbourhood where 
 they lodged, by an errand, or some such accidental means, was the 
 sole support which they at present enjoyed. 
 
 They had sought for constant employment of various kinds, 
 and even for servants' places ; but obstacles had always occurred 
 to prevent their success. If they applied for the situation of a 
 clerk to a man of extensive concerns, their qualifications were 
 
7o8 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 admitted ; but there must be security given for their fideHty ; — 
 they had friends, who would give them a character, but who 
 would give them nothing else. 
 
 If they applied for the place even of a menial servant, they were 
 too clownish and awkward for the presence of the lady of the 
 house ; — and once, when William (who had been educated 
 at the free grammar-school of the town in which he was born, 
 and was an excellent scholar), hoping to obtain the good opinion 
 of a young clergyman whom he solicited for the favour of waiting 
 upon him, said submissively, "that he understood Greek and 
 Latin," he was rejected by the divine, "because he could not 
 dress hair." 
 
 Weary of repeating their mean accompHshments of "honesty, 
 sobriety, humility," and on the precipice of reprobating such 
 qualities, — which, however beneficial to the soul, gave no hope of 
 preservation to the body, — they were prevented from this prof- 
 anation by the fortunate remembrance of one qualification, 
 which Henry, the possessor, in all his distress, had never till 
 then called to his recollection ; but which, as soon as remembered 
 and made known, changed the whole prospect of wretchedness 
 placed before the two brothers ; and they never knew want 
 more. 
 
 Reader — Henry could play upon the fiddle. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 No sooner was it publicly known that Henry could play most 
 enchantingly upon the violin, than he was invited into many 
 companies where no other accomplishment could have introduced 
 him. His performance was so much admired, that he had the 
 honour of being admitted to several tavern feasts, of which he 
 had also the honour to partake without partaking of the ex- 
 pense. He was soon addressed by persons of the very first rank 
 and fashion, and was once seen walking side by side with a peer. 
 
 But yet, in the midst of this powerful occasion for rejoicing, 
 Henry, whose heart was particularly affectionate, had one grief 
 which eclipsed all the happiness of his new life ; — his brother 
 William could not play on the fiddle ! consequently, his brother 
 
NATURE AND ART 709 
 
 William, with whom he had shared so much ill, could not share 
 in his good fortune. 
 
 One evening, Henry, coming home from a dinner and concert 
 at the Crown and Anchor found William, in a very gloomy and 
 peevish humour, poring over the orations of Cicero. Henry 
 asked him several times "how he did," and similar questions, 
 marks of his kind disposition towards his beloved brother : 
 but all his endeavours, he perceived, could not soothe or soften 
 the sullen mind of William. At length, taking from his pocket 
 a handful of almonds, and some delicious fruit (which he had 
 purloined from the plenteous table, where his brother's wants 
 had never been absent from his thoughts), and laying them down 
 before him, he exclaimed, with a benevolent smile, "Do, William, 
 let me teach you to play upon the violin." 
 
 William, full of the great orator whom he was then studying, 
 and still more alive to the impossibility that his ear, attuned 
 only to sense, could ever descend from that elevation, to learn 
 mere sounds — William caught up the tempting presents which 
 Henry had ventured his reputation to obtain for him, and threw 
 them all indignantly at the donor's head. 
 
 Henry felt too powerfully his own superiority of fortune to 
 resent this ingratitude : he patiently picked up the repast, and 
 laying it again upon the table, placed by its side a bottle of claret, 
 which he held fast by the neck, while he assured his brother that, 
 "although he had taken it while the waiter's back was turned, 
 yet it might be drank with a safe conscience by them ; for he 
 had not himself tasted one drop at the feast, on purpose that he 
 might enjoy a glass with his brother at home, and without 
 wronging the company who had invited him." 
 
 The affection Henry expressed as he said this, or the force of 
 a bumper of wine, which WiUiam had not seen since he left his 
 father's house, had such an effect in calming the displeasure he 
 was cherishing, that, on his brother offering him the glass, he 
 took it ; and he deigned even to eat of his present. 
 
 Henry, to convince him that he had stinted himself to obtain 
 for him this collation, sat down and partook of it. 
 
 After a few glasses, he again ventured to say, "Do, brother 
 WiUiam, let me teach you to play on the violin." 
 
7IO MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 Again his offer was refused, though with less vehemence : 
 at length they both agreed that the attempt could not prosper. 
 
 "Then," said Henry, " WilHam, go down to Oxford or to Cam- 
 bridge. There, no doubt, they are as fond of learning as in 
 this gay town they are of music. You know you have as much 
 talent for the one as I for the other : do go to one of our universi- 
 ties, and see what dinners, what suppers, and what friends you 
 will find there." 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 William did go to one of those seats of learning, and' would 
 have starved there, but for the affectionate remittances of Henry, 
 who shortly became so great a proficient in the art of music, 
 as to have it in his power not only to live in a very reputable 
 manner himself, but to send such supplies to his brother, as 
 enabled him to pursue his studies. 
 
 With some, the progress of fortune is rapid. Such is the case 
 when, either on merit or demerit, great patronage is bestowed. 
 Henry's violin had often charmed, to a welcome forgetfulness of 
 his insignificance, an effeminate lord ; or warmed with ideas of 
 honour the head of a duke, whose heart could never be taught to 
 feel its manly glow. Princes had flown to the arms of their 
 favourite fair ones with more rapturous delight, softened by 
 the masterly touches of his art : and these elevated personages, 
 ever grateful to those from whom they receive benefits, were com- 
 petitors in the desire of heaping favours upon him. But he, in 
 all his advantages, never once lost for a moment the hope of 
 some advantage for his brother William : and when at any time 
 he was pressed by a patron to demand a "token of his regard," 
 he would constantly reply — 
 
 "I have a brother, a very learned man, if your lordship (your 
 grace, or your royal highness) would confer some small favour 
 on him " 
 
 His lordship would reply, "He was so teased and harassed 
 in his youth by learned men, that he had ever since detested the 
 whole fraternity." 
 
 His grace would inquire, "if the learned man could play upon 
 any instrument." 
 
NATURE AND ART 711 
 
 And his highness would ask "if he could sing." 
 Rebuffs such as these poor Henry met with in all his appHca- 
 tions for Wilham, till one fortunate evening, at the conclusion 
 of a concert, a great man shook him by the hand, and promised 
 a living of five hundred a year (the incumbent of which was upon 
 his death-bed) to his brother, in return for the entertainment 
 that Henry had just afforded him. 
 
 Henry wrote in haste to Wilham, and began his letter thus : 
 "My dear brother, I am not sorry you did not learn to play upon 
 the fiddle." 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The incumbent of this living died — William underwent the 
 customary examinations, obtained successively the orders of 
 deacon and priest ; then as early as possible came to town to 
 take possession of the gift which his brother's skill had acquired 
 for him. 
 
 William had a steady countenance, a stern brow, and a majestic 
 walk; all of which this new accession, this holy calhng to 
 religious vows, rather increased than diminished. In the early 
 part of his hfe, the vioHn of his brother had rather irritated 
 than soothed the morose disposition of his nature : and though, 
 since their departure from their native habitation, it had fre- 
 quently calmed the violent ragings of his hunger, it had never 
 been successful in appeasing the disturbed passions of a proud 
 and disdainful mind. 
 
 As the painter views with delight and wonder the finished 
 picture, expressive testimony of his taste and genius ; as the 
 physician beholds with pride and gladness the recovering in- 
 valid, whom his art has snatched from the jaws of death ; as 
 the father gazes with rapture on his first child, the creature to 
 whom he has given life ; so did Henry survey, with transporting 
 glory, his brother, dressed for the first time in canonicals, to 
 preach at his parish church. He viewed him from head to foot — 
 smiled — viewed again — pulled one side of his gown a httle 
 this way, one end of his band a little that way ; then stole behind 
 him, pretending to place the curls of his hair, but in reahty to 
 indulge and to conceal tears of fraternal pride and joy. 
 
712 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 William was not without joy, neither was he wanting in love 
 or gratitude to his brother ; but his pride was not completely 
 satisfied. 
 
 "I am the elder," thought he to himself, "and a man of 
 literature, and yet am I obliged to my younger brother, an 
 illiterate man." Here he suppressed every thought which could 
 be a reproach to that brother. But there remained an object 
 of his former contempt, now become even detestable to him ; 
 ungrateful man. The very agent of his elevation was now so 
 odious to him, that he could not cast his eyes upon the friendly 
 violin without instant emotions of disgust. 
 
 In vain would Henry, at times, endeavour to subdue his 
 haughtiness by a tune on this wonderful machine. "You know 
 I have no ear," William would sternly say, in recompense for 
 one of Henry's best solos. Yet was William enraged at Henry's 
 answer, when, after taking him to hear him preach, he asked him, 
 "how he liked his sermon," and Henry modestly replied (in the 
 technical phrase of his profession), "You know, brother, I have 
 no ear." 
 
 Henry's renown in his profession daily increased ; and, with 
 his fame, his friends. Possessing the virtues of humility and 
 charity far above William, who was the professed teacher of those 
 virtues, his reverend brother's disrespect for his vocation never 
 once made him relax for a moment in his anxiety to gain him 
 advancement in the Church. In the course of a few years, and 
 in consequence of many fortuitous circumstances, he had the 
 gratification of procuring for him the appointment to a deanery ; 
 and thus at once placed between them an insurmountable barrier 
 to all friendship, that was not the effect of condescension on the 
 part of the dean. 
 
 William would now begin seriously to remonstrate with his 
 brother "upon his useless occupation," and would intimate 
 " the degradation it was to him to hear his frivolous talent spoken 
 of in all companies." Henry believed his brother to be much 
 wiser than himself, and suffered shame that he was not more 
 worthy of such a relation. To console himself for the familiar 
 friend, whom he now perceived he had entirely lost, he searched 
 for one of a softer nature — he married. 
 
NATURE AND ART 713 
 
 « 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 As Henry despaired of receiving his brother's approbation 
 of his choice, he never mentioned the event to him. But Wilham, 
 being told of it by a third person, inquired of Henry, who con- 
 firmed the truth of the inteUigence, and acknowledged, that, in 
 taking a wife, his sole view had been to obtain a kind companion 
 and friend, who would bear with his failings and know how to 
 esteem his few qualifications ; therefore, he had chosen one of his 
 own rank in fife, and who, having a taste for music, and, as well 
 as himself, an obligation to the art " 
 
 "And is it possible," cried the dean, "that what has been 
 hinted to me is true? Is it possible that you have married a 
 public singer?" 
 
 "She is as good as myself," returned Henry. "I did not 
 wish her to be better, for fear she should despise me." 
 
 "As to despise," answered the dean, "Heaven forbid that we 
 should despise anyone, that would be acting unlike a Christian ; 
 but do you imagine I can ever introduce her to my intended 
 wife, who is a woman of family?" 
 
 Henry had received in his life many insults from his brother ; 
 but, as he was not a vain man, he generally thought his brother 
 in the right, and consequently submitted with patience ; but, 
 though he had little self-love, he had for his wife an unbounded 
 affection. On the present occasion, therefore, he began to raise 
 his voice, and even (in the coarse expression of clownish anger) 
 to lift his hand; but the sudden and affecting recollection of 
 what he had done for the dean — of the pains, the toils, the hopes, 
 and the fears he had experienced when soliciting his preferment — 
 this recollection overpowered his speech, weakened his arm, and 
 deprived him of every active force, but that of flying out of his 
 brother's house (in which they then were) as swift as hghtning, 
 while the dean sat proudly contemplating "that he had done 
 his duty." 
 
 For several days Henry did not call, as was his custom, to see 
 his brother. William's marriage drew near, and he sent a 
 formal card to invite him on that day ; but not having had the 
 condescension to name his sister-in-law in the invitation, Henry 
 
714 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 thought proper not to accept it, and the joyful event was cele- 
 brated without his presence. But the ardour of the bridegroom 
 was not so vehement as to overcome every other sensation — he 
 missed his brother. That heart-felt cheerfulness with which 
 Henry had ever given him joy upon every happy occasion — even 
 amidst all the politer congratulations of his other friends — 
 seemed to the dean mournfully wanting. This derogation from 
 his felicity he was resolved to resent ; and for a whole year these 
 brothers, whom adversity had entwined closely together, pros- 
 perity separated. 
 
 Though Henry, on his marriage, paid so much attention to his 
 brother's prejudices as to take his wife from her pubHc em- 
 ployment, this had not so entirely removed the scruples of 
 William as to permit him to think her a worthy companion for 
 Lady Clementina, the daughter of a poor Scotch earl, whom he 
 had chosen merely that he might be proud of her family, and, 
 in return, suffer that family to be ashamed of his. 
 
 If Henry's wife were not fit company for Lady Clementina, 
 it is to be hoped that she was company for angels. She died 
 within the first year of her marriage, a faithful, an affection- 
 ate wife, and a mother. 
 
 When William heard of her death, he felt a sudden shock, and 
 a kind of fleeting thought glanced across his mind, that 
 
 "Had he known she had been so near her dissolution, she 
 might have been introduced to Lady Clementina, and he himself 
 would have called her sister." 
 
 That is (if he had defined his fleeting idea), "They would have 
 had no objection to have met this poor woman for the last time, 
 and would have descended to the familiarity of kindred, in order 
 to have wished her a good journey to the other world." 
 
 Or, is there in death something which so raises the abjectness 
 of the poor, that, on their approach to its sheltering abode, the 
 arrogant believer feels the equality he had before denied, and 
 trembles ? 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 The wife of Henry had been dead near six weeks before the 
 dean heard the news. A month then elapsed in thoughts by 
 
NATURE AND ART 715 
 
 himself, and consultations with Lady Clementina, how he should 
 conduct himself on this occurrence. Her advice was, 
 
 "That, as Henry was the younger, and by their stations, in 
 every sense the dean's inferior, Henry ought first to make over- 
 tures of reconciliation." 
 
 The dean answered, "He had no doubt of his brother's good 
 will to him, but that he had reason to think, from the knowledge 
 of his temper, he would be more likely to come to him upon an 
 occasion to bestow comfort, than to receive it. For instance, if 
 I had suffered the misfortune of losing your ladyship, my brother, 
 I have no doubt, would have forgotten his resentment, and " 
 
 She was offended that the loss of the vulgar wife of Henry 
 should be compared to the loss of her — she lamented her indis- 
 cretion in forming an alliance with a family of no rank, and 
 implored the dean to wait till his brother should make some 
 concession to him, before he renewed the acquaintance. 
 
 Though Lady Clementina had mentioned on this occasion 
 her indiscretion, she was of a prudent age — she was near forty — 
 yet, possessing rather a handsome face and person, she would 
 not have impressed the spectator with a supposition that she 
 was near so old had she not constantly attempted to appear 
 much younger. Her dress was fantastically fashionable, her 
 manners affected all the various passions of youth, and her con- 
 versation was perpetually embellished with accusations against 
 her own "heedlessness, thoughtlessness, carelessness, and 
 childishness." 
 
 There is, perhaps in each individual, one parent motive to 
 every action, good or bad. Be that as it may, it was evident, 
 that with Lady Clementina, all she said or did, all she thought or 
 looked, had but one foundation — vanity. If she were nice, or 
 if she were negligent, vanity was the cause of both ; for she would 
 contemplate with the highest degree of self-complacency, "What 
 such-a-one would say of her elegant preciseness, or what such-a- 
 one would think of her interesting neglect." 
 
 If she complained she was ill, it was with the certainty that 
 her languor would be admired : if she boasted she was well, it 
 was that the" spectator might admire her glowing health: if 
 she laughed, it was because she thought it made her look pretty : 
 
7i6 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 if she cried, it was because she thought it made her look prettier 
 still. If she scolded her servants, it was from vanity, to show her 
 knowledge superior to theirs : and she was kind to them from 
 the same motive, that her benevolence might excite their ad- 
 miration. Forward and impertinent in the company of her 
 equals, from the vanity of supposing herself above them, she was 
 bashful even to shamefacedness in the presence of her superiors, 
 because her vanity told her she engrossed all their observation. 
 Through vanity she had no memory ; for she constantly forgot 
 everything she heard others say, from the minute attention which 
 she paid to everything she said herself. 
 
 She had become an old maid from vanity, believing no offer 
 she received worthy of her deserts ; and when her power of farther 
 conquest began to be doubted, she married from vanity, to 
 repair the character of her fading charms. In a word, her vanity 
 was of that magnitude, that she had no conjecture but that she 
 was humble in her own opinion ; and it would have been impos- 
 sible to have convinced her that she thought well of herself, 
 because she thought so well, as to be assured that her own 
 thoughts undervalued her. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 That, which in a weak woman is called vanity, in a man of 
 sense is termed pride. Make one a degree stronger, or the other 
 a degree weaker, and the dean and his wife were infected with 
 the self-same folly. Yet, let not the reader suppose that this 
 failing (however despicable) had erased from either bosom all 
 traces of humanity. They are human creatures who are meant 
 to be portrayed in this little book : and where is the human 
 creature who has not some good quahties to soften, if not to 
 counterbalance, his bad ones ? 
 
 The dean, with all his pride, could not wholly forget his brother, 
 nor eradicate from his remembrance the friend that he had been 
 to him : he resolved, therefore, in spite of his wife's advice, to 
 make him some overture, which he had no doubt Henry's good- 
 nature would instantly accept. The more he became acquainted 
 with all the vain and selfish propensities of Lady Clementina, the 
 
NATURE AND ART 717 
 
 more he felt a returning affection for his brother : but little 
 did he suspect how much he loved him, till (after sending to 
 various places to inquire for him) he learned — that on his 
 wife's decease, unable to support her loss in the surrounding 
 scene, Henry had taken the child she brought him in his arms, 
 shaken hands with all his former friends — passing over his 
 brother in the number — and set sail in a vessel bound for Africa, 
 with a party of Portuguese and some few English adventurers, 
 to people there the uninhabited part of an extensive island. 
 
 This was a resolution, in Henry's circumstances, worthy a 
 mind of singular sensibility : but William had not discerned, till 
 then, that every act of Henry's was of the same description ; 
 and more than all, his every act towards him. He staggered 
 when he heard the tidings ; at first thought them untrue ; but 
 quickly recollected, that Henry was capable of surprising deeds ! 
 He recollected with a force which gave him torture, the benevo- 
 lence his brother had ever shown to him — the favours he had 
 heaped upon him — the insults he had patiently endured in 
 requital ! 
 
 In the first emotion, which this intelligence gave the dean, 
 he forgot the dignity of his walk and gesture : he ran with 
 frantic enthusiasm to every corner of his deanery where the least 
 vestige of what belonged to Henry remained — he pressed close 
 to his breast, with tender agony, a coat of his, which by accident 
 had been left there — he kissed and wept over a walking-stick 
 which Henry once had given him — he even took up with delight 
 a music book of his brother's — nor would his poor violin have 
 then incited anger. 
 
 When his grief became more calm, he sat in deep and melan- 
 choly meditation, calling to mind when and where he saw his 
 brother last. The recollection gave him fresh cause of regret. 
 He remembered they had parted on his refusing to suffer Lady 
 Clementina to admit the acquaintance of Henry's wife. Both 
 Henry and his wife he now contemplated beyond the reach of 
 his pride ; and he felt the meanness of his former and the imbe- 
 cility of his future haughtiness towards them. 
 
 To add to his self-reproaches, his tormented memory presented 
 to him the exact countenance of his brother at their last interview, 
 
7i8 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 as it changed, while he censured his marriage, and treated with 
 disrespect the object of his conjugal affection. He remembered 
 the anger repressed, the tear bursting forth, and the last gHmpse 
 he had of him, as he left his presence, most hkely for ever. 
 
 In vain he now wished that he had followed him to the door — 
 that he had once shaken hands and owned his obligations to him 
 before they had parted. In vain he wished too, that, in this 
 extreme agony of his mind, he had such a friend to comfort him, 
 as Henry had ever proved. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The avocations of an elevated life erase the deepest impressions. 
 The dean in a few months recovered from those which his 
 brother's departure first made upon him : and he would now 
 at times even condemn, in anger, Henry's having so hastily 
 abandoned him and his native country, in resentment, as he 
 conceived, of a few misfortunes which his usual fortitude should 
 have taught him to have borne. Yet was he still desirous of 
 his return, and wrote two or three letters expressive of his wish, 
 which he anxiously endeavoured should reach him. But many 
 years having elapsed without any intelligence from him, and a re- 
 port having arrived that he, and all the party with whom he 
 went, were slain by the savage inhabitants of the island, William's 
 despair of seeing his brother again caused the desire to diminish ; 
 while attention and affection to a still nearer and dearer rela- 
 tion than Henry had ever been to him, now chiefly engaged 
 his mind. 
 
 Lady Clementina had brought him a son, on whom from his 
 infancy, he doated — and the boy, in riper years, possessing a 
 handsome person and evincing a quickness of parts, gratified 
 the father's darling passion, pride, as well as the mother's vanity. 
 
 The dean had, beside this child, a domestic comfort highly 
 gratifying to his ambition : the bishop of **** became intimately 
 acquainted with him soon after his marriage, and from his daily 
 visits had become, as it were, a part of the family. This was 
 much honour to the dean, not only as the bishop was his superior 
 in the Church, but was of that part of the bench whose blood 
 
NATURE AND ART 719 
 
 is ennobled by a race of ancestors, and to which all wisdom 
 on the plebeian side crouches in humble respect. 
 
 Year after year rolled on in pride and grandeur ; the bishop 
 and the dean passing their time in attending levees and in talking 
 politics ; Lady Clementina passing hers in attending routs and 
 in talking of herself, till the son arrived at the age of thirteen. 
 
 Young William passed his time, from morning till night, with 
 persons who taught him to walk, to ride, to talk, to think like a 
 man — a foolish man, instead of a wise child, as nature designed 
 him to be. 
 
 This unfortunate youth was never permitted to have one con- 
 ception of his own — all were taught him — he was never once 
 asked, "What he thought;" but men were paid to tell "how to 
 think." He was taught to revere such and such persons, however 
 unworthy of his reverence ; to believe such and such things, 
 however unworthy of his credit : and to act so and so, on such 
 and such occasions, however unworthy of his feelings. 
 
 Such were the lessons of the tutors assigned him by his father — 
 those masters whom his mother gave him did him less mischief ; 
 for though they distorted his limbs and made his manners effem- 
 inate, they did not interfere beyond the body. 
 
 Mr. Norwynne (the family name of his father, and though 
 but a school-boy, he was called Mister) could talk on history, on 
 politics, and on religion ; surprisingly to all who never listened 
 to a parrot or magpie — for he merely repeated what had been 
 told to him without one reflection upon the sense or probability 
 of his report. He had been praised for his memory ; and to 
 continue that praise, he was so anxious to retain every 
 sentence he had heard, or he had read, that the poor creature 
 had no time for one native idea, but could only re-deliver his 
 tutors' lessons to his father, and his father's to his tutors. 
 But, whatever he said or did, was the admiration of all 
 who came to the house of the dean, and who knew he was an 
 only child. Indeed, considering the labour that was taken to 
 spoil him, he was rather a commendable youth ; for, with the 
 pedantic folly of his teachers, the blind affection of his father and 
 mother, the obsequiousness of the servants, and flattery of the 
 visitors, it was some credit to him that he was not an idiot, or a 
 
720 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 brute — though when he imitated the manners of a man, he had 
 something of the latter in his appearance ; for he would grin 
 and bow to a lady, catch her fan in haste when it fell, and hand 
 her to her coach, as thoroughly void of all the sentiment which 
 gives grace to such tricks, as a monkey. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 One morning in winter, just as the dean, his wife, and darling 
 child, had finished their breakfast at their house in London, a 
 servant brought in a letter to his master, and said "the man 
 waited for an answer." 
 
