Chapter: As I only studied my child's real happiness, the assiduity of Mr
Williams pleased me, as he was in easy circumstances, prudent, and
sincere. It required but very little encouragement to revive his former
passion; so that in an evening or two he and Mr Thornhill met at our
house, and surveyed each other for some time with looks of anger: but
Williams owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his indignation.
Olivia, on her side, acted the coquet to perfection, if that might be
called acting which was her real character, pretending to lavish all
her tenderness on her new lover. Mr Thornhill appeared quite dejected
at this preference, and with a pensive air took leave, though I own it
puzzled me to find him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he
had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by declaring an
honourable passion. But whatever uneasiness he seemed to endure, it
could easily be perceived that Olivia's anguish was still greater. After
any of these interviews between her lovers, of which there were several,
she usually retired to solitude, and there indulged her grief. It was
in such a situation I found her one evening, after she had been for some
time supporting a fictitious gayety.--'You now see, my child,' said
I, 'that your confidence in Mr Thornhill's passion was all a dream: he
permits the rivalry of another, every way his inferior, though he
knows it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a candid
declaration.'--'Yes, pappa,' returned she, 'but he has his reasons for
this delay: I know he has. The sincerity of his looks and words
convince me of his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover the
generosity of his sentiments, and convince you that my opinion of him
has been more just than yours.'--'Olivia, my darling,' returned
I, 'every scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him to a
declaration, has been proposed and planned by yourself, nor can you in
the least say that I have constrained you. But you must not suppose, my
dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his honest rival
to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. Whatever time you require to
bring your fancied admirer to an explanation shall be granted; but
at the expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must
absolutely insist that honest Mr Williams shall be rewarded for his
fidelity. The character which I have hitherto supported in life demands
this from me, and my tenderness, as a parent, shall never influence
my integrity as a man. Name then your day, let it be as distant as you
think proper, and in the mean time take care to let Mr Thornhill know
the exact time on which I design delivering you up to another. If he
really loves you, his own good sense will readily suggest that there is
but one method alone to prevent his losing you forever.'--This proposal,
which she could not avoid considering as perfectly just, was readily
agreed to. She again renewed her most positive promise of marrying
Mr Williams, in case of the other's insensibility; and at the next
opportunity, in Mr Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed upon
for her nuptials with his rival.

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr Thornhill's anxiety:
but what Olivia really felt gave me some uneasiness. In this struggle
between prudence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and every
opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent in tears. One week passed
away; but Mr Thornhill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The
succeeding week he was still assiduous; but not more open. On the
third he discontinued his visits entirely, and instead of my daughter
testifying any impatience, as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive
tranquillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my own part, I
was now sincerely pleased with thinking that my child was going to
be secured in a continuance of competence and peace, and frequently
applauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to ostentation.

It was within about four days of her intended nuptials, that my little
family at night were gathered round a charming fire, telling stories
of the past, and laying schemes for the future. Busied in forming a
thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly came uppermost, 'Well,
Moses,' cried I, 'we shall soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family,
what is your opinion of matters and things in general?'--'My opinion,
father, is, that all things go on very well; and I was just now
thinking, that when sister Livy is married to farmer Williams, we
shall then have the loan of his cyder-press and brewing tubs for
nothing.'--'That we shall, Moses,' cried I, 'and he will sing us Death
and the Lady, to raise our spirits into the bargain.'--'He has taught
that song to our Dick,' cried Moses; 'and I think he goes thro' it very
prettily.'--'Does he so,' cried I, then let us have it: where's little
Dick? let him up with it boldly.'--'My brother Dick,' cried Bill my
youngest, 'is just gone out with sister Livy; but Mr Williams has taught
me two songs, and I'll sing them for you, pappa. Which song do you
chuse, the Dying Swan, or the Elegy on the death of a mad dog?' 'The
elegy, child, by all means,' said I, 'I never heard that yet; and
Deborah, my life, grief you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the
best gooseberry wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so much at
all sorts of elegies of late, that without an enlivening glass I am sure
this will overcome me; and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in
with the boy a little.'

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find
it wond'rous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Isling town there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still
a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked
every day he clad, When he put on his cloaths.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mungrel,
puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog,
to gain some private ends, Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets, The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad, To every Christian eye; And while
they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That shew'd the rogues they lied, The
man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that dy'd.

'A very good boy, Bill, upon my word, and an elegy that may truly be
called tragical. Come, my children, here's Bill's health, and may he one
day be a bishop.'

'With all my heart,' cried my wife; 'and if he but preaches as well
as he sings, I make no doubt of him. The most of his family, by the
mother's side, could sing a good song: it was a common saying in our
country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could never look strait
before them, nor the Huginsons blow out a candle; that there were none
of the Grograms but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but could
tell a story.'--'However that be,' cried I, 'the most vulgar ballad
of them all generally pleases me better than the fine modern odes, and
things that petrify us in a single stanza; productions that we at once
detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, Moses.--The great
fault of these elegiasts is, that they are in despair for griefs that
give the sensible part of mankind very little pain. A lady loses her
muff, her fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home to
versify the disaster.'

'That may be the mode,' cried Moses, 'in sublimer compositions; but the
Ranelagh songs that come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast
in the same mold: Colin meets Dolly, and they hold a dialogue together;
he gives her a fairing to put in her hair, and she presents him with
a nosegay; and then they go together to church, where they give good
advice to young nymphs and swains to get married as fast as they can.'

'And very good advice too,' cried I, 'and I am told there is not a place
in the world where advice can be given with so much propriety as there;
for, as it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a wife; and
surely that must be an excellent market, my boy, where we are told what
we want, and supplied with it when wanting.'

'Yes, Sir,' returned Moses, 'and I know but of two such markets for
wives in Europe, Ranelagh in England, and Fontarabia in Spain.' The
Spanish market is open once a year, but our English wives are saleable
every night.'

'You are right, my boy,' cried his mother, 'Old England is the only
place in the world for husbands to get wives.'--'And for wives to manage
their husbands,' interrupted I. 'It is a proverb abroad, that if a
bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies of the Continent would
come over to take pattern from ours; for there are no such wives in
Europe as our own. 'But let us have one bottle more, Deborah, my life,
and Moses give us a good song. What thanks do we not owe to heaven for
thus bestowing tranquillity, health, and competence. I think myself
happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. He has no such
fire-side, nor such pleasant faces about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now
growing old; but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We are
descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and we shall leave a good
and virtuous race of children behind us. While we live they will be our
support and our pleasure here, and when we die they will transmit our
honour untainted to posterity. Come, my son, we wait for a song: let
us have a chorus. But where is my darling Olivia? That little cherub's
voice is always sweetest in the concert.'--Just as I spoke Dick came
running in. 'O pappa, pappa, she is gone from us, she is gone from us,
my sister Livy is gone from us for ever'--'Gone, child'--'Yes, she is
gone off with two gentlemen in a post chaise, and one of them kissed
her, and said he would die for her; and she cried very much, and was for
coming back; but he persuaded her again, and she went into the chaise,
and said, O what will my poor pappa do when he knows I am undone!'--'Now
then,' cried I, 'my children, go and be miserable; for we shall never
enjoy one hour more. And O may heaven's everlasting fury light upon him
and his! Thus to rob me of my child! And sure it will, for taking back
my sweet innocent that I was leading up to heaven. Such sincerity as my
child was possest of. But all our earthly happiness is now over! Go,
my children, go, and be miserable and infamous; for my heart is
broken within me!'--'Father,' cried my son, "is this your
fortitude?'--'Fortitude, child! Yes, he shall see I have fortitude!
Bring me my pistols. I'll pursue the traitor. While he is on earth I'll
pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find I can sting him yet. The villain!
The perfidious villain!'--I had by this time reached down my pistols,
when my poor wife, whose passions were not so strong as mine, caught me
in her arms. 'My dearest, dearest husband,' cried she, 'the bible is the
only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. Open that, my love,
and read our anguish into patience, for she has vilely deceived
us.'--'Indeed, Sir,' resumed my son, after a pause, 'your rage is too
violent and unbecoming. You should be my mother's comforter, and you
encrease her pain. It ill suited you and your reverend character thus to
curse your greatest enemy: you should not have curst him, villian as he
is.'--'I did not curse him, child, did I?'--'Indeed, Sir, you did; you
curst him twice.'--'Then may heaven forgive me and him if I did. And
now, my son, I see it was more than human benevolence that first taught
us to bless our enemies! Blest be his holy name for all the good he hath
given, and for all that he hath taken away. But it is not, it is not, a
small distress that can wring tears from these old eyes, that have not
wept for so many years. My Child!--To undo my darling! May confusion
seize! Heaven forgive me, what am I about to say! You may remember, my
love, how good she was, and how charming; till this vile moment all her
care was to make us happy. Had she but died! But she is gone, the honour
of our family contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in other
worlds than here. But my child, you saw them go off: perhaps he forced
her away? If he forced her, she may 'yet be innocent.'--'Ah no, Sir!'
cried the child; 'he only kissed her, and called her his angel, and
she wept very much, and leaned upon his arm, and they drove off very
fast.'--'She's an ungrateful creature,' cried my wife, who could scarce
speak for weeping, 'to use us thus. She never had the least constraint
put upon her affections. The vile strumpet has basely deserted her
parents without any provocation, thus to bring your grey hairs to the
grave, and I must shortly follow.'