 "Who is the man?" cried the dean, with all that terrifying 
 dignity with which he never failed to address his inferiors, es- 
 pecially such as waited on his person. 
 
 The servant rephed with a servility of tone equal to the haughty 
 one of his master, " he did not know ; but that the man looked Hke 
 a sailor, and had a boy with him." 
 
 "A begging letter, no doubt," cried Lady Clementina. 
 
 "Take it back," said the dean, "and bid him send up word 
 who he is, and what is his errand." 
 
 The servant went; and returning said, "He comes from on 
 board a ship ; his captain sent him, and his errand is, he beheves, 
 to leave a boy he has brought with him." 
 
 "A boy !" cried the dean : "what have I to do with a boy? 
 I expect no boy. What boy ? What age ? " 
 
 "He looks about twelve or thirteen," replied the servant. 
 
 "He is mistaken in the house," said the dean. "Let me 
 look at the letter again." 
 
 He did look at it, and saw plainly it was directed to himself. 
 Upon a second glance, he had so perfect a recollection of the hand, 
 as to open it instantaneously; and, after ordering the servant 
 to withdraw, he read the following : — 
 
 "ZocoTORA Island, April 6. 
 
 "My Dear Brother William, — It is a long time since we 
 have seen one another ; but I hope not so long, that you have 
 quite forgotten the many happy days we once passed together. 
 
NATURE AND ART 721 
 
 "I did not take my leave of you when I left England, because 
 it would have been too much for me. I had met with a great 
 many sorrows just at that time ; one of which was, the mis- 
 fortune of losing the use of my right hand by a fall from my horse, 
 which accident robbed me of most of my friends ; for I could no 
 longer entertain them with my performance as I used to do, and 
 so I was ashamed to see them or you ; and that was the reason I 
 came hither to try my fortune with some other adventurers. 
 
 "You have, I suppose, heard that the savages of the island 
 put our whole party to death. But it was my chance to escape 
 their cruelty. I was heart-broken for my comrades ; yet upon 
 the whole, I do not know that the savages were much to blame — ■ 
 we had no business to invade their territories ! and if they had 
 invaded England, we should have done the same by them. My 
 life was spared, because, having gained some little strength in 
 my hand during the voyage, I pleased their king when I arrived 
 there with playing on my violin. 
 
 ''They spared my child too, in pity to my lamentations, when 
 they were going to put him to death. Now, dear brother, before 
 I say any more to you concerning my child, I will first ask your 
 pardon for any offence I may have ever given you in all the time 
 we lived so long together. I know you have often found fault 
 with me, and I dare say I have been very often to blame ; but 
 I here solemnly declare that I never did anything purposely to 
 offend you, but mostly, all I could to oblige you — and I can 
 safely declare that I never bore you above a quarter of an hour's 
 resentment for anything you might say to me which I thought 
 harsh. 
 
 "Now, dear William, after being in this island eleven years, 
 the weakness in my hand has unfortunately returned ; and yet 
 there being no appearance of complaint, the uninformed islanders 
 think it is all my obstinacy, and that I will not entertain them 
 with my music, which makes me say that I cannot; and they have 
 imprisoned me, and threaten to put my son to death if I persist in 
 my stubbornness any longer. 
 
 "The anguish I feel in my mind takes away all hope of the 
 recovery of strength in my hand ; and I have no doubt but that 
 they intend in a few days to put their horrid threat into execution. 
 
722 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 "Therefore, dear brother WilHam, hearing in my prison of a 
 most uncommon circumstance, which is, that an Enghsh vessel 
 is lying at a small distance from the island, I have entrusted a 
 faithful negro to take my child to the ship, and deliver him to 
 the captain, with a request that he may be sent (with this letter) 
 to you on the ship's arrival in England. 
 
 "Now my dear, dear brother WilHam, in case the poor boy 
 should live to come to you, I have no doubt but you will receive 
 him ; yet excuse a poor, fond father, if I say a word or two which 
 I hope may prove in his favour. 
 
 "Pray, my dear brother, do not think it the child's fault, but 
 mine, that you will find him so ignorant — he has always shown 
 a quickness and a willingness to learn, and would, I dare say, 
 if he had been brought up under your care, have been by this 
 time a good scholar, but you know I am no scholar myself. 
 Besides, not having any books here, I have only been able to 
 teach my child by talking to him, and in all my conversations 
 with him I have never taken much pains to instruct him in 
 the manners of my own country ; thinking, that if ever he went 
 over, he would learn them soon enough ; and if he never did go 
 over, that it would be as well he knew nothing about them. 
 
 "I have kept him also from the knowledge of everything which 
 I have thought pernicious in the conduct of the savages, except 
 that I have now and then pointed out a few of their faults, in 
 order to give him a true conception and a proper horror of them. 
 At the same time I have taught him to love, and to do good to 
 his neighbour, whoever that neighbour may be, and whatever 
 may be his failings. Falsehood of every kind I included in 
 this precept as forbidden, for no one can love his neighbour and 
 deceive him. 
 
 "I have instructed him too, to hold in contempt all frivolous 
 vanity, and all those indulgences which he was never likely to 
 obtain. He has learnt all that I have undertaken to teach him ; 
 but I am afraid you will yet think he has learned too little. 
 
 "Your wife, I fear, will be offended at his want of politeness, 
 and perhaps proper respect for a person of her rank : but indeed 
 he is very tractable, and can, without severity, be amended of 
 all his faults ; and though you will find he has many, yet, pray, 
 
NATURE AND ART 723 
 
 my dear brother William, call to mind he has been a dutiful 
 and an affectionate child to me ; and that had it pleased Heaven 
 we had lived together for many years to come, I verily believe 
 I should never have experienced one mark of his disobedience. 
 
 "Farewell for ever, my dear, dear brother William — and if 
 my poor, kind, affectionate child should live to bring you this 
 letter, sometimes speak to him of me ; and let him know, 
 that for twelve years he was my sole comfort ; and that, when I 
 sent him from me, in order to save his life, I laid down my head 
 upon the floor of the cell in which I was confined, and prayed 
 that Heaven might end my days before the morning." 
 
 This was the conclusion of the letter, except four or five lines 
 which (with his name) were so much blotted, apparently with 
 tears, that they were illegible. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 While the dean was reading to himself this letter, his counte- 
 nance frequently changed, and once or twice the tears streamed 
 from his eyes. When it was finished, he exclaimed, 
 
 "My brother has sent his child to me, and I will be a parent 
 to him." He was rushing towards the door, when Lady Clemen- 
 tina stopped him. 
 
 "Is it proper, do you think, Mr. Dean, that all the servants 
 in the house should be witnesses to your meeting with your 
 brother and your nephew in the state in which they must be at 
 present? Send for them into a private apartment." 
 
 "My brother ! " cried the dean ; " oh ! that it were my brother ! 
 The man is merely a person from the ship, who has conducted his 
 child hither." 
 
 The bell was rung, money was sent to the man, and orders 
 given that the boy should be shown up immediately. 
 
 ******* 
 
 The door opened — and the son of his brother Henry, of his 
 benefactor, entered. 
 
 The habit he had on when he left his father, having been of 
 
724 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 slight texture, was worn out by the length of the voyage, and 
 he was in the dress of a sailor-boy. Though about the same 
 age with his cousin, he was something taller : and though a strong 
 family resemblance appeared between the two youths, he was 
 handsomer than William ; and from a simplicity spread over 
 his countenance, a quick impatience in his eye — which denoted 
 anxious curiosity, and childish surprise at every new object which 
 presented itself — he appeared younger than his well-informed 
 and well-bred cousin. 
 
 He walked into the room, not with a dictated obeisance, but 
 with a hurrying step, a half pleased, yet a half frightened look, 
 an instantaneous survey of every person present ; not as de- 
 manding "what they thought of him," but expressing ahnost as 
 plainly as in direct words, "what he thought of them." For 
 all alarm in respect to his safety and reception seemed now 
 wholly forgotten, in the curiosity which the sudden sight of 
 strangers such as he had never seen in his life before, excited : 
 and as to himself, he did not appear to know there was such a 
 person existing : his whole faculties were absorbed in others. 
 
 The dean's reception of him did honour to his sensibility and 
 his gratitude to his brother. After the first afifectionate gaze, he 
 ran to him, took him in his arms, sat down, drew him to him, 
 held him between his knees, and repeatedly exclaimed, "I will 
 repay to you all I owe to your father." 
 
 The boy, in return, hugged the dean round the neck, kissed 
 him, and exclaimed, 
 
 "Oh ! you are my father — you have just such eyes, and such 
 a forehead — indeed you would be almost the same as he, if it 
 were not for that great white thing which grows upon your 
 head!" 
 
 Let the reader understand, that the dean, fondly attached 
 to every ornament of his dignified function, was never 
 seen (unless caught in bed) without an enormous wig. With this 
 young Henry was enormously struck ; having never seen so 
 unbecoming a decoration, either in the savage island from 
 whence he came, or on board the vessel in which he sailed. 
 
 "Do you imagine," cried his uncle, laying his hand gently on 
 the reverend habiliment, "that this grows?" 
 
NATURE AND ART 725 
 
 ''What is on my head grows," said young Henry, "and so does 
 that which is upon my father's." 
 
 "But now you are come to Europe, Henry, you will see many 
 persons with such things as these, which they put on and take 
 off." 
 
 "Why do you wear such things ?" 
 
 "As a distinction between us and inferior people: they are 
 worn to give an importance to the wearer." 
 
 "That's just as the savages do; they hang brass nails, wire, 
 buttons, and entrails of beasts all over them, to give them im- 
 portance." 
 
 The dean now led his nephew to Lady Clementina, and told 
 him, "She was his aunt, to whom he must behave with the ut- 
 most respect." 
 
 "I will, I will," he replied, "for she, I see, is a person of im- 
 portance too ; she has, very nearly, such a white thing upon her 
 head as you have !" 
 
 His aunt had not yet fixed in what manner it would be advis- 
 able to behave; whether with intimidating grandeur, or with 
 amiable tenderness. While she was hesitating between both, 
 she felt a kind of jealous apprehension that her son was not so 
 engaging either in his person or address as his cousin ; and there- 
 fore she said, 
 
 "I hope. Dean, the arrival of this child will give you a still 
 higher sense of the happiness we enjoy in our own. What an 
 instructive contrast between the manners of the one and of the 
 other!" 
 
 "It is not the child's fault," returned the dean, "that he is 
 not so elegant in his manners as his cousin. Had William been 
 bred in the same place, he would have been as unpolished as this 
 boy." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir," said young William with a formal 
 bow and a sarcastic smile, "I assure you, several of my tutors 
 have told me, that I appear to know many things as it were by 
 instinct." 
 
 Young Henry fixed his eyes upon his cousin, while, with 
 steady self-complacency, he delivered this speech, and no sooner 
 was it concluded than Henry cried out in a kind of wonder, 
 
726 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 "A little man ! as I am alive, a little man ! I did not know 
 there were such little men in this country ! I never saw one in 
 my life before !" 
 
 "This is a boy," said the dean ; ''a boy not older than your- 
 self." 
 
 He put their hands together, and William gravely shook hands 
 with his cousin. 
 
 "It is a man," continued young Henry; then stroked his 
 cousin's chin. "No, no, I do not know whether it is or not." 
 
 "I tell you again," said the dean, "he is a boy of your own 
 age ; you and he are cousins, for I am his father." 
 
 "How can that be ? " said young Henry. "He called you Sir.'^ 
 
 "In this country," said the dean, "polite children do not call 
 their parents father and mother.'" 
 
 "Then don't they sometimes forget to love them as such?" 
 asked Henry. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 It was to be lamented that when young Henry had been several 
 months in England, had been taught to read, and had, of course, 
 in the society in which he lived, seen much of the enlightened 
 world, yet the natural expectation of his improvement was by 
 no means answered. 
 
 Notwithstanding the sensibility, which upon various occasions 
 he manifested in the most captivating degree, notwithstanding 
 the seeming gentleness of his nature upon all occasions, there 
 now appeared, in most of his inquiries and remarks, a something 
 which demonstrated either a stupid or troublesome disposition ; 
 either dulness of conception, or an obstinacy of perseverance in 
 comments and in arguments which were glaringly false. 
 
 Observing his uncle one day offended with his coachman, and 
 hearing him say to him in a very angry tone, "You shall never 
 drive me again" — 
 
 The moment the man quitted the room, Henry (with his eyes 
 fixed in the deepest contemplation) repeated five or six times, in a 
 half whisper to himself. 
 
NATURE AND ART 727 
 
 " You shall never drive me again.'' 
 
 *' You shall never drive me again." 
 
 The dean at last called to him, "What do you mean by thus 
 repeating my words ? " 
 
 *'I am trying to find out what you meant," said Henry. 
 
 "What! don't you know?" cried his enlightened cousin. 
 "Richard is turned away ; he is never to get upon our coach-box 
 again, never to drive any of us more." 
 
 "And was it pleasure to drive us, cousin? I am sure I have 
 often pitied him. It rained sometimes very hard when he was 
 on the box; and sometimes Lady Clementina has kept him 
 a whole hour at the door all in the cold and snow. Was that 
 pleasure?" 
 
 "No," replied young William. 
 
 "Was it honour, cousin?" 
 
 "No," exclaimed his cousin with a contemptuous smile. 
 
 "Then why did my uncle say to him, as a punishment, 'he 
 should never' " — — 
 
 " Come hither, child," said the dean, "and let me instruct you ; 
 your father's negligence has been inexcusable. There are in 
 society," continued the dean, "rich and poor; the poor are 
 born to serve the rich." 
 
 "And what are the rich born for?" 
 
 "To be served by the poor." 
 
 "But suppose the poor would not serve them?" 
 
 "Then they must starve." 
 
 "And so poor people are permitted to live only upon condition 
 that they wait upon the rich ? " 
 
 "Is that ^hard condition ? or if it were, they will be rewarded 
 in a better world than this." 
 
 "Is there a better world than this?" 
 
 "Is it possible you do not know there is ? " 
 
 "I heard my father once say something about a world to come ; 
 but he stopped short, and said I was too young to understand 
 what he meant." 
 
 "The world to come," returned the dean, "is where we shall go 
 after death ; and there no distinction will be made between 
 rich and poor — all persons there will be equal." 
 
728 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 "Aye, now I see what makes it a better world than this. 
 But cannot this world try to be as good as that ? " 
 
 "In respect to placing all persons on a level, it is utterly im- 
 possible. God has ordained it otherwise." 
 
 "How ! has God ordained a distinction to be made, and will 
 not make any Himself?" 
 
 The dean did not proceed in his instructions. He now began 
 to think his brother in the right, and that the boy was too young, 
 or too weak, to comprehend the subject. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 In addition to his ignorant conversation upon many topics, 
 young Henry had an incorrigible misconception and misapplica- 
 tion of many words. His father having had but few oppor- 
 tunities of discoursing with him, upon account of his attendance 
 at the court of the savages, and not having books in the island, 
 he had consequently many words to learn of this country's 
 language when he arrived in England. This task his retentive 
 memory made easy to him ; but his childish inattention to 
 their proper signification still made his want of education 
 conspicuous. 
 
 He would call compliments, lies; reserve, he would call pride; 
 stateliness, affectation; and for the words war and battle, he con- 
 stantly substituted the word massacre. 
 
 "Sir," said Wilham to his father one morning, as he entered 
 the room, "do you hear how the cannons are firing, and the 
 bells ringing?" 
 
 "Then I dare say," cried Henry, "there has been another 
 massacre." 
 
 The dean called to him in anger, "Will you never learn the 
 right use of words ? You mean to say a battle." 
 
 "Then what is a massacre?" cried the frightened, but still 
 curious Henry. 
 
 "A massacre," replied his uncle, "is when a number of people 
 are slain " 
 
 "I thought," returned Henry, "soldiers had been people !" 
 
 "You interrupted me," said the dean, "before I finished my 
 
NATURE AND ART 729 
 
 sentence. Certainly, both soldiers and sailors are people, but 
 they engage to die by their own free will and consent." 
 
 ''What! all of them?" 
 
 ''Most of them." 
 
 "But the rest are massacred ?" 
 
 The dean answered, "The number who go to battle unwillingly, 
 and by force, are few ; and for the others, they have previously 
 sold their lives to the state." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 "For soldiers' and sailors' pay." 
 
 "My father used to tell me, we must not take away our own 
 lives ; but he forgot to tell me we might sell them for others to 
 take away." 
 
 "William," said the dean to his son, his patience tired with his 
 nephew's persevering nonsense, "explain to your cousin the 
 difference between a battle and a massacre." 
 
 "A massacre," said William, rising from his seat, and fixing 
 his eyes alternately upon his father, his mother, and the bishop 
 (all of whom were present) for their approbation, rather than 
 the person's to whom his instructions were to be addressed — "a 
 massacre," said William, "is when human beings are slain, who 
 have it not in their power to defend themselves." 
 
 "Dear cousin William," said Henry, "that must ever be the 
 case with every one who is killed." 
 
 After a short hesitation, William replied: "In massacres 
 people are put to death for no crime, but merely because they are 
 objects of suspicion." 
 
 "But in battle," said Henry, "the persons put to death are not 
 even suspected." 
 
 The bishop now condescended to end this disputation by sa3dng 
 emphatically, 
 
 " Consider, young savage, that in battle neither the infant, the 
 aged, the sick, nor infirm are involved, but only those in the full 
 prime of health and vigour." 
 
 As this argument came from so great and reverend a man as 
 the bishop, Henry was obliged, by a frown from his uncle, to 
 submit, as one refuted ; although he had an answer at the veriest 
 tip of his tongue, which it was torture to him not to utter. 
 
730 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 What he wished to say must ever remain a secret. The church 
 has its terrors as well as the law ; and Henry was awed by the 
 dean's tremendous wig as much as Paternoster Row is awed by 
 the Attorney- General. 
 
 [Young Henry and young William grow up developing the same traits of 
 character which they showed as children: the one retaining his natural sim- 
 plicity, the other never guilty of a social blunder. William, after some worldly 
 experience, makes a marriage compatible with his position in society; 
 Henry marries a curate's daughter whose tastes are congenial with his own.] 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 Is there a reader so little experienced in the human heart, so 
 forgetful of his own, as not to feel the possibiUty of the following 
 fact? 
 
 A series of uncommon calamities had been for many years the 
 lot of the elder Henry; a succession of prosperous events had 
 fallen to the share of his brother William. The one was the 
 envy, while the other had the compassion, of all who thought 
 about them. For the last twenty years, William had lived in 
 affluence, bordering upon splendour, his friends, his fame, his 
 fortune, daily increasing, while Henry throughout that very 
 period had, by degrees, lost all he loved on earth, and was now 
 existing apart from civilised society ; and yet, during those 
 twenty years, where William knew one happy moment, Henry 
 tasted hundreds. 
 
 It was, after an exile of more than twenty-three years, when, 
 on one sultry morning, after pleasant dreams during the night, 
 Henry had waked with more than usual perception of his misery, 
 that, sitting upon the beach, his wishes and his looks all bent 
 on the sea towards his native land, he thought he saw a sail 
 swelling before an unexpected breeze. 
 
 "Sure I am dreaming still ! " he cried. "This is the very vessel 
 I last night saw in my sleep ! Oh ! what cruel mockery that my 
 eyes should so deceive me !" 
 
 After a few minutes passed in dreadful uncertainty, which 
 enhanced the wished-for happiness, the ship evidently drew near 
 the land ; a boat was launched from her, and while Henry, now 
 
NATURE AND ART 731 
 
 upon his knees, wept and prayed fervently for the event, a youth 
 sprang from the barge on the strand, rushed towards him, and 
 falling on his neck, then at his feet, exclaimed, "My father! 
 oh, my father !" 
 
 William ! dean ! bishop ! what are your honours, what your 
 riches, what all your possessions, compared to the happiness, 
 the transport bestowed by this one sentence, on your poor 
 brother Henry ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV 
 
 It was about five in the afternoon of a summer's day, that 
 Henry and his son left the sign of the Mermaid to pursue their 
 third day's journey : the young man's spirits elated with the 
 prospect of the reception he should meet from Rebecca ^ : the 
 elder dejected at not having received a speedy welcome from 
 his brother. 
 
 The road which led to Anfield by the shortest course of neces- " 
 sity took our travellers within sight of the bishop's palace. 
 The turrets appeared at a distance ; and on the sudden turn round 
 the corner of a large plantation, the whole magnificent structure 
 was at once exhibited before his brother's astonished eyes. 
 He was struck with the grandeur of the habitation ; and, totally 
 forgetting all the unkind, the contemptuous treatment he had 
 ever received from its owner, smiled with a kind of transport 
 "that William was so great a man." 
 
 After this first joyous sensation was over, "Let us go a little 
 nearer, my son," said he ; "no one will see us, I hope ; or, if they 
 should, you can run and conceal yourself ; and not a creature 
 will know me; even my brother would not know me thus altered ; 
 and I wish to take a little farther view of his fine house, and all 
 his pleasure grounds." 
 
 Young Henry, though impatient to be gone, would not object 
 to his father's desire. They walked forward between a shady 
 grove and a purling rivulet, snuffed in odours from the jessa- 
 mine banks, and listened to the melody of an adjoining aviary. 
 
 1 Henry's betrothed. 
 
732 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 The allurements of the spot seemed to enchain the elder 
 Henry, and he at length sauntered to the very avenue of the 
 dwelling ; but, just as he had set his daring yet trembling feet 
 upon the turf which led to the palace gates, he suddenly stopped, 
 on hearing, as he thought, the village clock strike seven, which 
 reminded him that evening drew on, and it was time to go. He 
 listened again, when he and his son, both together, said, "It 
 is the toll of the bell before some funeral." 
 
 The signals of death, while they humble the rich, inspire the 
 poor with pride. The passing bell gave Henry a momentary 
 sense of equahty ; and he courageously stepped forward to the 
 first winding of the avenue. 
 
 He started back at the sight which presented itself. 
 
 A hearse — mourning coaches — mutes — plumed horses — 
 with every other token of the person's importance who was 
 going to be committed to the earth. 
 
 Scarcely had his terrified eyes been thus unexpectedly struck, 
 when a coffin borne by six men issued from the gates, and was 
 deposited in the waiting receptacle ; while gentlemen in mourning 
 went into the different coaches. 
 
 A standard-bearer now appeared with an escutcheon, on which 
 the keys and mitre were displayed. Young Henry, upon this, 
 pathetically exclaimed, "My uncle ! it is my uncle's funeral !" 
 
 Henry, his father, burst into tears. 
 
 The procession moved along. 
 
 The two Henrys, the only real mourners in the train, followed 
 at a little distance — in rags, but in tears. 
 
 The elder Henry's heart was nearly bursting ; he longed to 
 clasp the dear remains of his brother without the dread of being 
 spurned for his presumption. He now could no longer remember 
 him either as the dean or bishop ; but, leaping over that whole 
 interval of pride and arrogance, called only to his memory 
 William, such as he knew him when they Hved at home to- 
 gether, together walked to London, and there together almost 
 perished for want. 
 
 They arrived at the church ; and, while the coffin was placing 
 in the dreary vault, the weeping brother crept slowly after to 
 the hideous spot. His reflections now fixed on a different point. 
 
NATURE AND ART 733 
 
 "Is this possible ?" said he to himself. "Is this the dean, whom 
 I ever feared ? Is this the bishop, of whom within the present 
 hour I stood in awe ? Is this WilUam, whose every glance struck 
 me with his superiority ? Alas, my brother ! and is this horrid 
 abode the reward for all your aspiring efforts ? Are these 
 sepulchral trappings the only testimonies of your greatness which 
 you exhibit to me on my return ? Did you foresee an end Uke 
 this, while you treated me, and many more of your youthful 
 companions, with haughtiness and contempt ; while you thought 
 it becoming of your dignity to shun and despise us ? Where is 
 the difference now between my departed wife and you ? Or, if 
 there be a difference, she, perchance, has the advantage. Ah, my 
 poor brother ! for distinction in the other world, I trust, some of 
 your anxious labours have been employed ; for you are now of less 
 importance in this than when you and I first left our native town, 
 and hoped for nothing greater than to be suffered to exist." 
 
 On their quitting the church, they inquired of the bystanders 
 the immediate cause of the bishop's death, and heard he had 
 been suddenly carried off by a raging fever. 
 
 Young Henry inquired "if Lady Clementina was at the palace, 
 or Mr. Norwynne?" 
 
 "The latter is there," he was answered by a poor woman; 
 "but Lady Clementina has been dead these four years." 
 
 "Dead ! dead !" cried young Henry. "That worldly woman ! 
 quitted this world for ever !" 
 
 "Yes," answered the stranger; "she caught cold by wearing 
 a new-fashioned dress that did not half cover her, wasted all 
 away, and died the miserablest object you ever heard of." 
 
 The person who gave this melancholy intelligence concluded 
 it with a hearty laugh. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 By forming a humble scheme for their remaining life, a scheme 
 depending upon their own exertions alone, on no light promises 
 of pretended friends, and on no sanguine hopes of certain success, 
 but with prudent apprehension, with fortitude against disap- 
 
734 
 
 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 pointment, Henry, his son, and Rebecca (now his daughter), 
 found themselves, at the end of one year, in the enjoyment of 
 every comfort which such distinguished minds knew how to taste. 
 
 Exempt both from patronage and from control — healthy — 
 alive to every fruition with which Nature blesses the world; 
 dead to all out of their power to attain, the works of art — sus- 
 ceptible of those passions which endear human creatures one to 
 another, insensible to those which separate man from man — • 
 they found themselves the thankful inhabitants of a small house, 
 or hut, placed on the borders of the sea. 
 
 Each morning wakes the father and the son to cheerful labour 
 in fishing, or the tending of a garden, the produce of which they 
 carry to the next market town. The evening sends them back 
 to their home in joy : where Rebecca meets them at the door, 
 affectionately boasts of the warm meal that is ready, and 
 heightens the charm of conversation with her taste and judgment. 
 
 It was after a supper of roots from their garden, poultry that 
 Rebecca's hand had reared, and a jug brewed by young Henry, 
 that the following discourse took place. 
 
 "My son," said the elder Henry, "where under Heaven shall 
 three persons be met together happy as we three are? It is 
 the want of industry, or the want of reflection, which makes the 
 poor dissatisfied. Labour gives a value to rest which the idle 
 can never taste ; and reflection gives to the mind a degree of con- 
 tent which the unthinking never can know." 
 
 "I once," replied the younger Henry, "considered poverty a 
 curse; but after my thoughts became enlarged, and I had 
 associated for years with the rich, and now mix with the poor, 
 my opinion has undergone a total change ; for I have seen, and 
 have enjoyed, more real pleasure at work with my fellow-labour- 
 ers, and in this cottage, than ever I beheld, or experienced, during 
 my abode at my uncle's ; during all my intercourse with the 
 fashionable and the powerful of this world." 
 
 "The worst is," said Rebecca, "the poor have not always 
 enough." 
 
 "Who has enough?" asked her husband. "Had my uncle? 
 No : he hoped for more ; and in all his writings sacrificed his 
 duty to his avarice. Had his son enough, when he yielded 
 
NATURE AND ART 735 
 
 up his honour, his domestic peace, to gratify his ambition? 
 Had Lady Bendham enough, when she staked all she had, in the 
 hope of becoming richer ? Were we, my Rebecca, of discontented 
 minds, we have now too little. But conscious, from observa- 
 tion and experience, that the rich are not so happy as ourselves, 
 we rejoice in our lot." 
 
 The tear of joy which stole from her eye expressed, more than 
 his words, a state of happiness. 
 
 He continued : "I remember, when I first came a boy to Eng- 
 land, the poor excited my compassion ; but now that my judg- 
 ment is matured, I pity the rich. I know that in this opulent 
 kingdom there are nearly as many persons perishing through 
 intemperance as starving with hunger ; there are as many miser- 
 able in the lassitude of having nothing to do as there are of those 
 bowed down to the earth with hard labour ; there are more per- 
 sons who draw upon themselves calamity by following their 
 own will than there are who experience it by obeying the will of 
 another. Add to this, that the rich are so much afraid of dying 
 they have no comfort in living." i 
 
 "There the poor have another advantage," said Rebecca; 
 "for they may defy not only death, but every loss by sea or 
 land, as they have nothing to lose." 
 
 "Besides," added the elder Henry, "there is a certain joy of 
 the most gratifying kind that the human mind is capable of 
 tasting, peculiar to the poor, and of which the rich can but 
 seldom experience the delight." 
 
 "What can that be?" cried Rebecca. 
 
 "A kind word, a benevolent smile, one token of esteem from 
 the person whom we consider as our superior." 
 
 To which Rebecca replied, "And the rarity of obtaining such 
 a token is what increases the honour." 
 
 " Certainly," returned young Henry, " and yet those in poverty, 
 ungrateful as they are, murmur against that Government from 
 which they receive the blessing." 
 
 "But this is the fault of education, of early prejudice," said 
 the elder Henry. "Our children observe us pay respect, even 
 reverence, to the wealthy, while we slight or despise the 
 poor. The impression thus made on their minds in youth is 
 
736 MRS. ELIZABETH INCHBALD 
 
 indelible during the more advanced periods of life; and they 
 continue to pine after riches, and lament under poverty : nor 
 is the seeming folly wholly destitute of reason ; for human beings 
 are not yet so deeply sunk in voluptuous gratification, or childish 
 vanity, as to place delight in any attainment which has not for 
 its end the love or admiration of their fellow-beings." 
 
 "Let the poor, then," cried the younger Henry, "no more 
 be their own persecutors — no longer pay homage to wealth — 
 instantaneously the whole idolatrous worship will cease — the 
 idol will be broken !" 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 
 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 My life has for several years been a theatre of calamity. I 
 have been a mark for the vigilance of tyranny, and I could 
 not escape. My fairest prospects have been blasted. My 
 enemy has shown himself inaccessible to entreaties and untired 
 in persecution. My fame, as well as my happiness, has become 
 his victim. Every one, as far as my story has been known, has 
 refused to assist me in my distress, and execrated my name. 
 I have not deserved this treatment : my own conscience wit- 
 nesses in behalf of that innocence ; my pretensions to which 
 are regarded in the world as incredible. There is now, however, 
 little hope that I shall escape from the toils that universally 
 beset me. I am incited to the penning of these memoirs, only 
 by a desire to divert my mind from the deplorableness of my 
 situation, and a faint idea that posterity may by their means be 
 induced to render me a justice which my contemporaries refuse. 
 My story will at least appear to have that consistency, which is 
 seldom attendant but upon truth. 
 
 I was born of humble parents in a remote county of England ; 
 their occupations were such as usually fall to the lot of peasants, 
 and they had no portion to give me, but an education free from 
 the usual sources of depravity, and the inheritance, long since 
 lost by their unfortunate progeny ! of an honest fame. I was 
 taught the rudiments of no science, except reading, writing, and 
 arithmetic. But I had an inquisitive mind, and neglected no 
 means of information from conversation or books. My improve- 
 ment was greater than my condition in life afforded room to 
 expect. 
 
 There are other circumstances deserving to be mentioned as 
 having influenced the history of my future life. I was somewhat 
 above the middle stature. Without being particularly athletic 
 
 7i7 
 
738 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 in appearance or large in my dimensions, I was uncommonly 
 vigorous and active. My joints were supple, and I was formed 
 to excel in youthful sports. The habits of my mind, however, 
 were to a certain degree at war with the dictates of boyish vanity. 
 I had considerable aversion to the boisterous gaiety of the vil- 
 lage gallants, and contrived to satisfy my love of praise with an 
 unfrequent apparition at their amusements. My excellence 
 in these respects, however, gave a turn to my meditations. I de- 
 Hghted to read of feats of activity, and was particularly inter- 
 ested by tales in which corporeal ingenuity or strength are the 
 means resorted to for supplying resources and conquering diffi- 
 culties. I inured myself to mechanical pursuits, and devoted 
 much of my time to an endeavour after mechanical invention. 
 
 The residence of my parents was within the manor of Ferdi- 
 nando Falkland, a country squire of considerable opulence. 
 At an early age I attracted the favourable notice of Mr. Collins, 
 this gentleman's steward, who used to call in occasionally at 
 my father's. He observed the particulars of my progress with 
 approbation, and made a favourable report to his master of my 
 industry and genius. 
 
 In the summer of the year , Mr. Falkland visited his 
 
 estate in our country after an absence of several months. This 
 was a period of misfortune to me. I was then eighteen years of 
 age. My father lay dead in our cottage. I had lost my mother 
 some years before. In this forlorn situation I was surprised with 
 a message from the squire, ordering me to repair to the mansion- 
 house the morning after my father's funefal. 
 
 Though I was not a stranger to books, I had no practical 
 acquaintance with men. I had never had occasion to address 
 a person of this elevated rank, and I felt no small uneasiness 
 and awe on the present occasion. I found Mr. Falkland a man 
 of small stature, with an extreme delicacy of form and appear- 
 ance. In place of the hard-favoured and inflexible visages I had 
 been accustomed to observe, every muscle and petty line of his 
 countenance seemed to be in an inconceivable degree pregnant 
 with meaning. His manner was kind, attentive, and humane. 
 His eye was full of animation, but there was a grave and sad 
 solemnity in his air, which for want of experience I imagined 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 739 
 
 was the inheritance of the great, and the instrument by which 
 the distance between them and their inferiors was maintained. 
 His look bespoke the unquietness of his mind, and frequently 
 wandered with an expression of disconsolateness and anxiety. 
 My reception was as gracious and encouraging as I could possibly 
 desire. Mr. Falkland questioned me respecting my learning, 
 and my conceptions of men and things, and listened to my an- 
 swers with condescension and approbation. This kindness 
 soon restored to me a considerable part of my self-possession, 
 though I still felt restrained by the graceful, but unaltered dig- 
 nity of his carriage. I have already said that I was not un- 
 acquainted with books. I had not failed to derive advantage 
 from the opportunities which offered themselves, and some of 
 those opportunities were of very fortunate occurrence. But it 
 is not my purpose to draw out this narrative by unnecessary 
 detail; I leave the reader to collect what my acquisitions had 
 been, from the incidents which followed. When Mr. Falkland 
 had sufficiently satisfied his curiosity, he proceeded to inform 
 me that he was in want of a secretary, that I appeared to him 
 sufficiently qualified for that office, and that if, in my present 
 change of situation, occasioned by the death of my father, I 
 approved of the employment, he would take me into his family. 
 
 I felt highly flattered by the proposal, and was warm in the 
 expression of my acknowledgments. I set eagerly about the 
 disposal of the little property my father had left, in which I was 
 assisted by Mr. Collins. I had not now a relation in the world, 
 upon whose kindness and interposition I had any direct claim. 
 But, far from regarding this deserted situation with terror, I 
 formed golden visions of the station I was about to occupy. I 
 little suspected, that the gaiety and lightness of heart I had 
 hitherto enjoyed were upon the point of leaving me for ever, and 
 that the rest of my days were devoted to misery and alarm. 
 
 My employment was easy and agreeable. It consisted partly 
 of the transcribing and arranging certain papers, and partly in 
 writing from my master's dictation letters of business, as well 
 as sketches of literary composition. Many of these latter 
 consisted of an analytical survey of the plans of different authors, 
 and conjectural speculations upon hints they afforded, tending 
 
740 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 either to the detection of their errors or the carrying forward 
 their discoveries. All of them bore powerful marks of a pro- 
 found and elegant mind, well stored with literature, and possessed 
 of an uncommon share of activity and discrimination. 
 
 My station was in that part of the house which was appro- 
 priated for the reception of books, it being my duty to perform 
 the functions of librarian as well as secretary. Here my hours 
 would have glided in tranquillity and peace, had not my situa- 
 tion included in it circumstances totally different from those 
 which attended me in my father's cottage. In early life my 
 mind had been much engrossed by reading and reflection. My 
 intercourse with my fellow mortals was occasional and short. 
 But in my new residence I was excited by every motive of 
 interest and novelty to study my master's character, and I found 
 in it an ample field for speculation and conjecture. 
 
 His mode of living was in the utmost degree recluse and soli- 
 tary. He had no inclination to scenes of revelry and mirth. 
 He avoided the busy haunts of men ; nor did he seem desirous 
 to compensate for this privation by the confidence of friendship. 
 He appeared a total stranger to everything which usually bears 
 the appellation of pleasure. His features were scarcely ever 
 relaxed into a smile, nor did that air which bespoke the unhappi- 
 ness of his mind at any time forsake them. Yet his manners 
 were by no means such as denoted moroseness and misanthropy. 
 He was compassionate and considerate for others, though the 
 stateliness of his carriage and the reserve of his temper were at 
 no time interrupted. His appearance and general behaviour 
 might have strongly interested all persons in his favour ; but the 
 coldness of his address, and the impenetrableness of his senti- 
 ments, seemed to forbid those demonstrations of kindness to 
 which one might otherwise have been prompted. 
 
 Such was the general appearance of Mr. Falkland ; but his 
 temper was extremely unequal. The distemper which afflicted 
 him with incessant gloom had its paroxysms. Sometimes he 
 was hasty, peevish and tyrannical; but this proceeded rather 
 from the torment of his mind than an unfeeling disposition, and, 
 when reflection recurred, he appeared willing that the weight of 
 his misfortune should fall wholly upon himself. Sometimes he 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 741 
 
 entirely lost his self-possession, and his behaviour was changed 
 into frenzy. He would strike his forehead, his brows became 
 knit, his features distorted, and his teeth ground one against the 
 other. When he felt the approach of these symptoms, he would 
 suddenly rise, and, leaving the occupation, whatever it was, in 
 which he was engaged, hasten into a solitude upon which no 
 person dared to intrude. 
 
 It must not be supposed that the whole of what I am describ- 
 ing was visible to the persons about him : nor, indeed, was I 
 acquainted with it in the extent here stated, but after a consid- 
 erable time, and in gradual succession. With respect to the 
 domestics in general, they saw but little of their master. None 
 of them, except myself, from the nature of my functions, and 
 Mr. Collins, from the antiquity of his services and the respect- 
 ableness of his character, approached Mr. Falkland, but at 
 stated seasons and for a very short interval. They knew him 
 only by the benevolence of his actions and the principles of 
 inflexible integrity by which he was ordinarily guided ; and 
 though they would sometimes indulge their conjectures respect- 
 ing his singularities, they regarded him, upon the whole, with 
 veneration, as being of a superior order. 
 
 One day, when I had been about three months in the service 
 of my patron, I went to a closet, or small apartment, which 
 was separated from the library by a narrow gallery, that was 
 lighted by a small window near the roof. I had conceived that 
 there was no person in the room, and intended only to put any- 
 thing in order that I might find out of its place. As I opened 
 the door, I heard at the same instant a deep groan, expressive of 
 intolerable anguish. The sound of the door in opening seemed 
 to alarm the person within ; I heard the lid of a trunk hastily 
 shut, and the noise as of fastening a lock. I conceived that 
 Mr. Falkland was there, and was going instantly to retire ; but 
 at that moment, a voice that seemed supernaturally tremen- 
 dous, exclaimed, 'Who is there ? ' The voice was Mr. Falkland's 
 — the sound of it thrilled my very vitals. I endeavoured to 
 answer, but my speech failed, and being incapable of any other 
 reply, I instinctively advanced within the door into the room. 
 Mr. Falkland was just risen from the floor upon which he had 
 
742 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 been sitting or kneeling. His face betrayed strong symptoms of 
 confusion. With a violent effort, however, these symptoms van- 
 ished, and instantaneously gave place to a countenance spark- 
 ling with rage. ' Villain ! ' cried he, ' what has brought you here ? ' 
 I hesitated a confused and irresolute answer. 'Wretch!' 
 interrupted Mr. Falkland, with uncontrollable impatience, 
 'you want to ruin me. You set yourself as a spy upon my 
 actions ; but bitterly shall you repent your insolence. Do 
 you think you shall watch my privacies with impunity ? Be- 
 gone, devil!' rejoined he. 'Quit the room, or I will trample 
 you into atoms.' Saying this he advanced towards me; but I 
 was already sufficiently terrified, and vanished in a moment. 
 I heard the door shut after me with violence, and thus ended 
 this extraordinary scene. 
 
 I saw him again in the evening, and he was then tolerably 
 composed. His behaviour, which was always kind, was now 
 doubly attentive and soothing, he seemed to have something 
 of which he wished to disburthen his mind, but to want words 
 in which to convey it. I looked at him with anxiety and affec- 
 tion. He made two unsuccessful efforts, shook his head, and then 
 putting five guineas into my hand, pressed it in a manner that 
 I could feel proceeded from a mind pregnant with various emo- 
 tions, though I could not interpTet them. Having done this, 
 he seemed immediately to recollect himself, and to take refuge 
 in the usual distance and solemnity of his manner. 
 
 I easily understood that secrecy was one of the things expected 
 from me, and indeed my mind was too much disposed to medi- 
 tate on what I had heard and seen, to make it a topic of indis- 
 criminate communication. Mr. Collins, however, and myself 
 happened to sup together that evening, which was but seldom 
 the case, his avocations obliging him to be much abroad. He 
 could not help observing an uncommon dejection and anxiety 
 in my countenance, and affectionately inquired into the reason. 
 I endeavoured to evade his questions, but my youth and igno- 
 rance of the world gave me little advantage for that purpose. 
 Beside this, I had been accustomed to view Mr. Collins with 
 considerable attachment, and I conceived, from the nature of 
 his situation, that there could be small impropriety in making 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 743 
 
 him my confidant in the present instance. I repeated to him 
 minutely everything that had passed, and concluded with a 
 solemn declaration that, though treated with caprice, I was not 
 anxious for myself : no inconvenience or danger should ever 
 lead me to a pusillanimous behaviour; and I felt only for my 
 patron, who, with every advantage for happiness, and being 
 in the highest degree worthy of it, seemed destined to undergo 
 unmerited distress. 
 
 In answer to my communication, Mr. Collins informed me 
 that some incidents, of a nature similar to that which I related, 
 had fallen under his own knowledge, and that, from the whole, 
 he could not help concluding that our unfortunate patron was 
 at times disordered in his intellects. 'Alas,' continued he, 'it 
 was not always thus ! Ferdinando Falkland was once the gayest 
 of the gay. Not, indeed, of that frothy sort, who excite con- 
 tempt instead of admiration, and whose levity argues thought- 
 lessness, rather than felicity. His gaiety was always accompa- 
 nied with dignity. It was the gaiety of the hero and the scholar. 
 It was chastened with reflection and sensibility, and never lost 
 sight either of good taste or humanity. Such as it was, however, 
 it denoted a genuine hilarity of heart, imparted an inconceivable 
 brilliancy to his company and conversation, and rendered him 
 the perpetual delight of the diversified circles he then willingly 
 frequented. You see nothing of him, my dear Williams, but the 
 ruin of that Falkland who was courted by sages and adored by 
 the fair. His youth, distinguished in its outset by the most 
 unusual promise, is tarnished. His sensibility is shrunk up and 
 withered by events, the most disgustful to his feelings. His 
 mind was fraught with all the rhapsodies of visionary honour ; 
 and, in his sense, nothing but the grosser parts, the mere shell 
 of Falkland, was capable of surviving the wound that his pride 
 has sustained.' 
 
 I shall endeavour to state the remainder of this narrative in 
 the words of Mr. Collins. The reader has already had occasion 
 to perceive that Mr. Collins was a man of no vulgar order ; and 
 his reflections on this subject were uncommonly judicious. 
 
744 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 'This day was the crisis of Mr. Falkland's history. From 
 hence took its beginning that gloomy and unsociable melan- 
 choly, of which he has since been the victim. No two charac- 
 ters can be in certain respects more strongly contrasted than the 
 Mr. Falkland of a date prior and subsequent to these events. 
 Hitherto he had been attended by a fortune perpetually pros- 
 perous. His mind was sanguine, full of that undoubting confi- 
 dence in its own powers which prosperity is calculated to produce. 
 Though the habits of his life were those of a serious and subUme 
 visionary, they were nevertheless full of cheerfulness and tran- 
 quillity. But from this moment his pride and the lofty adven- 
 turousness of his spirit were effectually subdued. From an 
 object of envy he was changed into an object of compassion. 
 Life, which hitherto no one had more exquisitely enjoyed, be- 
 came a burthen to him. No more self-complacency, no more 
 rapture, no more self-approving and heart-transporting benevo- 
 lence ! He who had lived beyond any man upon the grand and 
 animating reveries of the imagination, seemed now to have no 
 visions but of anguish and despair. His case was peculiarly 
 worthy of sympathy, since, no doubt, if rectitude and purity of 
 disposition could give a title to happiness, few men could exhibit 
 a more consistent and powerful claim than Mr. Falkland. 
 
 'He was too deeply pervaded with the idle and groundless 
 romances of chivalry ever to forget the situation, humiliating 
 and dishonourable according to his ideas, in which he had been 
 placed upon this occasion. There is a mysterious sort of divinity 
 annexed to the person of a true knight that makes any species 
 of brute violence committed upon it indelible and immortal. 
 To be knocked down, cuffed, kicked, dragged along the floor ! 
 sacred heaven, the memory of such a treatment was intoler- 
 able ! No future lustration could ever remove the stain : and, 
 what was perhaps still worse in the present case, the offender 
 having ceased to exist, the lustration which the laws of knight 
 errantry prescribe was rendered impossible. 
 
 'In some future period of human improvement it is probable 
 that that calamity will be in a manner unintelligible which, in 
 the present instance, contributed to tarnish and wither the 
 excellence of one of the most elevated and amiable of human 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 745 
 
 minds. If Mr. Falkland had reflected with perfect accuracy 
 upon the case, he would probably have been able to look down 
 with indifference upon a wound which, as it was, pierced his 
 very vitals. How much more dignity than in the modern 
 duellist do we find in Themistocles, the most gallant of the 
 Greeks, who, when Eurybiades, his cOmmander-in-chief, in 
 answer to some of his remonstrances, lifted his cane over him 
 with a menacing air, accosting him in that noble apostrophe, 
 "Strike, but hear?" 
 