In this manner that night, the first of our real misfortunes, was spent
in the bitterness of complaint, and ill supported sallies of enthusiasm.
I determined, however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, and
reproach his baseness. The next morning we missed our wretched child at
breakfast, where she used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My
wife, as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. 'Never,'
cried she, 'shall that vilest stain of our family again darken those
harmless doors. I will never call her daughter more. No, let the
strumpet live with her vile seducer: she may bring us to shame but she
shall never more deceive us.'

'Wife,' said I, 'do not talk thus hardly: my detestation of her guilt is
as great as yours; but ever shall this house and this heart be open to
a poor returning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns from her
transgression, the more welcome shall she be to me. For the first time
the very best may err; art may persuade, and novelty spread out its
charm. The first fault is the child of simplicity; but every other the
offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creature shall be welcome to this
heart and this house, tho' stained with ten thousand vices. I will
again hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang fondly on her
bosom, if I find but repentance there. My son, bring hither my bible and
my staff, I will pursue her, wherever she is, and tho' I cannot save her
from shame, I may prevent the continuance of iniquity.'



Tho' the child could not describe the gentleman's person who handed his
sister into the post-chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our
young landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but too well
known. I therefore directed my steps towards Thornhill-castle, resolving
to upbraid him, and, if possible, to bring back my daughter: but before
I had reached his seat, I was met by one of my parishioners, who said
he saw a young lady resembling my daughter in a post-chaise with
a gentleman, whom, by the description, I could only guess to be Mr
Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This information, however, did
by no means satisfy me. I therefore went to the young 'Squire's, and
though it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immediately: he soon
appeared with the most open familiar air, and seemed perfectly amazed at
my daughter's elopement, protesting upon his honour that he was quite
a stranger to it. I now therefore condemned my former suspicions, and
could turn them only on Mr Burchell, who I recollected had of late
several private conferences with her: but the appearance of another
witness left me no room to doubt of his villainy, who averred, that he
and my daughter were actually gone towards the wells, about thirty miles
off, where there was a great deal of company. Being driven to that state
of mind in which we are more ready to act precipitately than to reason
right, I never debated with myself, whether these accounts might not
have been given by persons purposely placed in my way, to mislead me,
but resolved to pursue my daughter and her fancied deluder thither. I
walked along with earnestness, and enquired of several by the way; but
received no accounts, till entering the town, I was met by a person
on horseback, whom I remembered to have seen at the 'Squire's, and he
assured me that if I followed them to the races, which were but thirty
miles farther, I might depend upon overtaking them; for he had seen them
dance there the night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed with
my daughter's performance. Early the next day I walked forward to the
races, and about four in the afternoon I came upon the course. The
company made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly employed in one
pursuit, that of pleasure; how different from mine, that of reclaiming a
lost child to virtue! I thought I perceived Mr Burchell at some distance
from me; but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon my approaching him,
he mixed among a crowd, and I saw him no more. I now reflected that it
would be to no purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and resolved to
return home to an innocent family, who wanted my assistance. But the
agitations of my mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me into
a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived before I came off the course.
This was another unexpected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles
distant from home: however, I retired to a little ale-house by the
road-side, and in this place, the usual retreat of indigence and
frugality, I laid me down patiently to wait the issue of my disorder.
I languished here for near three weeks; but at last my constitution
prevailed, though I was unprovided with money to defray the expences of
my entertainment. It is possible the anxiety from this last circumstance
alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been supplied by a
traveller, who stopt to take a cursory refreshment. This person was no
other than the philanthropic bookseller in St Paul's church-yard, who
has written so many little books for children: he called himself their
friend; but he was the friend of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted,
but he was in haste to be gone; for he was ever on business of the
utmost importance, and was at that time actually compiling materials
for the history of one Mr Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this
good-natured man's red pimpled face; for he had published for me against
the Deuterogamists of the age, and from him I borrowed a few pieces, to
be paid at my return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but weak,
I resolved to return home by easy journies of ten miles a day. My health
and usual tranquillity were almost restored, and I now condemned that
pride which had made me refractory to the hand of correction. Man little
knows what calamities are beyond his patience to bear till he tries
them; as in ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright from
below, every step we rise shews us some new and gloomy prospect of
hidden disappointment; so in our descent from the summits of pleasure,
though the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and gloomy, yet
the busy mind, still attentive to its own amusement, finds as we descend
something to flatter and to please. Still as we approach, the darkest
objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye becomes adapted to its
gloomy situation.