 'How would a man of true discernment in such a case reply 
 to his brutal assailant ? "I make it my boast that I can endure 
 calamity and pain : shall I not be able to endure the trifling 
 inconvenience that your folly can inflict upon me ? Perhaps a 
 human being would be more accomplished, if he understood the 
 science of personal defence ; but how few would be the occasions 
 upon which he would be called to exert it? How few persons 
 would he encounter so unjust and injurious as you, if his own 
 conduct were directed by the principles of reason and benevo- 
 lence ? Besides, how narrow would be the use of this science 
 when acquired ? It will scarcely put the man of delicate make 
 and petty stature upon a level with the athletic pugilist ; and if 
 it did in some measure secure me against the malice of a single 
 adversary, still my person and my life, as far as mere force is 
 concerned, would always be at the mercy of two. Further than 
 immediate defence against actual violence, it could never be of 
 use to me. The man who can deliberately meet his adversary 
 for the purpose of exposing the person of one or both of them to 
 injury, tramples upon every principle of reason and equity. 
 Duelling is the vilest of all egotism, treating the public, which 
 has a claim to all my powers and exertions, as if it were nothing, 
 and myself, or rather an unintelligible chimera I annex to my- 
 self, as if it were entitled to my exclusive attention. I am un- 
 able to cope with you : what then ? Can that circumstance 
 dishonour me ? No ; I can only be dishonoured by perpetrat- 
 ing an unjust action. My honour is in my own keeping, beyond 
 the reach of all mankind. Strike ! I am passive. No injury 
 that you can inflict shall provoke me to expose you or myself to 
 unnecessary evil ; I refuse that ; but I am not, therefore, pusil- 
 
746 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 lanimous : when I refuse any danger or suffering by which the 
 general good may be promoted, then brand me for a coward !" 
 
 'These reasonings, however simple and irresistible they must 
 be found by a dispassionate inquirer, are little reflected on by 
 the world at large, and were most of all uncongenial to the 
 prejudices of Mr. Falkland. 
 
 ' But the pubHc disgrace and chastisement that had been im- 
 posed upon him, intolerable as they were to be recollected, were 
 not the whole of the mischief that redounded to our unfortunate 
 patron from the transactions of that day. It was presently 
 whispered that he was no other than the murderer of his antago- 
 nist. This rumour was of too much importance to the very 
 continuance of his life to be concealed from him. He heard it 
 with inexpressible astonishment and horror ; it formed a dreadful 
 addition to the load of intellectual anguish that already oppressed 
 him. No man had ever held his reputation more dear than Mr. 
 Falkland ; and now, in one day, he was fallen under the most 
 exquisite calamities, a complicated personal insult, and the impu- 
 tation of the foulest of crimes. He might have fled ; for no one 
 was forward to proceed against a man so adored as Mr. Falk- 
 land, or in revenge of one so universally execrated as Mr. Tyrrel. 
 But flight he disdained. In the meantime the affair was of the 
 most serious magnitude, and the rumour unchecked seemed daily 
 to increase in strength. Mr. Falkland appeared sometimes 
 inclined to adopt such steps as might have been best calculated 
 to bring the imputation to a speedy trial. But he probably 
 feared, by too direct an appeal to judicature to render more pre- 
 cise an imputation, the memory of which he deprecated ; at the 
 same time that he was sufficiently willing to meet the severest 
 scrutiny, and if he could not hope to have it forgotten that he 
 had ever been accused, to prove in the most satisfactory manner 
 that the accusation was unjust. 
 
 'The neighbouring magistrates at length conceived it neces- 
 sary to take some steps upon the subject. Without causing Mr. 
 Falkland to be apprehended, they sent to desire he would appear 
 before them at one of their meetings. The proceedings being 
 thus opened, Mr. Falkland expressed his hope that, if the busi- 
 ness was likely to stop there, their investigation might at least 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 747 
 
 be rendered as solemn as possible. The meeting was numerous ; 
 every person of a respectable class in society was admitted to be 
 an auditor ; the whole town, one of the most considerable in 
 the county, was apprised of the nature of the business. Few 
 trials, invested with all the forms of judgment, have excited 
 so general an interest. A trial under the present circumstances 
 was scarcely attainable ; and it seemed to be the wish both of 
 principal and umpires to give to this transaction all the momen- 
 tary notoriety and decisiveness of a trial. 
 
 'The magistrates investigated the particulars of the story. 
 Mr. Falkland, it appeared, had left the rooms immediately after 
 his assailant; and though he had been attended by one or two 
 of the gentlemen to the inn, it was proved that he had left them 
 upon some slight occasion as soon as he had reached it, and that, 
 when they inquired for him of the waiters, he had already 
 mounted his horse and rode home. 
 
 'By the nature of the case no particular facts could be stated 
 in balance against these. As soon as they had been sufficiently 
 detailed, Mr. Falkland, therefore, proceeded to his defence. 
 Several copies of this defence were made, and Mr. Falkland 
 seemed for a short time to have had the idea of sending it to the 
 press, though for some reason or other he afterwards suppressed 
 it. I have one of the copies in my possession, and I will read it 
 to you.' 
 
 Saying this, Mr. Collins rose and took it from a private 
 drawer in his escritoire. During this action he appeared to recol- 
 lect himself. He did not, in the strict sense of the word, hesi- 
 tate ; but he was prompted to make some apology for what he 
 was doing. 
 
 ' You seem never to have heard of this memorable transaction ; 
 and, indeed, that is little to be wondered at, since the good nature 
 of the world is interested in suppressing it, and it is deemed a 
 disgrace to a man to have defended himself from a criminal 
 imputation, though with circumstances the most satisfactory 
 and honourable. It may be supposed that this suppression is 
 particularly acceptable to Mr. Falkland ; and I should not have 
 acted in contradiction to his modes of thinking in communicat- 
 ing the story to you had there not been circumstances of peculiar 
 
748 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 urgency that seemed to render the communication desirable.' 
 Saying this, he proceeded to read from the paper in his hand : — ■ 
 
 '" Gentlemen, — I stand here accused of a crime the most 
 black that any human creature is capable of perpetrating. I 
 am innocent. I have no fear that I shall fail to make every per- 
 son in this company acknowledge my innocence. In the mean- 
 time what must be my feelings ? Conscious as I am of deserving 
 approbation and not censure, of having passed my life in acts 
 of justice and philanthropy, can anything be more deplorable 
 than for me to answer to a charge of murder ? So wretched is 
 my situation, that I cannot accept your gracious acquittal if 
 you should be disposed to bestow it. I must answer to an 
 imputation the very thought of which is ten thousand times 
 worse to me than death. I must exert the whole energy of my 
 mind to prevent my being ranked with the vilest of men. 
 
 '"Gentlemen, this is a situation in which a man may be al- 
 lowed to boast. Accursed situation ! No man need envy me 
 the vile and polluted triumph I am now to gain ! I have called 
 no witnesses to my character. Great God ! what sort of char- 
 acter is that which must be supported by witnesses ? But, if 
 I must speak, look round the company, ask of every one pres- 
 ent, inquire of your hearts ! Not one word of reproach was 
 ever whispered against my character. I do not hesitate to call 
 upon those who have known me most to afford me the most 
 honourable testimony. 
 
 '"My life has been spent in the keenest and most uninter- 
 mitted sensibility to reputation. I am almost indifferent as to 
 what shall be the event of this day. I would not open my 
 mouth on the occasion if my life were the only thing that was at 
 stake. It is not in the power of your decision to restore to me 
 my unblemished reputation, to obliterate the disgrace I have 
 suffered, or to prevent it from being remembered that I have 
 been brought to examination upon a charge of murder. Your 
 decision can never have the efficacy to prevent the miserable 
 remains of my existence from being the most intolerable of all 
 burthens. 
 
 "'I am accused of having committed murder upon the body of 
 Barnabas Tyrrel. I would most joyfully have given every 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 749 
 
 farthing I possess, and devoted myself to perpetual beggary, 
 to have preserved his life. His life was precious to me beyond 
 that of all mankind. In my opinion the greatest injustice com- 
 mitted by his unknown assassin was that of defrauding me of 
 my just revenge. I confess that I would have called him out 
 to the field, and that our encounter should not have terminated 
 but by the death of one or both of us. This would have been a 
 pitiful and inadequate compensation for his unparalleled insult, 
 but it was all that remained. 
 
 "'I ask for no pity, but I must openly declare that never was 
 any misfortune so horrible as mine. I would willingly have 
 taken refuge from the recollection of that night in a voluntary 
 death. Life was now stripped of all those recommendations 
 for the sake of which it was dear to me. But even this consola- 
 tion is denied me. I am compelled to drag for ever the intoler- 
 able load of existence, upon penalty, if at any period, however 
 remote, I shake it off, of having that impatience regarded as 
 confirming a charge of murder. Gentlemen, if by your decision 
 you could take away my life without that act being connected 
 with my disgrace, I would bless the cord that suspended the 
 breath of my existence for ever. 
 
 '"You all know how easily I might have fled from this purga- 
 tion. If I had been guilty, should I not have embraced the 
 opportunity ? But, as it was, I could not. Reputation has 
 been the idol, the jewel of my life. I could never have borne 
 to think that a human creature, in the remotest part of the 
 globe, should believe that I was a criminal. Alas ! what a deity 
 is that I have chosen for my worship ! I have entailed upon 
 myself everlasting agony and despair ! 
 
 '"I have but one word to add. Gentlemen, I charge you to 
 do me the imperfect justice that is in your power ! My life is 
 worth nothing. But my honour, the paltry remains of honour, 
 I have now to boast, is in your judgment, and you will each of 
 you, from this day, have imposed upon yourselves the task of 
 its vindicators. It is little that you can do for me, but it is not 
 less your duty to do that little. May that God who is the foun- 
 tain of honour and good prosper and protect you ! The man 
 who now stands before you is devoted to perpetual barrenness 
 
750 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 and blast ! He has nothing to hope for beyond the feeble con- 
 solation of this day !'" 
 
 'You will easily imagine that Mr. Falkland was discharged 
 with every circumstance of honour. Nothing is more to be 
 deplored in human institutions than that the ideas of mankind 
 should have annexed a sentiment of disgrace to a purgation thus 
 satisfactory and decisive. No one entertained the shadow of a 
 doubt upon the subject, and yet a mere concurrence of circum- 
 stances made it necessary that the best of men should be pubHcly 
 put upon his defence, as if really under suspicion of an atrocious 
 crime. It may be granted, indeed, that Mr. Falkland had his 
 faults, but those very faults placed him at a still further distance 
 from the criminality in question. He was the fool of honour and 
 fame ; a man whom in the pursuit of reputation nothing could 
 divert ; who would have purchased the character of a true, gal- 
 lant and undaunted hero at the expense of worlds, and who 
 thought every calamity nominal but a stain upon his honour. 
 How atrociously absurd to suppose any motive capable of induc- 
 ing such a man to play the part of a lurking assassin ? How 
 unfeeling to obUge him to defend himself from such an imputa- 
 tion ? Did any man, and least of all a man of the purest honour, 
 ever pass in a moment from a life unstained by a single act of 
 injury to the consummation of human depravity ? 
 
 'When the decision of the magistrates was declared, a general 
 murmur of applause and involuntary transport burst forth from 
 every one present. It was at first low, and gradually became 
 louder. As it was the expression of rapturous delight and an 
 emotion disinterested and divine, so there was an indescribable 
 something in the very sound that carried it home to the heart, 
 and convinced every spectator that there was no merely personal 
 pleasure which ever existed that would not be foolish and feeble 
 in the comparison. Every one strove who should most express 
 his esteem of the amiable accused. Mr. Falkland was no sooner 
 withdrawn than the gentlemen present determined to give a 
 still further sanction to the business by their congratulations. 
 They immediately named a deputation to wait upon him for 
 that purpose. Every one concurred to assist the general senti- 
 ment. It was a sort of sympathetic feehng that took hold upon 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 751 
 
 all ranks and degrees. The multitude received him with huzzas, 
 they took his horses from his carriage, dragged him in triumph, 
 and attended him many miles in his return to his own habita- 
 tion. It seemed as if a public examination upon a criminal 
 charge, which had hitherto been considered in every event 
 as a brand of disgrace, was converted, in the present instance^ 
 into an occasion of enthusiastic adoration and unexampled 
 honour. 
 
 'Nothing could reach the heart of Mr. Falkland. He was not 
 insensible to the general kindness and exertions ; but it was too 
 evident that the melancholy that had taken hold of his mind 
 was invincible. 
 
 'It was only a few weeks after this memorable scene that the 
 real murderer was discovered. Every part of this story was 
 extraordinary. The real murderer was Hawkins. He was 
 found with his son under a feigned name at a village about 
 thirty miles distance, in want of all the necessaries of life. He 
 had lived here from the period of his flight in so private a manner, 
 that all the inquiries that had been set on foot by the benevolence 
 of Mr. Falkland or the insatiable mahce of Mr. Tyrrel had been 
 insufficient to discover him. The first thing that had led to the 
 detection was a parcel of clothes covered with blood that were 
 found in a ditch, and which, when drawn out, were known by 
 the people of the village to belong to this man. The murder of 
 Mr. Tyrrel was not a circumstance that could be unknown, and 
 suspicion was immediately roused. A diligent search being 
 made, the rusty handle with part of the blade of a knife was found 
 thrown in a corner of his lodging, which, being applied to the 
 piece of the point of a knife that had been broken in the wound, 
 appeared exactly to correspond. Upon further inquiry, two 
 rustics, who had been accidentally on the spot, remembered to 
 have seen Hawkins and his son in the town that very evening, 
 and to have called after them, and received no answer, though 
 they were sure of their persons. Upon this accumulated evi- 
 dence both Hawkins and his son were tried, condemned, and 
 executed. In the interval between the sentence and execution, 
 Hawkins confessed his guilt, with many marks of compunction, 
 though there are persons by whom this is denied ; but I have 
 
752 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 taken some pains to inquire into the fact, and am persuaded 
 that their disbelief is precipitate and groundless. 
 
 'The cruel injustice that this man had suffered from his vil- 
 lage tyrant was not forgotten upon the present occasion. It 
 was by a strange fatality that the barbarous proceedings of 
 Mr. Tyrrel seemed never to fall short of their completion ; and 
 even his death served eventually to consummate the ruin of a 
 man he hated, a circumstance which, if it could have come to 
 his knowledge, would perhaps have, in some measure, consoled 
 him for his untimely end. This poor Hawkins was certainly 
 entitled to some pity, since his being finally urged to despera- 
 tion, and brought, together with his son, to an ignominious 
 fate, was originally owing to the sturdiness of his virtue and 
 independence. But the compassion of the public was, in a great 
 measure, shut against him, as they thought it a piece of barbarous 
 and unpardonable selfishness that he had not rather come boldly 
 forward to meet the consequences of his own conduct than suffer 
 a man of so much pubHc worth as Mr. Falkland, and who had 
 been so desirous of doing him good, to be exposed to the risk of 
 being tried for a murder that he had committed. 
 
 ' From this time to the present Mr. Falkland has been nearly 
 such as you at present see him. Though it be several years 
 since these transactions, the impression they made is for ever 
 fresh in the mind of our unfortunate patron. From thencefor- 
 ward his habits became totally different. He had before been 
 fond of pubHc scenes, and acting a part in the midst of the people 
 among whom he immediately resided. He now made himself 
 a rigid recluse. He had no associates, no friends. Inconsolable 
 himself, he yet wished to treat others with kindness. There was 
 a solemn sadness in his manner, attended with the most perfect 
 gentleness and humanity. Everybody respects him, for his 
 benevolence is unalterable; but there is a stately coldness and 
 reserve in his behaviour which makes it difficult for those about 
 him to regard him with the familiarity of affection. These 
 symptoms are uninterrupted, except at certain times when his 
 sufferings become intolerable, and he displays the marks of a 
 furious insanity. At those times his language is fearful and 
 mysterious, and he seems to figure to himself by turns every sort 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 753 
 
 of persecution and alarm which may be supposed to attend upon 
 such an accusation of murder. But, sensible of his own weak- 
 ness, he is anxious at such times to withdraw into solitude; 
 and his domestics in general know nothing of him but the un- 
 communicative and haughty, but mild dejection that accom- 
 panies everything he does.' 
 
 The period at which my story is now arrived seemed as if it 
 were the very crisis of the fortune of Mr. Falkland. Incident 
 followed upon incident in a kind of breathless succession. About 
 nine o'clock the next morning an alarm was given that one of the 
 chimneys of the house was on fire. No accident could be appar- 
 ently more trivial ; but presently it blazed with such fury as 
 to make it clear that some beam of the house, which in the first 
 building had been improperly placed, had been reached by the 
 flames. Some danger was apprehended for the whole edifice. 
 The confusion was the greater in consequence of the absence of 
 the master, as well as of Mr. Collins, the steward. While some 
 of the domestics were employed in endeavouring to extinguish 
 the flames, it was thought proper that others should busy them- 
 selves in removing the most valuable movables to a lawn in the 
 garden. I took some command in the affair, to which indeed 
 my station in the family seemed to entitle me, and for which 
 I was thought qualified by my understanding and mental re- 
 sources. 
 
 Having given some general directions, I conceived that it was 
 not enough to stand by and superintend, but that I should 
 contribute my personal labour in the public concern. I set out 
 for that purpose, and my steps by some mysterious fatality were 
 directed to the private apartment at the end of the Hbrary. 
 Here, as I looked round, my eye was suddenly caught by the 
 trunk mentioned in the first pages of my narrative. 
 
 My mind was already raised to its utmost pitch. In a window- 
 seat of the room lay a parcel of chisels and other carpenter's 
 tools. I know not what infatuation instantaneously seized me. 
 The idea was too powerful to be resisted. I forgot the busi- 
 ness upon which I came, the employment of the servants and the 
 
754 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 urgency of general danger. I should have done the same if the 
 apartment round me had been in flames. I snatched a tool 
 suitable for the purpose, threw myself upon the ground, and 
 appKed with eagerness to a magazine which enclosed all for which 
 my heart panted. After two or three efforts, in which the energy 
 of uncontrollable passion was added to my bodily strength, the 
 fastenings gave way, the trunk opened, and all that I sought 
 was at once within my reach. 
 
 I was in the act of lifting up the lid, when Mr. Falkland en- 
 tered, wild, breathless, distraction in his looks ! He had been 
 brought home from a considerable distance by the sight of the 
 flames. At the moment of his appearance the Hd dropped 
 down from my hand. He no sooner saw me than his eyes emitted 
 sparks of rage. He ran with eagerness to a brace of loaded 
 pistols which hung up in the room, and seizing one, presented 
 it to my head. I saw his design, and sprang to avoid it ; but 
 with the same rapidity with which he had formed his resolution 
 he changed it, and instantly went to the window and flung the 
 pistol into the court below. He bade me begone with his usual 
 irresistible energy ; and, overcome as I was already by the horror 
 of the detection, I eagerly complied. 
 
 A moment after a considerable part of the chimney tumbled 
 with noise into the court below, and a voice exclaimed that the 
 fire was more violent than ever. These circumstances seemed to 
 produce a mechanical effect upon my master, who, having first 
 locked the closet, appeared on the outside of the house, ascended 
 the roof, and was in a moment in every place where his presence 
 was required. The flames were presently extinguished. 
 
 The reader can with difficulty form a conception of the state 
 to which I was now reduced. My act was in some sort an act 
 of insanity ; but how undescribable are the feehngs with which 
 I looked back upon it ! 
 
 In the high tide of boiling passion I had overlooked all conse- 
 quences. It now appeared to me like a dream. Is it in man 
 to leap from the high-raised precipice, or rush unconcerned into 
 the midst of flames ? Was it possible I could have forgotten for 
 a moment the awe-creating manners of Falkland, and the inex- 
 orable fury I should awake in his soul ? No thought of future 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 755 
 
 security had reached my mind. I had acted upon no plan. I 
 had conceived no means of concealing my deed after it had once 
 been effected. But it was over now. One short minute had 
 effected a reverse in my situation, the suddenness of which the 
 history of man perhaps is unable to pass. 
 
 I had now everything to fear. And yet what was my fault ? 
 It proceeded from none of those errors which are justly held 
 up to the aversion of mankind ; my object had been neither 
 wealth, nor the means of indulgence, nor the usurpation of 
 power. No spark of malignity had harboured in my soul. I 
 had always reverenced the sublime mind of Mr. Falkland ; I 
 revered it still. My offence had merely been a mistaken thirst 
 of knowledge. Such, however, it was as to admit neither of 
 forgiveness nor remission. This epoch was the crisis of my 
 fate dividing what may be called the offensive part from the 
 defensive, which was the sole business of my remaining years. 
 Alas ! my offence was short, not aggravated by any sinister 
 intention : but the reprisals I was to suffer are long, and can 
 terminate only with my Hfe ! 
 
 I was still in this situation of mind when Mr. Falkland sent 
 for me. 
 
 I found in him every token of extreme distress, except that 
 there was an air of solemn and sad composure that crowned the 
 whole. For the present all appearance of gloom, stateliness, 
 and austerity was gone. As I entered he looked up, and seeing 
 who it was, ordered me to bolt the door. I obeyed. He him- 
 self went round the room and examined all its other avenues. 
 He then returned to where I was. I trembled in every joint 
 of my frame. 
 
 'You must swear,' said he. 'You must attest every sacra- 
 ment, divine and human, never to disclose what I am how to 
 tell you.' — He dictated the oath, and I repeated it with an 
 aching heart. I had no power to offer a word of remark. 
 
 'This confidence,' said he, 'is of your seeking, not of mine. 
 It is odious to me, as it is dangerous to you.' 
 
 Having thus prefaced the disclosure he had to make he paused. 
 
756 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 He seemed to collect himself as for an effort of magnitude. He 
 wiped his face with his handkerchief. The moisture that 
 incommoded him appeared not to be tears, but sweat. 
 
 'Look at me. Observe me. Is it not strange that such a 
 one as I should retain hneaments of a human creature ? I am 
 the blackest of villains. I am the murderer of Tyrrel. I am 
 the assassin of the Hawkinses.' 
 
 I started with terror, but was silent. 
 
 ' What a story is mine ! Insulted, disgraced, polluted in the 
 face of hundreds, I was capable of any act of desperation. I 
 watched my opportunity, followed Mr. Tyrrel from the rooms, 
 seized a sharp-pointed knife that fell in my way, came behind 
 him, and stabbed him to the heart. My gigantic oppressor 
 rolled at my feet. 
 
 'All are but links of one chain. A blow ! A murder ! My 
 next business was to defend myself, to tell so well-digested a 
 lie as that all mankind should believe it true. Never was a 
 task so harrowing and intolerable ! 
 
 'Well: thus far fortune favoured me. She favoured me be- 
 yond my desire. The guilt was removed from me and cast 
 upon another; but this I was to endure. Whence came the 
 circumstantial evidence against him, the broken knife and 
 the blood, I am unable to tell. I suppose by some miraculous 
 accident he was passing by, and endeavoured to assist his oppres- 
 sor in the agonies of death. You have heard Hawkins's story : 
 you have read one of his letters. But you do not know the 
 thousandth part of the proofs of his simple and unalterable 
 rectitude that I have known. His son suffered with him, that 
 son for the sake of whose happiness and virtue he ruined himself, 
 
 and would have died a hundred times. 1 have had feelings, 
 
 but I cannot describe them. 
 
 ' This it is to be a gentleman ! a man of honour ! I was the 
 fool of fame. My virtue, my honesty, my everlasting peace of 
 mind were cheap sacrifices to be made at the shrine of this 
 divinity. But what is worse, there is nothing that has hap- 
 pened that has in any degree contributed to my cure. I am as 
 much the fool of fame as ever. I cling to it as to my last breath. 
 Though I be the blackest of villains, I will leave behind me a 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 757 
 
 spotless and illustrious name. There is no crime so malignant, 
 no scene of blood so horrible, in which that object cannot engage 
 me. It is no matter that I regard these things at a distance 
 
 with aversion ; I am sure of it ; bring me to the test, and I 
 
 shall yield. I despise myself ; but thus I am ; things are gone 
 too far to be recalled. 
 
 ' Why is it that I am compelled to this confidence ? From 
 the love of fame. I should tremble at the sight of every pistol, 
 or instrument of death that offered itself to my hands : and 
 perhaps my next murder may not be so fortunate as those I have 
 already committed. I had no alternative but to make you 
 my confidant or my victim. It was better to trust you with 
 the whole truth. 
 
 'Do you know what it is you have done? To gratify a 
 foolish inquisitive humour you have sold yourself. You shall 
 continue in my service, but can never share in my affection. I 
 will benefit you in respect of fortune, but I shall always hate 
 you. If ever an unguarded word escape from your lips, if ever 
 you excite my jealousy or suspicion, expect to pay for it by your 
 death or worse. It is a dear bargain you have made. But it 
 is too late to look back. I charge and adjure you, by everything 
 that is sacred and that is tremendous, preserve your faith !' 
 
 Such was the story I had been so desirous to know. Though 
 my mind had brooded upon the subject for months, there was 
 not a syllable of it that did not come to my ear with the most 
 perfect sense of novelty. 'Mr. Falkland is a murderer !' said I, 
 as I retired from the conference. This dreadful appellative 'a 
 murderer,' made my very blood run cold within me. 'He killed 
 Mr. Tyrrel, for he could not control his resentment and anger : 
 he sacrificed Hawkins the elder and Hawkins the younger, be- 
 cause he could upon no terms endure the public loss of honour : 
 how can I expect that a man thus passionate and unrelenting 
 will not sooner or later make me his victim ? ' 
 
 But though the terrors which had impressed me were con- 
 siderably alleviated, my situation was notwithstanding suffi- 
 ciently miserable. The ease and lightheartedness of my youth 
 
758 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 were for ever gone. The voice of an irresistible necessity had 
 commanded me to 'sleep no more.' I was tormented with a 
 secret of which I must never disburthen myself ; and this con- 
 sciousness was at my age a source of perpetual melancholy. I 
 had made myself a prisoner, in the most intolerable sense of 
 that term, for years, perhaps for the remainder of my life. 
 Though my prudence and discretion should be invariable, I 
 must remember that I should have an overseer, vigilant from 
 conscious guilt, full of resentment at the unjustifiable means 
 by which I had extorted from him a confession, and whose light- 
 est caprice might at any time decide upon everything that was 
 dear to me. The vigilance even of a public and systematical 
 despotism is poor compared with a vigilance which is thus 
 goaded by the most anxious passions of the soul. Against this 
 species of persecution I knew not how to invent a refuge. I 
 dared neither fly from the observation of Mr. Falkland, nor con- 
 tinue exposed to its operation. I was at first indeed lulled in a 
 certain degree to security upon the verge of the precipice. But 
 it was not long before I found a thousand circumstances perpet- 
 ually reminding me of my true situation. Those I am now to 
 relate are among the most memorable. 
 
 I looked round on the servants who had been the spectators of 
 my examination, but not one of them, either byword or gesture, 
 expressed any compassion for my calamity. The robbery of 
 which I was accused appeared to them atrocious from its magni- 
 tude ; and whatever sparks of compassion might otherwise have 
 sprung up in their ingenuous and undisciplined minds were totally 
 obliterated by indignation at my supposed profligacy in recrimi- 
 nating upon their worthy and excellent master. My fate being 
 already determined, and one of the servants despatched for the 
 officer, Mr. Forester and Mr. Falkland withdrew, and left me in 
 the custody of two others. 
 
 It was not much longer before everything was prepared for 
 my departure, and I was conducted to the same prison which had 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 759 
 
 so lately enclosed the wretched and innocent Hawkinses. They 
 too had been the- victims of Mr. Falkland. He exhibited, upon 
 a contracted scale indeed, but in which the truth of delineation 
 was faithfully sustained, a copy of what monarchs are who 
 reckon among the instruments of their power prisons of state. 
 
 For my own part, I had never seen a prison, and like the ma- 
 jority of my brethren had given myself little care to inquire 
 what was the condition of those who committed offence against, 
 or became obnoxious to suspicion from, the community. Oh, 
 how enviable is the most tottering shed under which the labourer 
 retires to rest compared with the residence of these walls ! 
 
 To me everything was new : the massy doors, the resounding 
 locks, the gloomy passages, the grated windows, and the char- 
 acteristic looks of the keepers, accustomed to reject every pe- 
 tition, and to steel their hearts against feeling and pity. Curi- 
 osity and a sense of my situation induced me to fix my eyes on 
 the faces of these men, but in a few minutes I drew them away 
 with unconquerable loathing. It is impossible to describe the 
 sort of squalidness and filth with which these mansions are dis- 
 tinguished. I have seen dirty faces in dirty apartments which 
 have nevertheless borne the impression of health, and spoke 
 carelessness and levity rather than distress. But the dirt of a 
 prison speaks sadness to the heart, and appears to be already in 
 a state of putridity and infection. 
 
 I was detained for more than an hour in the apartment of the 
 keeper, one turnkey after another coming in, that they might 
 make themselves familiar with my person. As I was already 
 considered as guilty of felony to a considerable amount, I under- 
 went a rigorous search, and they took from me a penknife, a 
 pair of scissors, and that part of my money which was in gold. 
 It was debated whether or not these should be sealed up, to be 
 returned to me, as they said, as soon as I should be acquitted ; 
 and had I not displayed an unexpected firmness of manner and 
 vigour of expostulation, such was the conduct that would have 
 been pursued. Having undergone these ceremonies, I was 
 thrust into a day-room, in which all the persons then under 
 confinement for felony were assembled to the number of eleven. 
 Each of them was too much engaged in his own reflections to 
 
76o WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 take notice of me. Of these two were imprisoned for horse- 
 stealing, and three for having stolen a sheep, one for shop-Ufting, 
 one for coining, two for highway-robbery, and two for burglary. 
 
 The horse-stealers were engaged in a game at cards, which was 
 presently interrupted by a difference of opinion, attended with 
 great vociferation, they calling upon one and another to decide 
 it to no purpose, one paying no attention to their summons, and 
 another leaving them in the midst of their story, being no longer 
 able to endure his own internal anguish in the midst of their 
 mummery. 
 
 It is a custom among thieves to constitute a sort of mock tri- 
 bunal of their own body, from whose decision every one is in- 
 formed whether he shall be acquitted, respited, or pardoned, as 
 well as the most skilful way of conducting his defence. One of 
 the house-breakers, who had already passed this ordeal, was 
 stalking up and down the room with a forced bravery, exclaiming 
 to his companion that he was as rich as the Duke of Bedford 
 himself. He had five guineas and a half, which was as much as 
 he could possibly spend in the course of the ensuing month, and 
 what happened after that it was Jack Ketch's business to see to, 
 not his. As he uttered these words he threw himself abruptly 
 upon a bench that was near him, and seemed to be asleep in a 
 moment. But his sleep was uneasy and disturbed, his breathing 
 was hard, and, at intervals, had rather the nature of a groan. A 
 young fellow from the other side of the room came softly to the 
 place where he lay, with a large knife in his hand, and pressed 
 the back of it with such violence upon his neck, the head hanging 
 over the side of the bench, that it was not till after several efforts 
 that he was able to rise. 'Oh, Jack !' cried this manual jester, 
 ' I had almost done your business for you ! ' The other expressed 
 
 no marks of resentment, but sullenly answered, 'D n you, 
 
 why did not you take the edge ? It would have been the best 
 thing you have done this many a day ? ' ^ 
 
 The case of one of the persons committed for highway-robbery 
 was not a little singular. He was a common soldier, of a most 
 engaging physiognomy, and two-and-twenty years of age. The 
 
 1 An incident exactly similar to this was witnessed by a friend of the author in a visit 
 to the prison of Newgate. [Author's note.] 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 761 
 
 prosecutor who had been robbed one evening as he returned from 
 the ale-house of the sum of three shillings, swore positively to 
 his person. The character of the prisoner was such as has seldom 
 been equalled. The meanness of his condition did not preclude 
 him from the pursuit of intellectual cultivation ; and he drew 
 his favourite amusement from the works of Virgil and Horace. 
 His integrity had been proverbially great. In one instance he 
 had been employed by a lady to convey a sum of a thousand 
 pounds to a person at some miles' distance ; at another he was 
 entrusted by a gentleman, during his absence, with the care of 
 his house and furniture, to the value of at least five times that 
 sum. His habits of thinking were peculiar, full of justice, sim- 
 phcity, and wisdom. He from time to time earned money of 
 his officers by his peculiar excellence in furbishing arms ; but he 
 declined offers that had been made him to become a Serjeant or a 
 corporal, saying, that he did not want money, and that, in a new 
 situation, he should have less leisure for study. He was equally 
 constant in refusing presents that were offered him by persons 
 that had been struck with his merit : not that he was under the 
 influence of false delicacy and pride, but that his conscience 
 would not allow him to accept that, the want of which he did not 
 feel to be an evil. This man died while I was in prison. I re- 
 ceived his last breath.^ 
 
 The whole day I was obliged to spend in the company of these 
 men, some of them having really committed the actions laid to 
 their charge, others whom their ill-fortune had rendered the vic- 
 tims of suspicion. The whole was a scene of misery, such as 
 nothing short of actual observation can suggest to the mind. 
 Some were noisy and obstreperous, endeavouring by a false 
 bravery to keep at bay the remembrance of their condition; 
 while others, incapable even of this effort, had the torment of 
 their thoughts aggravated by the perpetual noise and confusion 
 thatjDrevailed around them. In the faces of those who assumed 
 the most courage you might trace the furrows of anxious care; 
 and in the midst of their laboured hilarity dreadful ideas would 
 ever and anon intrude, convulsing their features and working 
 
 1 A story extremely similar to this is to be found in the Newgate Calendar, vol. i., p. 382. 
 [Author's note.] 
 
762 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 every line into an expression of the keenest agony. To these 
 men the sun brought no return of joy. Day after day rolled on, 
 but their state was immutable. Existence was to them a theatre 
 of invariable melancholy ; every moment was a moment of 
 anguish, yet did they wish to prolong that moment, fearful that 
 the coming period would bring a severer fate. They thought 
 of the past with insupportable repentance, each man contented 
 to give his right hand to have again the choice of that peace and 
 liberty which he had unthinkingly bartered away. We talk of 
 instruments of torture ; Englishmen take credit to themselves 
 for having banished the use of them from their happy shores ! 
 Alas, he that has observed the secrets of a prison well knows 
 that there is more torture in the lingering existence of a criminal, 
 in the silent, intolerable minutes that he spends than in the tan- 
 gible misery of whips and racks ! 
 
 Such were our days. At sunset our jailors appeared, and 
 ordered each man to come away and be locked into his dungeon. 
 It was a bitter aggravation of our fate to be under the arbitrary 
 control of these fellows. They felt no man's sorrow ; they were 
 of all men least capable of any sort of feeHng. They had a bar- 
 barous and sullen pleasure in issuing their detested mandates, 
 and observing the mournful reluctance with which they were 
 obeyed. Whatever they directed, it was in vain to expostulate ; 
 fetters and bread and water were the sure consequences of 
 resistance. Their tyranny had no other limit than their own 
 caprice. To whom shall the unfortunate felon appeal? To 
 what purpose complain, when his complaints are sure to be 
 received with incredulity ? A tale of mutiny and necessary pre- 
 caution is the unfailing refuge of the keeper, and this tale is an 
 everlasting bar against redress. 
 
 Our dungeons were cells 7I feet by 6^, below the surface of 
 the ground, damp, without window, light, or air, except from 
 a few holes worked for that purpose in the door. In some of 
 these miserable receptacles three persons were put to sleep to- 
 gether.^ I was fortunate enough to have one to myself. It 
 was now the approach of winter. We were not allowed to have 
 candles ; and, as I have already said, were thrust in here at sun- 
 
 1 See Howard on Prisons. [Author's note.] 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 763 
 
 set and not liberated till the returning day. This was our situa- 
 tion for fourteen or fifteen hours out of the four-and-twenty. 
 I had never been accustomed to sleep more than six or seven 
 hours, and my inclination to sleep was now less than ever. Thus 
 was I reduced to spend half my day in this dreary abode, and 
 in complete darkness. This was no trifling aggravation of 
 my lot. 
 
 Among my melancholy reflections I tasked my memory and 
 counted over the doors, the locks, the bolts, the chains, the 
 massy walls, and grated windows that were between me and 
 liberty. 'These,' said I, 'are the engines that tyranny sits down 
 in cold and serious meditation to invent. This is the empire 
 that man exercises over man. Thus is a human being, formed 
 to expatiate, to act, to smile and enjoy, restricted and benumbed. 
 How great must be his depravity, or heedlessness, who vindicates 
 this scheme for changing health and gaiety, and serenity, into 
 the wanness of a dungeon, and the deep furrows of agony and 
 despair ! ' 
 
 'Thank God,' exclaims the Englishman, 'we have no Bastille ! 
 Thank God, with us no man can be punished without a crime !' 
 Unthinking wretch ! is that a country of liberty where thousands 
 languish in dungeons and fetters ? Go, go, ignorant fool ! and 
 visit the scenes of our prisons ! witness their unwholesomeness, 
 their filth, the tyranny of their governors, the misery of their 
 inmates ! After that show me the man shameless enough to 
 triumph, and say England has no Bastille ! Is there any charge 
 so frivolous upon which men are not consigned to these detested 
 abodes ? Is there any villainy that is not practised by justices 
 and prosecutors? But against all this perhaps you have been 
 told there is redress. Yes, a redress that is the consummation 
 of insult so much as to name ! Where shall the poor wretch, 
 reduced to the last despair, and to whom acquittal perhaps 
 just comes time enough to save him from perishing, — where 
 shall this man find leisure, and much less money, to fee counsel 
 and officers, and purchase the tedious, dear-bought remedy of 
 the law? No, he is too happy to leave the dungeon and the 
 memory of his dungeon behind him ; and the same tyranny and 
 wanton oppression become the inheritance of his successor. 
 
764 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 For myself I looked round upon my walls, and forward upon 
 the premature death I had too much reason to expect ; I con- 
 sulted my own heart that whispered nothing but innocence ; and 
 I said, 'This is society. This is the object, the distribution of 
 justice, which is the end of human reason. For this sages have 
 toiled, and the midnight oil has been wasted. This !' 
 
 The reader will forgive this digression from the immediate 
 subject of my story. If it should be said these are general re- 
 marks, let it be remembered that they are the dear-bought result 
 of experience. It is from the fulness of a bursting heart that 
 invective thus flows to my pen. These are not the declamations 
 of a man desirous to be eloquent. I have felt the iron of slavery 
 grating upon my soul. 
 
 I beheved that misery more pure than that which I now en- 
 dured had never fallen to the lot of a human being. I recollected 
 with astonishment my puerile eagerness to be brought to the 
 test and have my innocence examined. I execrated it as the 
 vilest and most insufferable pedantry. I exclaimed in the bitter- 
 ness of my heart, ' Of what value is a fair fame ? It is the jewel of 
 men formed to be amused with baubles. Without it I might 
 have had serenity of heart and cheerfulness of occupation, peace, 
 and liberty ; why should I confide my happiness to other men's 
 arbitration ? But if a fair fame were of the most inexpressible 
 value, is this the method which common sense would prescribe 
 to retrieve it ? The language which these institutions hold out 
 to the unfortunate is, "Come, and be shut out from the light of 
 day, be the associate of those whom society has marked out for 
 her abhorrence, be the slave of jailors, be loaded with fetters ; 
 thus shall you be cleared of every unworthy aspersion, and 
 restored to reputation and honour!" This is the consolation 
 she affords to those whom malignity or folly, private pique of 
 unfounded positiveness, have without the smallest foundation 
 loaded with calumny.' For myself I felt my own innocence, 
 and I soon found upon inquiry that three-fourths of those who 
 are regularly subjected to a similar treatment are persons whom 
 even with all the superciliousness and precipitation of our courts 
 of justice no evidence can be found sufficient to convict. How 
 slender then must be that man's portion of information and dis- 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 765 
 
 cernment who is willing to commit his character and welfare to 
 such guardianship ! 
 
 But my case was even worse than this. I intimately felt that 
 a trial, such as institution is able to make it, is only the worthy 
 sequel of such a beginning. What chance had I, after the pur- 
 gation I was now suffering, that I should come out acquitted at 
 last ? What probability was there that the trial I had endured 
 in the house of Mr. Falkland was not just as fair as any that 
 might be expected to follow ? No, I already anticipated my own 
 condemnation. 
 
 Thus was I cut off for ever from all that existence has to bestow, 
 from all the high hopes I had so often conceived, from all the 
 future excellence my soul so much delighted to imagine, to spend 
 a few weeks in a miserable prison, and then to perish by the 
 hand of the public executioner. No language can do justice to 
 the indignant and soul-sickening loathing that these ideas ex- 
 cited. My resentment was not restricted to my prosecutor, 
 but extended itself to the whole machine of human society. I 
 could never believe that all this was the fair result of institutions 
 inseparable from the general good. I regarded the whole human 
 species as so many hangmen and torturers. I considered them 
 as confederated to tear me to pieces ; and this wide scene of 
 inexorable persecution inflicted upon me inexpressible agony. 
 I looked on this side and on that ; I was innocent ; I had a right 
 to expect assistance ; but every heart was steeled against me ; 
 every hand was ready to lend its force to make my ruin secure. 
 No man that has not felt, in his own most momentous concerns, 
 justice, eternal truth, unalterable equity, engaged in his behalf, 
 and on the other side brute force, impenetrable obstinacy, and 
 unfeeling insolence can imagine the sensations that then passed 
 through my mind. I saw treachery triumphant and enthroned ; 
 I saw the sinews of innocence crumbled into dust by the gripe 
 of mighty guilt. 
 
 What relief had I from these sensations ? Was it relief that 
 I spent the day in the midst of profligacy and execrations that I 
 saw reflected from every countenance agonies only inferior to 
 my own ? He that would form a lively idea of the regions of 
 the damned needed only to witness for six hours a scene to which 
 
766 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 I was confined for many months. Not for one hour could I 
 withdraw myself from this complexity of horrors, or take refuge 
 in the calmness of meditation. Air, exercise, series, contrast, 
 those grand enliveners of the human frame, I was for ever de- 
 barred by the inexorable tyranny under which I was fallen. Nor 
 did I find the solitude of my nightly dungeon less insupportable. 
 Its only furniture was the straw that served me for my repose. 
 It was narrow, damp, and unwholesome. The slumbers of a 
 mind, wearied like mine with the most detestable uniformity, 
 to whom neither amusement nor occupation ever offered them- 
 selves to beguile the painful hours, were short, disturbed, and 
 unrefreshing. My sleeping, still more than my waking thoughts, 
 were full of perplexity, deformity, and disorder. To these 
 slumbers succeeded the hours which by the regulations of our 
 prison I was obliged, though awake, to spend in solitary and 
 cheerless darkness. Here I had neither books, nor pens, nor 
 anything upon which to engage my attention ; all was sightless 
 blank. How was a mind, active and indefatigable like mine, to 
 endure this misery ? I could not sink into lethargy ; I could not 
 forget my woes ; they haunted me with unmerited and demoniac 
 mahce. Cruel, inexorable policy of human affairs that con- 
 demns a man to torture like this : that sanctions it, and knows 
 not what is done under its sanction ; that is too supine and un- 
 feeling to inquire into these petty details ; that calls this the or- 
 deal of innocence and the protector of freedom ! A thousand 
 times I could have dashed my brains against the walls of my 
 dungeon ; a thousand times I longed for death, and wished with 
 inexpressible ardour for an end to what I suffered ; a thousand 
 times I meditated suicide, and ruminated in the bitterness of 
 my soul upon the different means of escaping from the load of 
 existence. What had I to do with life ? I had seen enough to 
 make me regard it with detestation. Why should I wait the 
 lingering process of legal despotism, and not dare so much as to 
 die, but when and how its instruments decreed ? Still some 
 inexplicable suggestion withheld my hand. I clung with des- 
 perate fondness to this shadow of existence, its mysterious at- 
 tractions, and its hopeless prospects. 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 767 
 
 Numerous were the precautions exercised by the gang of 
 thieves with whom I now resided^ to elude the vigilance of the 
 satellites of justice. It was one of their rules to commit no dep- 
 redations but at a distance from their place of residence ; and 
 Gines had transgressed this regulation in the attack to which I 
 was indebted for my present asylum. 
 
 One day, while I continued in this situation, a circumstance 
 occurred which involuntarily attracted my attention. Two of 
 our people had been sent to a town at some distance for the pur- 
 pose of procuring us the things of which we were in want. After 
 having delivered these to our landlady, they retired to one corner 
 of the room, and, one of them pulling a printed paper from his 
 pocket, they mutually occupied themselves in examining its con- 
 tents. I was sitting in an easy-chair by the fire, being con- 
 siderably better than I had been, though still in a weak and de- 
 bilitated state. Having read for a considerable time they looked 
 at me, and then at the paper, and then at me again. They then 
 went out of the room together as if to consult without interrup- 
 tion upon something which that paper suggested to them. Some 
 time after they returned, and my protector, who had been ab- 
 sent upon the former occasion, entered the room at the same 
 instant. 
 
 ' Captain ! ' said one of them with an air of pleasure, ' look here ! 
 we have found a prize ! I beHeve it is as good as a bank-note of 
 a hundred guineas.' 
 
 Mr. Raymond (that was his name) took the paper and read. 
 He paused for a moment. He then crushed the paper in his 
 hand ; and, turning to the person from whom he had received 
 it, said with the tone of a man confident in the success of his 
 reasons — 
 
 ' What use have you for these hundred guineas ? Are you in 
 want ? Are you in distress ? Can you be contented to purchase 
 them at the price of treachery ? of violating the laws of hos- 
 pitality ? ' 
 
 'Faith, captain, I do not very well know. After having vio- 
 lated other laws, I do not see why we should be frightened at an 
 old saw. We pretend to judge for ourselves, and ought to be 
 
 * After his escape from prison. 
 
768 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 above shrinking from a bugbear of a proverb. Besides, this is 
 a good deed, and I should think no more harm of being the ruin 
 of such a thief than of getting my dinner.' 
 
 ' A thief ! You talk of thieves ! ' 
 
 'Not so fast, captain. God defend that I should say a word 
 against thieving as a general occupation ! But one man steals 
 in one way, and another in another. For my part I go upon the 
 highway, and take from any stranger I meet what it is a hundred 
 to one he can very well spare. I see nothing to be found fault 
 with in that. But I have as much conscience as another man. 
 Because I laugh at assizes and great wigs and the gallows, and 
 because I will not be frightened from an innocent action when 
 the lawyers say me nay, does it follow that I am to have a fellow 
 feeling for pilferers, and rascally servants, and people that have 
 neither justice nor principle ? No : I have too much respect for 
 the trade not to be a foe to interlopers, and people that so much 
 more deserve my hatred, because the world calls them by my 
 name.' 
 