I now proceeded forward, and had walked about two hours, when I
perceived what appeared at a distance like a waggon, which I was
resolved to overtake; but when I came up with it, found it to be a
strolling company's cart, that was carrying their scenes and other
theatrical furniture to the next village, where they were to exhibit.
The cart was attended only by the person who drove it, and one of the
company, as the rest of the players were to follow the ensuing day.
Good company upon the road, says the proverb, is the shortest cut, I
therefore entered into conversation with the poor player; and as I once
had some theatrical powers myself, I disserted on such topics with my
usual freedom: but as I was pretty much unacquainted with the present
state of the stage, I demanded who were the present theatrical writers
in vogue, who the Drydens and Otways of the day.--'I fancy, Sir,' cried
the player, 'few of our modern dramatists would think themselves much
honoured by being compared to the writers you mention. Dryden and Row's
manner, Sir, are quite out of fashion; our taste has gone back a whole
century, Fletcher, Ben Johnson, and all the plays of Shakespear, are the
only things that go down.'--'How,' cried I, 'is it possible the present
age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, that obsolete
humour, those overcharged characters, which abound in the works you
mention?'--'Sir,' returned my companion, 'the public think nothing about
dialect, or humour, or character; for that is none of their business,
they only go to be amused, and find themselves happy when they can enjoy
a pantomime, under the sanction of Johnson's or Shakespear's name.'--'So
then, I suppose,' cried I, 'that our modern dramatists are rather
imitators of Shakespear than of nature.'--'To say the truth,' returned
my companion, 'I don't know that they imitate any thing at all; nor,
indeed does the public require it of them: it is not the composition of
the piece, but the number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced
into it that elicits applause. I have known a piece, with not one jest
in the whole, shrugged into popularity, and another saved by the poet's
throwing in a fit of the gripes. No, Sir, the works of Congreve and
Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present taste; our modern
dialect is much more natural.'

By this time the equipage of the strolling company was arrived at the
village, which, it seems, had been apprised of our approach, and was
come out to gaze at us; for my companion observed, that strollers always
have more spectators without doors than within. I did not consider the
impropriety of my being in such company till I saw a mob gather
about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possible, in the first
ale-house that offered, and being shewn into the common room, was
accosted by a very well-drest gentleman, who demanded whether I was the
real chaplain of the company, or whether it was only to be my masquerade
character in the play. Upon informing him of the truth, and that I did
not belong in any sort to the company, he was condescending enough to
desire me and the player to partake in a bowl of punch, over which he
discussed modern politics with great earnestness and interest. I set him
down in my mind for nothing less than a parliament-man at least; but was
almost confirmed in my conjectures, when upon my asking what there was
in the house for supper, he insisted that the Player and I should sup
with him at his house, with which request, after some entreaties, we
were prevailed on to comply.