 'You are wrong, Larkins ! You certainly ought not to em- 
 ploy against people that you hate, supposing your hatred to be 
 reasonable, the instrumentality of that law which in your prac- 
 tice you defy. Be consistent. Either be the friend of law or its 
 adversary. Depend upon it that, wherever there are laws at all, 
 there will be laws against such people as you and me. Either, 
 therefore, we all of us deserve the vengeance of the law, or law is 
 not the proper instrument for correcting the misdeeds of man- 
 kind. I tell you this, because I would have you aware that an 
 informer, or a king's evidence, a man who takes advantage of 
 the confidence of another in order to betray him, who sells the 
 life of his neighbour for money, or coward-like, upon any pre- 
 tence, calls in the law to do that for him which he cannot, or 
 dares not do for himself, is the vilest of rascals. But in the 
 present case, if your reasons were the best in the world, they 
 do not apply.' 
 
 While Mr. Raymond was speaking the rest of the gang came 
 into the room. He immediately turned to them and said — 
 
 'My friends, here is a piece of intelligence that Larkins has 
 just brought in which, with his leave, I will lay before you.' 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 769 
 
 Then unfolding the paper he had received he continued : ' This 
 is a description of a felon with the offer of a hundred guineas 
 
 for his apprehension. Larkins picked it up at . By the 
 
 time and other circumstances, but particularly by the minute 
 description of his person, there can be no doubt but the object of 
 it is our young friend, whose life I was, a while ago, the instru- 
 ment of saving. He is charged here with having taken advan- 
 tage of the confidence of his patron and benefactor to rob him 
 of property to a large amount. Upon this charge he was com- 
 mitted to the county jail, from whence he made his escape about 
 a fortnight ago without venturing to stand his trial, a circum- 
 stance which is stated by the advertiser as tantamount to a 
 confession of guilt. 
 
 'My friends, I was acquainted with the particulars of this 
 story some time before. This lad let me into his history, at a 
 time that he could not possibly foresee that he should stand in 
 need of that precaution as an antidote against danger. He is 
 not guilty of what is laid to his charge. Which of you is so ig- 
 norant as to suppose that his escape is any confirmation of his 
 guilt? Who ever thinks, when he is apprehended for trial, of 
 his innocence or guilt as being at all material to the issue ? Who 
 ever was fool enough to volunteer a trial, where those who are 
 to decide think more of the horror of the thing of which he is 
 accused than whether he were the person that did it ; and where 
 the nature of our motives is to be collected from a set of ignorant 
 witnesses, that no wise man would trust for a fair representation 
 of the most indifferent action of his Hf e ? 
 
 'The poor lad's story is a long one, and I will not trouble you 
 with it now. But from that story it is as clear as the day that, 
 because he wished to leave the service of his master, because he 
 had been, perhaps, a little too inquisitive in his master's concerns, 
 and because, as I suspect, he had been entrusted with some im- 
 portant secrets, his master conceived an antipathy against him. 
 This antipathy gradually proceeded to such a length as to in- 
 duce the master to forge this vile accusation. He seems willing 
 to hang the lad out of the way rather than suffer him to go where 
 he pleases, or get beyond the reach of his power. Williams has 
 told me the story with such ingenuousness that I am as sure 
 
770 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 that he is guiltless of what they lay to his charge as that I am 
 so myself. Nevertheless, the man's servants who were called 
 in to hear the accusation, and his relation, who, as justice of the 
 peace, made out the mittimus, and who had the folly to think 
 he could be impartial, gave it on his side with one voice, and thus 
 afforded Williams a sample of what he had to expect in the 
 sequel. 
 
 'Larkins, who, when he received this paper, had no previous 
 knowledge of particulars, was for taking advantage of it for the 
 purpose of earning one hundred guineas. Are you of that mind 
 now you have heard them? Will you, for so paltry a consid- 
 eration, deliver up the lamb into the jaws of the wolf? Will, 
 you abet the purposes of this sanguinary rascal who, not content 
 with driving his late dependent from house and home, depriving 
 him of character and all the ordinary means of subsistence, and 
 leaving him almost without a refuge, still thirsts for his blood ? 
 If no other person have the courage to set limits to the tyranny 
 of courts of justice, shall not we ? Shall we, who earn our live- 
 lihood by generous daring, be indebted for a penny to the vile 
 artifices of the informer? Shall we, against whom the whole 
 species is in arms, refuse our protection to an individual more 
 exposed to, but still less deserving of, their persecution than 
 ourselves ? ' 
 
 The representation of the captain produced an instant effect 
 upon the whole company. They all exclaimed, ' Betray him ! 
 No, not for worlds ! He is safe. We will protect him at the 
 hazard of our Hves. If fidelity and honour be banished from 
 thieves, where shall they find refuge upon the face of the earth ? ' ^ 
 Larkins, in particular, thanked the captain for his interference, 
 and swore that he would rather part with his right hand than 
 injure so worthy a lad or assist such an unheard-of villainy. 
 Saying this, he took me by the hand and bade me fear nothing. 
 Under their roof no harm should ever befall me : and even if the 
 understrappers of the law should discover my retreat, they 
 would to a man die in my defence rather than a hair of my head 
 should be hurt. I thanked him most sincerely for his good will, 
 
 1 This seems to be the parody of a celebrated saying of John, King of France, who was 
 taken prisoner by the Black Prince at the battle of Poitiers. [Author's note.] 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 771 
 
 but I was principally struck with the fervent benevolence of 
 my benefactor. I told them that my enemies were inexorable, 
 and would never be appeased but with my blood ; and assured 
 them, with the most solemn and earnest veracity, that I had done 
 nothing to deserve the persecution which was exercised against me. 
 
 The spirit and energy of Mr. Raymond had been such as to 
 leave no part for me to perform in repelling this unlooked-for 
 danger. Nevertheless, it left a very serious impression upon 
 my mind. I had always placed some confidence in the returning 
 equity of Mr. Falkland. Though he persecuted me with bitter- 
 ness, I could not help believing that he did it unwillingly, and 
 I was persuaded it would not be for ever. A man whose original 
 principles had been so full of rectitude and honour could not fail 
 at some time to recollect the injustice of his conduct and to remit 
 his asperity. This idea had been always present to me, and had, 
 in no small degree, conspired to instigate my exertions. I said, 
 'I will convince my persecutor that I am of more value than 
 that I should be sacrificed purely by way of precaution.' These 
 expectations on my part had been encouraged by Mr. Falkland's 
 behaviour upon the question of my imprisonment, and by various 
 particulars which had occurred since. 
 
 But this new incident gave the subject a totally different ap- 
 pearance. I saw him, not contented with blasting my reputa- 
 tion, confining me for a period in jail, and reducing me to the 
 situation of a houseless vagabond, still continuing his pursuit 
 under these forlorn circumstances with unmitigable cruelty. 
 Indignation and resentment seemed now, for the first time, to 
 penetrate my mind. I knew his misery so well, I was so fully 
 acquainted with its cause, and so strongly impressed with the 
 idea of its being unmerited, that, while I suffered so deeply, I 
 still continued to pity rather than hate my persecutor. But this 
 incident introduced some change into my feelings. I said, 
 'Surely he might now believe that he had sufficiently disarmed 
 me, and might at length suffer me to be at peace. At least, ought 
 he not to be contented to leave me to my fate, the perilous and 
 uncertain condition of an escaped felon, instead of thus whetting 
 the animosity and vigilance of my countrymen against me ? 
 Were his interference on my behalf in opposition to the stern 
 
772 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 severity of Mr. Forester, and his various acts of kindness since 
 a mere part that he played in order to lull me into patience? 
 Was he perpetually haunted with the fear of an ample retaliation, 
 and for that purpose did he personate remorse at the very moment 
 that he was secretly keeping every engine at play that could 
 secure my destruction ? ' The very suspicion of such a fact filled 
 me with inexpressible horror, and struck a sudden chill through 
 every fibre of my frame. 
 
 My wound was by this time completely healed, and it became 
 absolutely necessary that I should form some determination 
 respecting the future. My habits of thinking were such as gave 
 me an uncontrollable repugnance to the vocation of my hosts. 
 I did not indeed feel that aversion and abhorrence to the men 
 which are commonly entertained. I saw and respected their 
 good qualities and their virtues. I was by no means incUned to 
 believe them worse men, or more inimical in their dispositions 
 to the welfare of their species than the generality of those that 
 look down upon them with most censure. But though I did not 
 cease to love them as individuals, my eyes were perfectly open 
 to their mistakes. If I should otherwise have been in danger of 
 being misled, it was my fortune to have studied felons in a jail 
 before I studied them in their state of comparative prosperity ; 
 and this was an infallible antidote to the poison. I saw that in 
 this profession were exerted uncommon energy, ingenuity, and 
 fortitude, and I could not help recollecting how admirably bene- 
 ficial such qualities might be made in the great theatre of human 
 afifairs ; while, in their present direction, they were thrown away 
 upon purposes diametrically hostile to the first interests of human 
 society. Nor were their proceedings less injurious to their own 
 interest than incompatible with the general welfare. The man 
 who risks or sacrifices his Hfe for the pubhc cause is rewarded 
 with the testimony of an approving conscience ; but persons who 
 wantonly defy the necessary, though atrociously exaggerated, 
 precautions of government in the matter of property, at the same 
 time they commit an alarming hostility against the whole, are, 
 as to their own concerns, scarcely less absurd and self-neglectful 
 than the man who should set himself up as a mark for a file of 
 musqueteers to shoot at. 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 773 
 
 Viewing the subject in this light, I not only determined that 
 I would have no share in their occupation myself, but I thought 
 I could not do less, in return for the benefits I had received from 
 them, than endeavour to dissuade them from an employment in 
 which they must themselves be the greatest sufferers. My 
 expostulation met with various reception. All the persons to 
 whom it was addressed had been tolerably successful in persuad- 
 ing themselves of the innocence of their calHng, and what re- 
 mained of doubt in their mind was smothered, and, so to speak, 
 laboriously forgotten. Some of them laughed at my arguments 
 as a ridiculous piece of quixotism. Others, and particularly our 
 captain, repelled them with the boldness of a man that knows 
 he has got the strongest side. But this sentiment of ease and 
 self-satisfaction did not long remain. They had been used to 
 arguments derived from religion and the sacredness of law. They 
 had long ago shaken these from them as so many prejudices. 
 But my view of the subject appealed to principles which they 
 could not contest, and had by no means the air of that customary 
 reproof which is for ever dinned in our ears without finding one 
 responsive chord in our hearts. Finding themselves urged with 
 objections unexpected and cogent, some of those to whom I had 
 addressed them began to grow peevish and impatient of the im- 
 portunate remonstrance. But this was by no means the case 
 with Mr. Raymond. He was possessed of a candour that I have 
 seldom seen equalled. He was surprised to hear objections so 
 powerful to that which, as a matter of speculation, he believed 
 he had examined on all sides. He revolved them with impar- 
 tiality and care. He admitted them slowly, but he at length 
 fully admitted them. He had now but one rejoinder in reserve. 
 
 'Alas, Wilhams,' said he, 'it would have been fortunate for me 
 if these views had been presented to me previously to my em- 
 bracing my present profession. It is now too late. Those 
 very laws which, by a perception of their iniquity, drove me to 
 what I am, now preclude my return. God, we are told, judges of 
 men by what they are at the period of judgment, and whatever 
 be their crimes, receives them to favour. But the institutions of 
 countries that profess to worship this God admit no such dis- 
 tinctions. They leave no room for amendment, and seem to have 
 
774 
 
 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 brutal delight in confounding the demerits of offenders. It 
 signifies not what is the character of the individual at the hour 
 of trial. How changed, how spotless, and how useful, avails 
 him nothing. If they discover, at the distance of fourteen,^ 
 or forty years,^ an action for which the law ordains that his hfe 
 shall be the forfeit, though the interval should have been spent 
 with the purity of a saint and the devotedness of a patriot, they 
 disdain to inquire into it. What then can I do ? Am I not 
 compelled to go on in folly, having once begun ? ' 
 
 I was extremely affected by this plea. I could only answer 
 that Mr. Raymond must himself be the best judge of the course 
 it became him to hold ; I trusted the case was not so desperate 
 as he imagined. 
 
 [Unremitting persecution follows Williams wherever he goes, depriving him 
 of friends and livelihood. Reduced to desperation, he resolves to turn on his 
 enemy and, at any cost, to find revenge in the revelation of the secret.] 
 
 POSTSCRIPT 
 
 All is over. I have carried into execution my meditated at- 
 tempt. My situation is totally changed ; I now sit down to give 
 an account of it. For several weeks after the completion of this 
 dreadful business my mind was in too tumultuous a state to 
 permit me to write. I think I shq,ll now be able to arrange my 
 thoughts sufficiently for that purpose. Great God ! how won- 
 drous, how terrible, are the events that have intervened since 
 I was last employed in a similar manner ! It is no wonder my 
 thoughts were solemn and my mind filled with horrible fore- 
 bodings ! 
 
 Having formed my resolution, I set out from Harwich for the 
 metropoHtan town of the country in which Mr. Falkland resided. 
 Gines, I well knew, was in my rear. That was of no consequence 
 to me. He might wonder at the direction I pursued, but he 
 could not tell with what purpose I pursued it. My design was a 
 secret, carefully locked up in my own breast. It was not with- 
 out a sentiment of terror that I entered a town which had been 
 
 > EuRcne Aram. See Annual Register for 1759- [Author's note.] 
 2 William Andrew Home. Ditto, ditto. [Author's notes.] 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 775 
 
 the scene of my long imprisonment. I proceeded to the house 
 of the chief magistrate the instant I arrived, that I might give 
 no time to my adversary to counterwork my proceeding. 
 
 I told him who I was, and that I was come from a distant part 
 of the kingdom for the purpose of rendering him the medium of a 
 charge of murder against my former patron. My name was 
 already familiar to him. He answered that he could not take 
 cognisance of my deposition, that I was an object of universal 
 execration in that part of the world, and he was determined 
 upon no account to be the vehicle of my depravity. 
 
 I warned him to consider well what he was doing. I called 
 upon him for no favour; I only applied to him in the regular 
 exercise of his function. Would he take upon him to say that 
 he had a right at his pleasure to suppress a charge of this com- 
 plicated nature ? I had to accuse Mr. Falkland of repeated 
 murders. The perpetrator knew that I was in possession of the 
 truth upon the subject, and knowing that, I went perpetually in 
 danger of my Hfe from his malice and revenge. I was deter- 
 mined to go through with the business if justice were to be 
 obtained from any court in England. Upon what pretence did 
 he refuse my deposition ? I was in every respect a competent 
 witness. I was of age to understand the nature of an oath ; I 
 was in my perfect senses ; I was untarnished by the verdict of 
 any jury or the sentence of any judge. His private opinion of 
 my character could not alter the law of the land. I demanded 
 to be confronted with Mr. Falkland, and I was well assured I 
 should substantiate the charge to the satisfaction of the whole 
 world. If he did not think proper to apprehend him on my single 
 testimony, I should be satisfied if he only sent him notice of the 
 charge and summoned him to appear. 
 
 The magistrate, finding me thus resolute, thought proper a 
 little to lower his tone. He no longer absolutely refused to 
 comply with my requisition, but condescended to expostulate 
 with me. He represented to me Mr. Falkland's health, which 
 had for some years been exceedingly indifferent, his having been 
 once already brought to the most solemn examination on this 
 charge, the diabolical malice in which alone my proceeding must 
 have originated, and the tenfold ruin it would bring down upon 
 
776 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 my head. To all these representations my answer was short. 
 'I was determined to go on, and would abide the consequences.' 
 A summons was at length granted, and notice sent to Mr. Falk- 
 land of the charge preferred against him. 
 
 Three days elapsed before any further step could be taken in 
 this business. This interval in no degree contributed to tran- 
 quillise my mind. The thought of preferring a capital accusation 
 against, and hastening the death of, such a man as Mr. Falkland 
 was by no means an opiate to reflection. At one time I com- 
 mended the action, either as just revenge (for the benevolence of 
 my nature was in a great degree turned to gall) or as necessary 
 self-defence, or as that which, in an impartial and philanthropical 
 estimate, included the smallest evil. But in spite of these 
 variations of sentiment I uniformly determined to persist ! I 
 felt as if impelled by a tide of unconquerable impulse. The 
 consequences were such as might well appal the stoutest heart. 
 Either the ignominious execution of a man whom I had once so 
 deeply venerated, and whom now I sometimes suspected not to 
 be without his claims to veneration, or a confirmation, perhaps 
 an increase, of the calamities I had so long endured. Yet these 
 I preferred to a state of uncertainty. I desired to know the worst, 
 to put an end to the hope, however faint, which had been so long 
 my torment ; and, above all, to exhaust and finish the catalogue 
 of expedients that were at my disposition. My mind was worked 
 up to a state Httle short of frenzy. My body was in a burning 
 fever with the agitation of my thoughts. When I laid my hand 
 upon my bosom, or my head, it seemed to scorch them with the 
 fervency of its heat. I could not sit still for a moment. I panted 
 with incessant desire that the dreadful crisis I had so eagerly 
 invoked were come and were over. 
 
 After an interval of three days I met Mr. Falkland in the pres- 
 ence of the magistrate to whom I had applied upon the subject. 
 I had only two hours' notice to prepare myself; Mr. Falkland 
 seeming as eager as I to have the question brought to a crisis 
 and laid at rest for ever. I had an opportunity before the exam- 
 ination to learn that Mr. Forester was drawn by some business 
 on an excursion on the continent ; and that Collins, whose health 
 when I saw him was in a very precarious state, was at this time 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 777 
 
 confined with an alarming illness. His constitution had been 
 wholly broken by his West Indian expedition. The audience I 
 met at the house of the magistrate consisted of several gentlemen 
 and others selected for the purpose^ the plan being in some 
 respects, as in the former instance, to find a medium between the 
 suspicious air of a private examination and the indelicacy, as it 
 was styled, of an examination exposed to the remark of every 
 casual spectator. 
 
 I can conceive of no shock greater than that I received from the 
 sight of Mr. Falkland. His appearance on the last occasion on 
 which we met had been haggard, ghostlike, and wild, energy in his 
 gestures and frenzy in his aspect. It was now the appearance of 
 a corpse. He was brought in in a chair, unable to stand, fatigued 
 and almost destroyed by the journey he had just taken. His 
 visage was colourless, his limbs destitute of motion, almost of 
 life. His head reclined upon his bosom, except that now and 
 then he lifted it up and opened his eyes with a languid glance, 
 immediately after which he sunk back into his former apparent 
 insensibility. He seemed not to have three hours to live. He 
 had kept his chamber for several weeks, but the summons of the 
 magistrate had been delivered to him at his bedside : his orders 
 respecting letters and written papers being so peremptory that 
 no one dared to disobey them. Upon reading the paper he was 
 seized with a very dangerous fit ; but as soon as he recovered, he 
 insisted on being conveyed with all practicable expedition to the 
 place of appointment. Falkland in the most helpless state was 
 still Falkland, firm in command, and capable to extort obedience 
 from every one that approached him. 
 
 What a sight was this to me ! Till the moment that Falkland 
 was presented to my view my breast was steeled to pity. I 
 thought that I had coolly entered into the reason of the case 
 (passion, in a state of solemn and omnipotent vehemence, always 
 appears to be coolness to him in whom it domineers) , and that I 
 had determined impartially and justly. I beUeved that if Mr. 
 Falkland were permitted to persist in his schemes we must both 
 of us be completely wretched. I beheved that it was in my 
 power, by the resolution I had formed, to throw my share of this 
 wretchedness from me, and that his could scarcely be increased. 
 
778 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 It appeared, therefore, to my mind to be a mere piece of equity 
 and justice, such as an impartial spectator would desire, that one 
 person should be miserable in preference to two ; that one person 
 rather than two should be incapacitated from acting his part and 
 contributing his share to the general welfare. I thought that 
 in this business I had risen superior to personal considerations 
 and judged with a total neglect of the suggestions of self-regard. 
 It is true Mr. Falkland was mortal ; but notwithstanding his 
 apparent decay he might Hve long. Ought I to submit, to waste 
 the best years of my life in my present wretched situation ? 
 He had declared that his reputation should be forever inviolate ; 
 this was his ruling passion, the thought that worked his soul to 
 madness. He would probably, therefore, leave a legacy of 
 persecution to be received by me from the hands of Gines or 
 some other villain equally atrocious when he should himself be 
 no more. Now or never was the time for me to redeem my 
 future life from endless woe. 
 
 But all these fine-spun reasonings vanished before the object 
 that was now presented to me. 'Shall I trample upon a man 
 thus dreadfully reduced ? Shall I point my animosity against 
 one, whom the system of nature has brought down to the grave ? 
 Shall I poison, with sounds the most intolerable to his ear, the 
 last moments of a man like Falkland ? It is impossible. There 
 must have been some dreadful mistake in the train of argument 
 that persuaded me to be the author of this hateful scene. There 
 must have been a better and more magnanimous remedy to the 
 evils under which I groaned.' 
 
 It was too late. The mistake I had committed was now gone, 
 past all power of recall. Here was Falkland solemnly brought 
 before a magistrate to answer to a charge of murder. Here I 
 stood, having already declared myself the author of the charge, 
 gravely and sacredly pledged to support it. This was my situa- 
 tion, and thus situated I was called upon immediately to act. 
 My whole frame shook. I would eagerly have consented that 
 that moment should have been the last of my existence. I, 
 however, believed that the conduct now most indispensably 
 incumbent on me was to lay the emotions of my soul naked be- 
 fore my hearers. I looked first at Mr. Falkland, and then at the 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WmLIAMS 779 
 
 magistrate and attendants, and then at Mr. Falkland again. 
 My voice was suffocated with agony. I began — 
 
 'Why cannot I recall the four last days of my Hfe ? How was 
 it possible for me to be so eager, so obstinate, in a purpose so 
 diabolical ? Oh, that I had listened to the expostulations of the 
 magistrate that hears me, or submitted to the well-meant despot- 
 ism of his authority ! Hitherto I have only been miserable ; 
 henceforth I shall account myself base ! Hitherto, though hardly 
 treated by mankind, I stood acquitted at the bar of my own con- 
 science. I had not filled up the measure of my wretchedness ! 
 
 'Would to God it were possible for me to retire from this 
 scene without uttering another word ! I would brave the con- 
 sequences — I would submit to an imputation of cowardice, 
 falsehood, and profligacy rather than add to the weight of mis- 
 fortune with which Mr. Falkland is overwhelmed. But the 
 situation and the demands of Mr. Falkland himself forbid me. 
 He, in compassion for whose fallen state I would wilHngly forget 
 every interest of my own, would compel me to accuse that he 
 might enter upon his justification. I will confess every senti- 
 ment of my heart. 
 
 'No penitence, no anguish, can expiate the folly and the 
 cruelty of this last act I have perpetrated. But Mr. Falkland 
 well knows — I affirm it in his presence — how unwillingly I 
 have proceeded to this extremity. I have reverenced him ; he 
 was worthy of reverence : I loved him ; he was endowed with 
 quahties that partook of divine. 
 
 ' From the first moment I saw him I conceived the most ardent 
 admiration. He condescended to encourage me ! I attached 
 myself to him with the fulness of affection. He was unhappy ; 
 I exerted myself with youthful curiosity to discover the secret 
 of his woe. This was the beginning of misfortune. 
 
 'What shall I say? He was indeed the murderer of Tyrrel; 
 he suffered the Hawkinses to be executed, knowing that they 
 were innocent, and that he alone was guilty. After successive 
 surmises, after various indiscretions on my part and indications 
 on his, he at length confided to me at full the fatal tale ! 
 
 ' Mr. Falkland ! I most solemnly conjure you to recollect your- 
 self ! Did I ever prove myself unworthy of your confidence ? 
 
78o WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 The secret was a most painful burthen to me ; it was the extremest 
 folly that led me unthinkingly to gain possession of it; but I 
 would have died a thousand deaths rather than betray it. It was 
 the jealousy of your own thoughts, and the weight that hung 
 upon your mind, that led you to watch my motions, and conceive 
 alarm from every particle of my conduct. 
 
 . ' You began in confidence ; why did you not continue in con- 
 fidence ? The evil that resulted from my original imprudence 
 would then have been comparatively httle. You threatened 
 me ; did I then betray you ? A word from my lips at that time 
 would have freed me from your threats for ever. I bore them 
 for a considerable period, and at last quitted your service, and 
 threw myself a fugitive upon the world, in silence. Why did 
 you not suffer me to depart? You brought me back by strata- 
 gem and violence, and wantonly accused me of an enormous 
 felony ; did I then mention a syllable of the murder, the secret 
 of which was in my possession ? 
 
 ' Where is the man that has suffered more from the injustice of 
 society than I have done ? I was accused of a villainy that my 
 heart abhorred. I was sent to jail. I will not enumerate the 
 horrors of my prison, the lightest of which would make the heart 
 of humanity shudder. I looked forward to the gallows. Young, 
 ambitious, fond of life, innocent as the child unborn, I looked 
 forward to the gallows. I believed that one word of resolute 
 accusation against my patron would deliver me ; yet I was silent, 
 I armed myself with patience, uncertain whether it were better 
 to accuse or to die. Did this show me a man unworthy to be 
 trusted ? 
 
 'I determined to break out of prison. With infinite difficulty 
 and repeated miscarriages I at length effected my purpose. 
 Instantly a proclamation, with a hundred guineas reward, was 
 issued for apprehending me. I was obliged to take shelter among 
 the refuse of mankind, in the midst of a gang of thieves. I en- 
 countered the most imminent peril of my life when I entered 
 this retreat and when I quitted it. Immediately after, I trav- 
 elled almost the whole length of the kingdom in poverty and 
 distress, in hourly danger of being retaken and manacled like a 
 felon. I would have fled my country ; I was prevented. I had 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEB WILLIAMS 781 
 
 recourse to various disguises ; I was innocent, and yet was com- 
 pelled to as many arts and subterfuges as could have been entailed 
 on the worst of villains. In London I was as much harassed and 
 as repeatedly alarmed as I had been in my flight through the 
 country. Did all these persecutions persuade me to put an end to 
 my silence ? No ; I suffered them with patience and submission ; 
 I did not make one attempt to retort them upon their author. 
 
 ' I fell at last into the hands of the miscreants that are nourished 
 with human blood. In this terrible situation I, for the first time, 
 attempted, by turning informer, to throw the weight from my- 
 self. Happily for me, the London magistrate Ustened to my tale 
 with insolent contempt. 
 
 'I soon and long repented of my rashness, and rejoiced in my 
 miscarriage. I acknowledged that, in various ways, Mr. Falk- 
 land showed humanity towards me during this period. He 
 would have prevented my going to prison at first ; he contributed 
 to my subsistence during my detention ; he had no share in the 
 pursuit that was set on foot against me ; he at length procured 
 my discharge when brought forward for trial. But a great part 
 of his forbearance was unknown to me ; I supposed him to be my 
 unrelenting pursuer. I could not forget that, whoever heaped 
 calamities on me in the sequel, they all originated in his forged 
 accusation. 
 
 'The prosecution against me for felony was now at an end. 
 Why were not my sufferings permitted to terminate then, and I 
 allowed to hide my weary head in obscure yet tranquil retreat ? 
 Had I not sufficiently proved my constancy and fidelity ? Would 
 not a compromise in this situation have been most wise and most 
 secure? But the restless and jealous anxiety of Mr. Falkland 
 would not permit him to repose the least atom of confidence. 
 The only compromise that he proposed was that, with my own 
 hand, I should sign myself a villain. I refused this proposal, and 
 have ever since been driven from place to place, deprived of 
 peace, of honest fame, even of bread. For a long time I persisted 
 in the resolution that no emergency should convert me into the 
 assailant. In an evil hour I at last listened to my resentment and 
 impatience, and the hateful mistake into which I fell has produced 
 the present scene. 
 
782 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 'I now see that mistake in all its enormity. I am sure that if I 
 had opened my heart to Mr. Falkland, if I had told him privately 
 the tale that I have now been telling, he could not have resisted 
 my reasonable demand. After all his precautions he must 
 ultimately have depended upon my forbearance. Could he be 
 sure that if I were at last worked up to disclose everything I 
 knew, and to enforce it with all the energy I could exert, I should 
 obtain no credit ? If he must in every case be at my mercy, in 
 which mode ought he to have sought his safety, in conciHation, 
 or in inexorable cruelty ? . 
 
 'Mr. Falkland is of a noble nature. Yes ; in spite of the catas- 
 trophe of Tyrrel, of the miserable end of the Hawkinses, and 
 of all that I have myself suffered, I affirm that he has qualities of 
 the most admirable kind. It is therefore impossible that he 
 could have resisted a frank and fervent expostulation, the frank- 
 ness and the fervour in which the whole soul was poured out. 
 I despaired while it was yet time to have made the just experi- 
 ment; but my despair was criminal, was treason against the 
 sovereignty of truth. 
 
 ' I have told a plain and unadulterated tale. I came hither to 
 curse, but I remain to bless. I came to accuse, but am com- 
 pelled to applaud. I proclaim to all the world that Mr. Falkland 
 is a man worthy of affection and kindness, and that I am my- 
 self the basest and most odious of mankind ! Never will I 
 forgive myself the iniquity of this day. The memory will always 
 haunt me, and embitter every hour of my existence. In thus 
 acting I have been a murderer, a cool, deliberate, unfeeling mur- 
 derer. I have said what my accursed precipitation has obliged 
 me to say. Do with me as you please. I ask no favour. Death 
 would be a kindness compared to what I feel ! ' 
 
 Such were the accents dictated by my remorse. I poured 
 them out with uncontrollable impetuosity, for my heart was 
 pierced and I was compelled to give vent to its anguish. Every 
 one that heard me was petrified with astonishment. Every one 
 that heard me was melted into tears. They could not resist the 
 ardour with which I praised the great qualities of Falkland ; 
 they manifested their sympathy in the tokens of my penitence. 
 
 How shall I describe the feelings of this unfortunate man? 
 
ADVENTURES OF C.^EB WILLIAMS 783 
 
 Before I began he seemed sunk and debilitated, incapable of any- 
 strenuous impression. When I mentioned the murder I could 
 perceive in him an involuntary shuddering, though it was 
 counteracted partly by the feebleness of his frame and partly 
 by the energy of his mind. This was an allegation he expected, 
 and he had endeavoured to prepare himself for it. But there 
 was much of what I said of which he had no previous conception. 
 When I expressed the anguish of my mind, he seemed at first 
 startled and alarmed lest this should be a new expedient to gain 
 credit to my tale. His indignation against me was great for 
 having retained all my resentment towards him, thus, as it 
 might be, in the last hour of his existence. It was increased when 
 he discovered me, as he supposed, using a pretence of liberality 
 and sentiment to give new edge to my hostility. But as I went 
 on he could no longer resist. He saw my sincerity; he was 
 penetrated with my grief and compunction. He rose from his 
 seat, supported by the attendants, and — to my infinite aston- 
 ishment — threw himself into my arms. 
 
 'Wilhams,' said he, 'you have conquered ! I see too late the 
 greatness and elevation of your mind. I confess that it is to my 
 fault and not yours, that it is to the excess of jealousy that was 
 ever burning in my bosom that I owe my ruin. I could have 
 resisted any plan of malicious accusation you might have brought 
 against me. But I see that the artless and manly story you have 
 told has carried conviction to every hearer. All my prospects 
 are concluded. All that I most ardently desired is for ever 
 frustrated. I have spent a life of the basest cruelty to cover one 
 act of momentary vice, and to protect myself against the prej- 
 udices of my species. I stand now completely detected. My 
 name will be consecrated to infamy, while your heroism, your 
 patience, and your virtues will be for ever admired. You have 
 inflicted on me the most fatal of all mischiefs, but I bless the hand 
 that wounds me. "^"And now, — -(turning to the magistrate) — and 
 now, do with me as you please. I am prepared to suffer all the 
 vengeance of the law. You cannot inflict on me more than I 
 deserve. You cannot hate me more than I hate myself. I am 
 the most execrable of all villains. I have for many years (I 
 know not how long) dragged on a miserable existence in insup- 
 
784 WILLIAM GODWIN 
 
 portable pain. I am at last, in recompense for all my labours 
 and crimes, dismissed from it with the disappointment of my 
 only remaining hope — the destruction of that for the sake of 
 which alone I consented to exist. It was worthy of such a life 
 that it should continue just long enough to witness this final 
 overthrow. If, however, you wish to punish me, you must be 
 speedy in your justice, for as reputation was the blood that 
 warmed my heart, so I feel that death and infamy must seize 
 me together.' 
 
 I record the praises bestowed on me by Falkland, not because I 
 deserve them but because they serve to aggravate the baseness of 
 my cruelty. He survived but three days this dreadful scene. 
 I have been his murderer. It was fit that he should praise my 
 patience, who has fallen a victim, life and fame, to my precipita- 
 tion ! It would have been merciful in comparison if I had planted 
 a dagger in his heart. He would have thanked me for my kind- 
 ness. But atrocious, execrable wretch that I have been ! I 
 wantonly inflicted on him an anguish a thousand times worse 
 than death. Meanwhile I endure the penalty of my crime. His 
 figure is ever in imagination before me. Waking or sleeping I 
 still behold him. He seems mildly to expostulate with me for my 
 unfeeling behaviour. I live the devoted victim of conscious 
 reproach. Alas ! I am the same Caleb Williams that, so short a 
 time ago, boasted that, however great were the calamities I 
 endured, I was still innocent. 
 
 Such has been the result of a project I formed for delivering 
 myself from the evils that had so long attended me. I thought 
 that if Falkland were dead, I should return once again to all that 
 makes life worth possessing. I though that, if the guilt of Falk- 
 land were established, fortune and the world would smile upon 
 my efforts. Both these events are accompHshed, and it is now 
 only that I am truly miserable. 
 
 Why should my reflections perpetually centre upon myself? 
 self, an overwhelming regard to which has been the source of my 
 errors ! Falkland, I will think only of thee, and from that thought 
 will draw ever-fresh nourishment for my sorrows ! One generous, 
 one disinterested tear I will consecrate to thy ashes ! A nobler 
 spirit Hved not among the sons of men. Thy intellectual powers 
 
ADVENTURES OF CALEP WILLIAMS 785 
 
 were truly sublime, and thy bosom burned with a godlike ambi- 
 tion. But of what use are talents and sentiments in the corrupt 
 wilderness of human society ? It is a rank and rotten soil from 
 which every finer shrub draws poison as it grows. All that, in a 
 happier field and a purer air, would expand into virtue and ger- 
 minate into usefulness is thus converted into henbane and deadly 
 nightshade. 
 
 Falkland ! thou enteredst upon thy career with the purest and 
 most laudable intentions. But thou imbibedst the poison of 
 chivalry with thy earliest youth ; and the base and low-minded 
 envy that met thee on thy return to thy native seats operated 
 with this poison to hurry thee into madness. Soon, too soon, by 
 this fatal coincidence, were the blooming hopes of thy youth 
 blasted for ever ! From that moment thou only continuedst to 
 live to the phantom of departed honour. From that moment 
 thy benevolence was, in a great part, turned into rankling jealousy 
 and inexorable precaution. Year after year didst thou spend in 
 this miserable project of imposture ; and only at last continuedst 
 to live long enough to see, by my misjudging and abhorred inter- 
 vention, thy closing hope disappointed, and thy death accom- 
 panied with the foulest disgrace ! 
 
 I began these memoirs with the idea of vindicating my char- 
 acter. I have now no character that I wish to vindicate ; but 
 I will finish them that thy story may be fully understood ; and 
 that, if those errors of thy life be known which thou so ardently 
 desiredst to conceal, the world may at least not hear and repeat a 
 half-told and mangled tale. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Alfonso the Good, former possessor 
 of Otranto, 486, 487, 510, 526, 
 531, 546, 557, 560, 561, 570, 
 573-576 
 
 Allworthy, Miss Bridget, All- 
 worthy's sister, later Mrs. Blifil, 
 introduced, 306-307 ; receives 
 Tom Jones, 312-315, 316 (note) ; 
 admired by Thwackum and 
 Square, 329-332 ; discussed by 
 author, 332-333, 337 
 
 Allworthy, Squire, Tom Jones's 
 benefactor, introduced, 305- 
 306; receives Tom, 308-313; 
 315, 316, etc.; tells Blifil of 
 Western's proposal, 371-372; 
 hears of Tom's conduct, 388- 
 390; banishes him, 393-395 
 
 Amphialus, slayer of Argalus and 
 Parthenia, 112-113 
 
 "Anatomy of Wit." See "Euphues" 
 
 Annette, Mme. Montoni's maid, 
 584 ; tells Emily about veiled 
 portrait and other mysteries of 
 Udolpho, 585-595 ; accompanies 
 Emily to Chateau-le-Blanc, 605, 
 614, etc. 
 
 Anville, Evelina's assumed sur- 
 name, 452, 454, etc. See Eve- 
 lina 
 
 d'Arblay, Mme. See Burney, Fanny 
 
 "Arcadia" (" Countess of Pem- 
 broke's Arcadia"), introd., VII, 
 VIII ; selections from, 88-120 
 
 Argalus, Arcadian knight, history 
 of, 101-114 
 
 Arthur, King, 1 ; chosen king, 2-6 ; 
 gets Excalilaur, 6-7 ; weds Guen- 
 ever, 8-9 ; grieves over knights' 
 departure on Grail quest, 1 1 ; 
 attends tournament at Win- 
 chester, 30-35, 45-47 ; receives 
 Elaine's body, 51-52 ; wars with 
 Mordred, 53-57 ; commands Ex- 
 calibur to be cast into lake, 56 ; 
 is borne away by queens in barge, 
 57 ; his tomb, 59 
 
 Barlow, parish clergyman, teaches 
 Harry Sandford, 681 ; dines at 
 Merton's and agrees to train 
 Tommy, 687-691, 703 (note) 
 
 Basilius, King of Arcadia, his 
 history, 98-101, 113, 118 
 
 Beam, Mile., Countess de Ville- 
 fort's companion, 598 (and note), 
 602 
 
 Bedivere, Arthurian knight, sup- 
 ports Arthur against Mordred, 
 54-58 ; casts Excalibur into 
 lake, 56-57 ; enters hermitage, 
 58 
 
 Behn, Mrs. Aphra, introd., IX ; 
 160-171 
 
 Belford, John, Lovelace's friend 
 and recipient of most of his 
 letters, 248, 261, etc. ; writes 
 Lovelace account of Clarissa's 
 imprisonment, 279-283 ; of her 
 illness and death, 284-286, 288- 
 294 ; gets word of Lovelace's 
 death, 299-302 
 
 Bernard of Astolat, Elaine's father, 
 lodges Launcelot, 30 ; lodges 
 Gawain, 38-40 ; carries out 
 Elaine's behest, 50 
 
 Betty, maid in Harlowe family, 
 252, 257, 259, 260 
 
 Bianca, Matilda's maid, 504, 505, 
 etc. ; questioned by Manfred, 
 562-566 
 
 Black George, Allworthy's game- 
 keeper, 323, 325 ; informed on 
 by Blifil, 338-340 
 
 Blanche, daughter of Count de 
 Villefort, 598 (and note) ; caught 
 in storm, 599-603, 604, etc.; 
 entrapped in robber stronghold, 
 629-647, 650 
 
 Blifil, Master, Allworthy's nephew, 
 316 (and note) ; informs on 
 Tom, 322-323; discussed by 
 Thwackum and Square, 324-327 ; 
 informs on Tom, 336-337 ; in- 
 forms on Black George, 338- 
 
 787 
 
788 
 
 INDEX 
 
 340 ; plays part in bird incident, 
 348-350 ; visits Tom, 355 ; gets 
 Western's proposal, 371-372 ; 
 visits Sophia, 377-380 ; informs 
 on Tom, 390-392 
 
 Blifil, Mrs. See Allworthy, Miss 
 Bridget 
 
 Bobby, Master, Tristram Shandy's 
 brother, 397 
 
 Bors, Arthurian knight, in quest 
 of Grail, 21-29; returns to 
 Camelot, 29, 34 ; visits Launce- 
 lot at hermitage, 43-46 ; brings 
 him news of tournament, 46 ; 
 carries news of him to Arthur, 
 47 
 
 Bramble, Matthew, Lydia Mel- 
 ford's uncle, 419 ; writes de- 
 scription of Bath, 423-428 ; in 
 coach accident, 434-436 ; be- 
 friends Clinker, 436-442 
 
 Bramble, Mrs. (Miss) Tabitha, 
 Bramble's sister, 419 ; takes 
 waters at Bath, 433 ; in coach 
 accident, 434-436 ; is offended 
 by CUnker, 436-442 
 
 Branghtons, EveUna's relatives, 
 invite her to opera, 463-465 ; 
 adventures at opera house, 469- 
 478 
 
 Bunyan,John,introd.,IX; 128-159 
 
 Burney, Fanny (Mme. d'Arblay), 
 intrbd., X, XI-XII ; 443-482 
 
 "Caleb Williams." See "Things 
 as They Are " ; or, " The Adven- 
 tiu-es of Caleb Williams " 
 
 Caleb Williams, tells his story, 
 parentage and father's death, 
 737-738; visited by Falkland, 
 738 ; becomes his secretary, 
 739 ; discovers him in mysteri- 
 ous situation, and incurs his 
 anger, 741-742 ; hears Falkland's 
 story, 743-753 ; searches his 
 effects and becomes his victim, 
 753-783 ; learns of his crime, 
 756-757 ; is imprisoned by him, 
 758-766 ; escapes and takes 
 refuge with thieves, 767-774 ; 
 prosecutes Falkland, 774-783 ; 
 forgives him, 783-785 
 
 "Captain Singleton," introd., X; 
 selections from, 172-238 
 
 Captain Singleton, stolen by gyp- 
 sies, 172-173 ; goes to sea, 173- 
 174 ; crosses Africa with band 
 of marooned companions, 174— 
 
 193 ; reaches England and turns 
 pirate, 193-224 ; meets with 
 William the Quaker, 195 ; fights 
 at sea, 201-204 ; is directed by 
 William in adventure with negro 
 ship, 207-217 ; is urged by Wil- 
 liam to reform, 217-224 ; es- 
 capes with William from pirates, 
 224-225; repents, 226-232 ; goes 
 with William to Venice, 233- 
 237 ; returns with him to Eng- 
 land, 238 
 
 " Castle of Otranto," introd., XII ; 
 reprinted, 483-577 
 
 Christian, in distress, 128-129 ; 
 meets EvangeUst, 129-130 ; 
 starts on pilgrimage, 130 ; falls 
 into Slough of Despond, 132- 
 134 ; goes through Vanity Fair, 
 134-143; meets Hopeful, 143; 
 gets into By-path meadow, 144— 
 146 ; is imprisoned in Doubting 
 Castle, 146-151 ; approaches and 
 enters Celestial City, 151-159 
 
 Claius, Arcadian shepherd, 88-95 
 
 " Clarissa Harlowe," introd., X-XI ; 
 selections from, 239-302 
 
 Clarissa Harlowe, scorns Solmes, 
 242-245 ; incurs family displeas- 
 ure, 245-247 ; urged by family 
 to accept Solmes, 251-253 ; per- 
 secuted by family, 254-260 
 elopes with Lovelace, 260-261 
 is settled in London, 264—265 
 escapes to Covent Garden, 278 
 (note) ; is arrested for debt, 
 279; is released, 282-284; her 
 illness and death, 284-294 
 
 Clementina, Lady, wife of William 
 the elder, 714 ; described, 715- 
 716, 717, 718, etc.; news of 
 her death, 733 
 
 Clitophon, son of Kalander, an 
 Arcadian gentleman, 102, 103 
 
 Collins, Falkland's steward, be- 
 friends Caleb WiUiams, 738-739, 
 741, 742-743; tells Falkland's 
 story, 743-753 
 
 Conrad, son of Manfred of Otranto, 
 483; slain by gigantic helmet, 
 484-485 
 
 Curio, suitor to Lucilla, 83-84, 85, 87 
 
 Daiphantus. See Pyrocles, 94 
 Dametas, Arcadian shepherd, guard- 
 ian of Pamela, 100-101, 117 
 Day, Thomas, introd., X, XII- 
 XIII; 679-705 
 
INDEX 
 
 789 
 
 Defoe, Daniel, introd., X ; 172- 
 238 
 
 Demogoras, suitor to Parthenia, 
 102-105 
 
 Despair. See Giant Despair 
 
 Diffidence, wife of Giant D^ 
 spair, 147-148, 150 
 
 Don Ferardo, father of Lucilla, 
 63, 64, 73, 76 ; urges marriage 
 of Lucilla and Philautus, 77- 
 80 ; reproves Lucilla for treat- 
 ment of Philautus, 85-86 ; dies, 
 87 
 
 Dorothee, servant at Chateau-le- 
 Blane, tells Emily story of castle, 
 606(and note)-613, 614, 615, 
 etc. 
 
 Du Pont, M., Emily's protector, 598, 
 605, etc. 
 
 Duval, Mme., Evelina's grand- 
 mother, injustice to daughter, 
 443-448, 451 ; having discov- 
 ered Evelina in London, takes 
 her to opera, 465-482 
 
 Ector, King Arthur's foster-father, 
 3, 4 
 
 Elaine le Blank, loves Launcelot, 
 31 ; learns his identity, 39-41 ; 
 nurses him at hermitage, 42-48 ; 
 grieves over his departure and 
 dies, 48-52 
 
 Emily St. Aubert, on way to 
 Udolpho, 578-581 ; her arrival 
 and experiences there, 581-598 ; 
 her escape from, 598 ; arrives at 
 Chateau-le-Blanc, 605 ; explores 
 castle, 606-613 ; grieves over 
 Valancourt, 623-624 ; hears ex- 
 planation of veiled portrait, 648- 
 650 ; is reconciled with Valan- 
 court, 650-655 
 
 " Euphues. The Anatomy of Wit," 
 introd., VII, VIII ; selections 
 from, 60-87 
 
 Euphues, described, 60 ; goes to 
 Naples, 61 ; meets Philautus, 
 62 ; they call on Lucilla, 64-69 ; 
 he deceives Philautus, 70-72 ; 
 woos and wins Lucilla, 73-80 ; 
 writes to Philautus, 82 ; is sur- 
 planted by Curio, 83-84 ; seeks 
 solace in study, 85 ; is reconciled 
 with Philautus, 87 
 
 Evangelist, starts Christian on 
 pilgrimage, 129-130 
 
 "Evelina," introd., XI-XII ; selec- 
 tions from, 443-482 
 
 Evelina, writes to Mr. Villars from 
 Howard Grove, 452-454 ; from 
 London, 454—482 ; sees Garrick 
 act, 454—455 ; walks in Mall, 
 455 ; goes shopping, 456 ; at- 
 tends a ball, and meets Lord 
 Orville, 457-463 ; goes to opera, 
 463-482 
 
 Excalibur, King Arthur's sword, 
 its coming, 6-7 ; its passing, 
 56-57 
 
 Faithful, Christian's companion 
 through Vanity Fair, 134-143 
 
 Falconara, Count of. See Jerome 
 
 Falkland, makes Caleb Williams 
 his secretary, 739 ; is described, 
 740-741; his story told, 743- 
 753 ; discovers Williams in pri- 
 vate apartment, and makes him 
 his victim, 754-783 ; confesses 
 his crime, 750-757 ; is prose- 
 cuted by Williams, 774-783 ;_ is 
 conquered by him, 783 ; dies, 
 784 
 
 Fielding, Henry, introd., X, XI ; 
 303-395 
 
 Forester, prosecutes Caleb Wil- 
 Hams, 758, 776 
 
 Frederick, Marquis of Vincenza, 
 father of Isabella, 483, 525-526, 
 531, 541 ; discovers his daughter, 
 542-543; tells his story, 543- 
 545; would wed Matilda, 559; 
 is warned by spectre, 568-569 
 
 Galahad, Arthurian knight, called 
 Launcelot's son, 12; meets 
 Launcelot on Grail quest, 15 ; 
 meets and heals maimed king, 
 22-25 ; beholds marvels of Grail, 
 22-28 ; dies, 28 
 
 Gawain, King Arthur's nephew, 
 asks to be knighted, 9 ; vows to 
 go on Grail quest, 11 ; rides on 
 quest, 13-21 ; in tournament, 
 32, 35; goes to Astolat, 38-40; 
 takes news of Launcelot to 
 court, 41-42 
 
 Giant Despair, Lord of Doubting 
 Castle, imprisons Christian and 
 Hopeful, 146-151 
 
 Godwin, WilUam, introd., X, XIII ; 
 737-785 
 
 Grail. See Holy Grail 
 
 Guenever, becomes Arthur's queen, 
 7-9 ; grieves over knights' de- 
 parture on Grail quest, 12-13 ; 
 
790 
 
 INDEX 
 
 is displeased with Launcelot, 
 41 ; becomes nun at Almesbury, 
 59 
 Gynecia, wife of King Basilius, 99, 
 101, 113, 115, 118 
 
 Hannah, Clarissa's maid, 244, 264 
 
 Harley, his grave, 657 ; admires 
 Miss Walton, 660-663; sets 
 out for London, and meets 
 beggar, 663-666 ; visits Bedlam, 
 667-671 ; meets with Edwards 
 and restores his grandchildren, 
 671-674; falls ill, 674 ; is visited 
 by Miss Walton, 676-677 ; dies, 
 and is buried, 677-678 
 
 Harlowe family, persecute Clarissa, 
 242-260 ; grieve over her death, 
 295-298 
 
 Hate-good, judge in Vanity Fair, 
 138-142 
 
 Hawldns, tenant of Tyrell's, per- 
 secuted by him and hanged, 751- 
 753, 756, 757, 759, 779, 782 
 
 Help, assists Christian out of 
 Slough of Despond, 133 
 
 Henri, son of Count de Villefort, 
 598 (and note) ; helps save ship, 
 603-605; takes Ludovico to 
 haunted chambers, 615-619 ; 
 hunts for Ludovico, 625-627 
 
 Henry the elder, goes to London, 
 706-707 ; meets with difficulties, 
 707-708 ; has change of fortune, 
 708-712; marries, 712; loses 
 wife, 714, 715, 716, etc.; 
 writes to brother, 720-723; is 
 rescued by son, 730-731 ; re- 
 turns to England, 731 ; sees 
 funeral of brother, 732-733 ; lives 
 with son, 733-736 
 
 Henry the younger, arrives in 
 England, 720-726; appears to 
 disadvantage in society, 726- 
 730 ; rescues father and returns 
 to England, 731 ; sees uncle's 
 funeral, 732-733; marries, 733- 
 736 
 
 Hickman, Charles, admirer of Miss 
 Howe, 267 
 
 Hippolita, wife of Manfred of 
 Otranto, 483, 484, etc.; is to 
 be divorced, 553-556 ; seeks 
 permission for divorce, 557-559 ; 
 enters convent, 576 
 
 Holy Grail, appears to Round 
 Table, 10-11; is sought by 
 Arthur's knights, 11-29 
 
 Honour, Sophia's maid, encourages 
 Tom, 358-359, 360 
 
 Hopeful, Christian's companion, 
 143-159 
 
 Howard, Lady, friend of Mr. Vil- 
 lars, 443 ; invites Evelina to 
 Howard Grove, 449 
 
 Howe, Anna, Clarissa's friend and 
 recipient of most of her letters, 
 writes to her for account of 
 family differences, 239-241 ; 
 urges her to marry Lovelace, 261, 
 265-266 
 
 "Humphry CUnker," introd., XI; 
 selections from, 418-442 
 
 Humphry Chnker, offends Miss 
 Bramble, 436-442 ; enters Bram- 
 ble's service, 442 
 
 Ignorance, refused admittance to 
 Celestial City, 159 
 
 Igraine, King Arthur's mother, 2 
 
 Imoinda, described, 165 ; betrothed 
 to Oroonoko, 166-167 ; called 
 Clemene, 167 ; married to Oroo- 
 noko, 167, 170, 171 
 
 Inchbald, Mrs. EHzabeth, introd., 
 X, XIII; 706-736 
 
 Isabella, betrothed to Conrad, 
 483, 484, etc.; wooed by Man- 
 fred, 489-491 ; escapes from 
 castle, 491-495, 534-535; pro- 
 tected by Theodore, 539-541 ; 
 discovers father, 542-543 ; es- 
 tranged from Matilda, 549-552; 
 weds, 577 
 
 " Jack Wilton." See " The Unfor- 
 tunate Traveller " 
 
 Jenkins, Winifred, maid in Bramble 
 family, 420 ; writes home de- 
 scribing Bath, 432-434 ; in coach 
 accident, 434-436 
 
 Jerome, a monk, helps Isabella, 
 512-518; discovers son, 522- 
 524; helps HippoUta, 557-559 
 
 Kalander, Arcadian gentleman, 
 92; entertains Musidorus, 94- 
 109 
 
 Kay, King Arthur's foster-brother, 
 3 ; is made seneschal, 6 
 
 Lady of the Lake, See Excalibur 
 
 Launcelot, Arthurian knight, rides 
 
 on Grail quest, 11-21; goes to 
 
 Astolat and meets Elaine, 30- 
 
 52 
 
INDEX 
 
 791 
 
 Lauren tini, Lady, mysteriously 
 connected with Emily, supposed 
 dead, 592-595 ; 649 (and note) 
 
 Lawrence, Lady Betty, Lovelace's 
 aunt, 256, 271-272 
 
 Le Fever, assisted by My Uncle 
 Toby, 399-408 
 
 Livia, Lucilla's friend, 64, 71-72 
 
 Lovelace, Robert, Clarissa's ad- 
 mirer, injures her brother in duel, 
 239-241, 242, 245; writes Bel- 
 ford about Clarissa, 248-251, 
 254, 258; writes Belford ac- 
 count of elopement, 261-264 ; 
 pursues Clarissa, 266-278 ; hears 
 of her arrest, 278-279; hears 
 of her illness, 287; dies, 299- 
 302 
 
 Lucan the Butler, supports King 
 Arthur in war with Mordred, 
 54 ; dies, 55 
 
 Lucilla, daughter of Don Ferardo, 
 entertains Euphues and Philau- 
 tus, 64-69, 72-74; attracted 
 to Euphues, 74-77 ; urged to 
 wed Philautus, 77-80 ; rejects 
 Euphues for Curio, 83-84; de- 
 fies father, 85-86 
 
 Ludovico, a servant, accompanies 
 Emily to Chateau-le-Blanc, 605 ; 
 prepares to watch in haunted 
 chambers, 613-619, 622-623 ; 
 disappears, 624-627 ; reappears, 
 645-647 (and note) 
 
 Lyly, John, introd., VII, VIII; 
 60-87 
 
 M., Lord, Lovelace's uncle, 265 
 (and note), 272 
 
 Mackenzie, Henry, introd., X, 
 XII ; 656-678 
 
 Malory, Sir Thomas, introd., VII ; 
 1-59 
 
 "Man of Feeling," introd., XII; 
 selections from, 656-678 
 
 Manfred, Prince of Otranto, 483; 
 discovers dead son, 484-485 ; 
 seizes strange peasant, 486-488 ; 
 shows unnatural conduct towards 
 family, 488-491, etc. ; is warned 
 by spectre portrait, 491-492 ; dis- 
 covers peasant in castle vaults, 
 496-498 ; gets rumor of giant 
 form in castle, 498 ; searches 
 for Isabella, 502-504 ; prepares 
 to marry her, 513-518 ; inquires 
 about her escape, 518-520 ; or- 
 ders peasant's death, 520-522 ; 
 
 finds him to be Jerome's son, 
 Theodore, 522-524 ; receives 
 knight of Gigantic Sabre, 525- 
 535 ; hears Jerome's story, 546- 
 548 ; urges Jerome's consent 
 to divorce, 559-560 ; proposes 
 marriage for daughter, 559 ; 
 questions Bianca about Isabella, 
 562-566 ; urges double mar- 
 riage, 567 ; seeks Theodore, 570 ; 
 slays daughter, 571 ; repents 
 and abdicates, 575-577 
 
 Maria, her story, 415-417 
 
 Matilda, daughter of Manfred of 
 Otranto, 483, 484, etc.; talks 
 with maid and discovers peas- 
 ant, 504-512; frees Theodore, 
 535-538 ; is estranged from Isa- 
 bella, 549-552 ; hears proposal 
 of marriage, 552-553 ; meets 
 Theodore in church, 570; is 
 slain by Manfred, 571 
 
 Melford, Jerry, writes to Philhps 
 describing family, 418-419 ; de- 
 scribes coach accident and conse- 
 quences, 434-442 
 
 Melford, Lydia, writes to Mrs. 
 Jermyn of love affair, 419-420; 
 and to Miss WiUis, 420-421; 
 writes describing Bath, 428-432 
 
 Merlin, counsels King Uther, 1, 
 3 (note), 4; helps King Arthur 
 to get Excalibur, 6-7 ; warns 
 Arthur against Guenever, 8 ; 
 finds knights for Round Table, 9 
 
 Merton, Mr., manner of living, 
 679, 680, 684; discusses Harry 
 Sandford with Mrs. Merton 
 and decides to let Mr. Barlow 
 train Tommy, 686-687 ; takes 
 Tommy home, 703-705 
 
 Merton, Tommy, indulged by par- 
 ents, 679-680 ; rescued by Harry, 
 682 ; appears in contrast to 
 Harry, 685-687 ; goes to school 
 to Mr. Barlow, 691-703; is 
 taken home by father, 703- 
 705 
 
 Mirvins, friends of Evelina : Cap- 
 tain Mirvin, 452; talks with 
 Mme. Duval, 466-468; Mrs. 
 Mirvin, 444, etc. ; chaperons Eve- 
 lina in London, 454-482; Miss 
 Mirvin (Maria), 448, 455, etc.; 
 goes to ball with Evelina, 457- 
 463 
 
 Miso, wife of Dametas, 100, 117; 
 goes bathing, 118-120 
 
792 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Montague, Miss, niece of Lord 
 M., 271-272 
 
 Montoni, Emily's uncle by mar- 
 riage, 578 (and note), 581, 582, 
 etc. 
 
 Montoni, Mme., Emily's aunt, 
 578 (and note), 579, 583, etc. 
 
 Mopsa, daughter of Dametas, 100 
 (and note), 117 ; goes bathing, 
 118-120 
 
 Morano, suitor to Emily, 578, 589, 
 596 
 
 Morden, Col. William, Clarissa's 
 cousin, 258 ; visits her, 288- 
 291 ; writes Belford of family 
 grief, 294-298; kills Lovelace 
 in duel, 299-302 
 
 Mordred, King Arthur's nephew, 
 wars with, and is slain by him, 
 53-54 
 
 "Morte Darthur," introd., VII; 
 selections from, 1-59 
 
 Musidorus, rescued from ship- 
 wreck, 91-92 ; entertained by 
 Kalander, 94-109, 114 
 
 My Uncle Toby, saves a fly, 396- 
 397; befriends Le Fever, 399- 
 408 ; is appealed to by Widow 
 Wadman, 413-415 
 
 "Mysteries of Udolpho," introd., 
 XII ; selections from, 578-655 
 
 Nashe, Thomas, introd., VIII ; 
 
 121-127 
 "Nature and Art," introd., XIII; 
 
 selections from, 706-736 
 Norton, Mrs., Clarissa's nurse, 
 
 255, 258, 293, 294 
 Norwynne, Mr., son of William 
 
 the elder, 719. See William 
 
 the younger 
 
 Obadiah, servant in Shandy family, 
 397-398 
 
 Obstinate, Christian's companion, 
 130-132 
 
 "Oroonoko," introd., IX; selec- 
 tions from, 160-171 
 
 Oroonoko, early history of, 162- 
 167 ; betrothed to Imoinda, 
 166 ; called Caesar after en- 
 slavement, 167 ; marries Imo- 
 inda, 167 ; kills tigress, 169- 
 170 ; is put to death, 170-171 
 
 Orville, Lord, admirer of Evelina, 
 meets her at ball, 457-463 ; goes 
 to opera, 473-478; calls, 481- 
 482 
 
 Palladius. See Musidorus, 94 
 
 Pamela, daughter of King BasiUus, 
 described, 99-100 ; goes bathing, 
 118-120 
 
 Parthenia, Arcadian lady, history 
 of, 101-114 
 
 Percivale, Arthurian knight, in 
 quest of Grail, 21-28; dies a 
 hermit, 28 
 
 Phil-autus, suitor to Lucilla, meets 
 with Euphues, 62-63 ; takes him 
 to Lucilla's, 64-69, 72-73; re- 
 jected by her, 76-80, 83; re- 
 proaches Euphues, 80-82, 85 ; 
 is reconciled with Euphues, 87 
 
 Phillips, Sir Watkin, recipient of 
 Melford's letters, 418, 434 
 
 Philoclea, daughter of King Basil- 
 ius, 97; described, 99-100; in 
 love with Zelmane, 114—117; 
 goes bathing, 118-120 
 
 "Pilgrim's Progress," introd., IX; 
 selections from, 128-159 
 
 Pliable, Chi-istian's companion, 
 130-132 
 
 Pyrocles, 91, carried off by pirates, 
 92, 94; disguised as Amazon, 
 114-120 
 
 Radcliffe, Mrs. Ann, introd., X, 
 
 XII; 578-655 
 Raymond, captain of thieves, be- 
 friends Caleb Williams, 767- 
 
 774 
 Rebecca, betrothed and, later, 
 
 wife of Henry the younger, 731, 
 
 734-736 
 Richardson, Samuel, introd., X- 
 
 XI; 239-302 
 Round Table, 6, 8 ; established, 
 
 9, 11, 13, etc. 
 "Royal Slave." *See " Oroonoko " 
 
 St. Aubert, Emily's father, 578 
 (note), 649-650 
 
 St. Foix, Blanche's betrothed, 627, 
 629 (and note) ; meets adventure 
 in robber stronghold, 629-647, 650 
 
 "Sandford and Merton," introd., 
 XII-XIII ; selections from, 679- 
 705 
 
 Sandford, Farmer, 680, 704 
 
 Sandford, Harry, a model boy, 
 680-681 ; saves Tommy from 
 snake, 682 ; is entertained at 
 Merton's, 682-685; is a model 
 pupil, 691-703 
 
 Sarah, Lady, Lovelace's aunt, 256 
 
INDEX 
 
 793 
 
 Shandy, Captain. See My Uncle 
 Toby 
 
 Shandy, Mr. and Mrs., discuss their 
 son, 408-410 
 
 Sidney, Sir Philip, introd., VII, 
 VIII; 88-120 
 
 Sinclair, Mrs., London lodging- 
 house keeper, 278 (note 1), 279 
 
 Smith, Mrs., woman with whom 
 Clarissa takes refuge, 278 (note 
 2), 285, 286, 288-289, 292 
 
 Smollett, Tobias George, introd., 
 X, XI ; 418-442 
 
 Solmes, Roger, suitor to Clarissa, 
 242 ; visits Harlowe Place, 244- 
 245, 250, 252, 253, 257, 260 
 
 Square, gentleman resident at All- 
 worthy's, 322 (and note) ; dis- 
 cusses Tom and Blifil, 324-328; 
 admires Mrs. Bhfil, 329-331, 
 335, etc. ; - visits Tom, 354-355 
 
 Sterne, Laurence, introd., X, XI ; 
 396-417 
 
 Strephon, Arcadian shepherd, 88- 
 95 
 
 Susannah, maid in Shandy family, 
 397-399 
 
 Theodore, son of Count of Fal- 
 conara (the peasant. See Man- 
 fred, Prince of Otranto) ; his 
 identity discovered, 522-524 ; im- 
 prisoned by Manfred, 525 ; freed 
 by Matilda, 535-538; protects 
 Isabella, 539-541 ; wounds her 
 father, 541-543 ; hears his fa- 
 ther's story, 546-548 ; his passion 
 discovered by father, 556-557 ; 
 pursues passion, 570-574 ; is 
 proclaimed heir of Otranto, 574 ; 
 weds Isabella, 577 
 
 " Things as They Are ; or. The Ad- 
 ventm-es of Caleb Williams," in- 
 trod., XIII ; selections from, 
 737-785 
 
 Thwackum, clergyman resident at 
 Allworthy's, 309-320, 322-323; 
 discusses Tom and Blifil, 324— 
 328; admires Mrs. Blifil, 329- 
 331, 334, etc. ; visits Tom, 354 
 
 Toby. See My Uncle Toby 
 
 "Tom Jones," introd., XI; selec- 
 tions from, 303-395 
 
 Tom Jones, introduced, 308-315 ; 
 promises ill, 315-320 ; quarrels 
 with Blifil and takes conse- 
 quences, 322-323 ; discussed by 
 Thwackum and Square, 324- 
 
 328; favored by Mrs. Blifil, 
 331-332 ; discussed by author, 
 332-333 ; youthful escapades 
 and consequences, 334-350 ; res- 
 cues Sophia, and breaks arm, 
 350-353 ; confined at Western's, 
 falls in love with Sophia, 353- 
 360; meets Sophia, 382-383; 
 banished by AUworthy, 393- 
 395 
 
 Trim, Corporal, My Uncle Toby's 
 servant, uses hat with dramatic 
 effect, 397-399; takes part in 
 Le Fever episode, 401-402, 402- 
 406, 407 
 
 " Tristram Shandy," introd., XI ; 
 selections from, 396-417 
 
 Tristram Shandy, discussed by 
 parents, 408-410; takes pity 
 on ass, 411-413; meets with 
 Maria, 415-417 
 
 Tyrrel, Barnabas, brutal landlord, 
 enemy of Falkland, mysteriously 
 murdered, 746-753, 756, 757, 
 779, 782 
 
 "Unfortunate Traveller," introd., 
 VIII; selections from, 121-127 
 
 Uther Pendragon, King Arthur's 
 father, dies, 1-2 
 
 Vain-hope, ferries Ignorance over 
 to Celestial City, 159 
 
 Valancourt, Emily's betrothed, 
 579 (and note), 583, 595-596, 
 606, 623 (and note) ; reconcilia- 
 tion with Emily, 650-655 
 
 Villars, Rev. Arthur, Evelina's 
 guardian, and recipient of her 
 letters, tells story of her parents, 
 445-448 ; permits her to visit 
 Howard Grove, 450-452 
 
 Villefort, Count de, 598 (note) ; 
 takes Ludovico to haunted cham- 
 bers, 615-619 ; hears strange 
 music, 620-622 ; seai'ches for 
 Ludovico, 623-627 ; meets ad- 
 venture in robber stronghold, 
 629-647, 650 
 
 Villeroi, Marchioness de, 606 
 (note) ; her chambers visited 
 by Emily, 606-615, 618, 628, 
 649 (and note) 
 
 Wadman, Widow, assisted by My 
 
 Uncle Toby, 413-415 
 Walpole, Horace, introd., X, XII ; 
 
 483-577 
 
794 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Walton, Miss, Harley's friend, 657 ; 
 described, 660-663 ; calls on 
 Harley, 676-677 
 
 Western, Mrs. (Miss), Western's 
 sister, introduced, 361-362 ; dis- 
 cusses with brother Sophia's 
 future, 362-366 ; prepares So- 
 phia to meet suitor, 373-377 
 
 Western, Sophia, introduced, 344r- 
 347; loses bird, 348-350; falls 
 from horse, 350^353 ; plays on 
 harpsichord, 356-358, 360; her 
 future discussed by father and 
 aunt, 362-366 ; her conduct at 
 dinner-party, 367-368 ; is pre- 
 pared to meet suitor, 373-377 ; 
 is wooed by Blifil, 377-380; re- 
 jects father's choice, 380-381 
 
 Western, Squire, Allworthy's neigh- 
 bor, 337, 339 ; favors Tom, 340- 
 341, 345, 347, etc. ; discusses 
 Sophia's future, 362-366 ; makes 
 proposal to Allworthy, 368-369 ; 
 is angered by Sophia, 380-381 ; 
 and by Tom, 384-388; informs 
 Allworthy of Tom's conduct, 
 388-390 
 
 Wilkins, Deborah, servant in All- 
 worthy family, 307, 309-310, 
 312, etc. 
 
 William the elder, goes to Londoi^ 
 706-707; fails to succeed, 707- 
 711 ; obtains a Uving, 711 ; mar- 
 ries, 713-714; hears brother 
 has left England, 717 ; interest 
 in son, 718-720; gets letter 
 from brother, 720-723; receives 
 nephew, and tries to instruct 
 him, 723-730 ; dies, 732-733 
 
 WiUiam the Quaker (William Wal- 
 ters), surgeon taken prisoner by 
 Captain Singleton on way to 
 Barbadoes. See Captain Single- 
 ton 
 
 William the younger, described, 
 718-720 ; appears to advantage 
 before cousin, 726-730, 733 
 
 Willis, Miss, recipient of Lydia 
 Melford's letters, 420, 428 
 
 Willoughby, Sir Clement, admirer 
 of Evelina, 463 ; calls, 465-467 ; 
 meets her at opera, 473 ; takes 
 her home, 475-482 
 
 Wilson, in love with Lydia Mel- 
 ford, 421 ; writes to her, 421- 
 423 
 
 Zelmane (Pyrocles), 114-117; 
 watches princesses bathe, 118- 
 120 
 
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