The house where we were to be entertained, lying at a small distance
from the village, our inviter observed, that as the coach was not ready,
he would conduct us on foot, and we soon arrived at one of the most
magnificent mansions I had seen in that part of the country. The
apartment into which we were shewn was perfectly elegant and modern; he
went to give orders for supper, while the player, with a wink, observed
that we were perfectly in luck. Our entertainer soon returned,
an elegant supper was brought in, two or three ladies, in an easy
deshabille, were introduced, and the conversation began with some
sprightliness. Politics, however, was the subject on which our
entertainer chiefly expatiated; for he asserted that liberty was at once
his boast and his terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me if I
had seen the last Monitor, to which replying in the negative, 'What, nor
the Auditor, I suppose?' cried he. 'Neither, Sir,' returned I. 'That's
strange, very strange,' replied my entertainer. 'Now, I read all
the politics that come out. The Daily, the Public, the Ledger, the
Chronicle, the London Evening, the Whitehall Evening, the seventeen
magazines, and the two reviews; and though they hate each other, I love
them all. Liberty, Sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by all my
coal mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians.' 'Then it is to
be hoped,' cried I, 'you reverence the king.' 'Yes,' returned my
entertainer, 'when he does what we would have him; but if he goes on as
he has done of late, I'll never trouble myself more with his matters. I
say nothing. I think only. I could have directed some things better. I
don't think there has been a sufficient number of advisers: he should
advise with every person willing to give him advice, and then we should
have things done in anotherguess manner.'

'I wish,' cried I, 'that such intruding advisers were fixed in the
pillory. It should be the duty of honest men to assist the weaker side
of our constitution, that sacred power that has for some years been
every day declining, and losing its due share of influence in the state.
But these ignorants still continue the cry of liberty, and if they have
any weight basely throw it into the subsiding scale.'

'How,' cried one of the ladies, 'do I live to see one so base, so
sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, and a defender of tyrants?
Liberty, that sacred gift of heaven, that glorious privilege of
Britons!'

'Can it be possible,' cried our entertainer, 'that there should be any
found at present advocates for slavery? Any who are for meanly giving up
the privileges of Britons? Can any, Sir, be so abject?'

'No, Sir,' replied I, 'I am for liberty, that attribute of Gods!
Glorious liberty! that theme of modern declamation. I would have all men
kings. I would be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal right
to the throne: we are all originally equal. This is my opinion, and was
once the opinion of a set of honest men who were called Levellers.' They
tried to erect themselves into a community, where all should be equally
free. But, alas! it would never answer; for there were some among them
stronger, and some more cunning than others, and these became masters of
the rest; for as sure as your groom rides your horses, because he is a
cunninger animal than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger
or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. Since then it is
entailed upon humanity to submit, and some are born to command, and
others to obey, the question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it is
better to have them in the same house with us, or in the same village,
or still farther off, in the metropolis. Now, Sir, for my own part, as I
naturally hate the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed from
me, the better pleased am I. The generality of mankind also are of my
way of thinking, and have unanimously created one king, whose election
at once diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny at the
greatest distance from the greatest number of people. Now the great who
were tyrants themselves before the election of one tyrant, are naturally
averse to a power raised over them, and whose weight must ever lean
heaviest on the subordinate orders. It is the interest of the great,
therefore, to diminish kingly power as much as possible; because
whatever they take from that is naturally restored to themselves; and
all they have to do in the state, is to undermine the single tyrant, by
which they resume their primaeval authority. Now, the state may be so
circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its men of opulence so
minded, as all to conspire in carrying on this business of undermining
monarchy. For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our state
be such, as to favour the accumulation of wealth, and make the opulent
still more rich, this will encrease their ambition. An accumulation of
wealth, however, must necessarily be the consequence, when as at present
more riches flow in from external commerce, than arise from internal
industry: for external commerce can only be managed to advantage by the
rich, and they have also at the same time all the emoluments arising
from internal industry: so that the rich, with us, have two sources of
wealth, whereas the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth in all
commercial states is found to accumulate, and all such have hitherto in
time become aristocratical. Again, the very laws also of this country
may contribute to the accumulation of wealth; as when by their means the
natural ties that bind the rich and poor together are broken, and it
is ordained that the rich shall only marry with the rich; or when the
learned are held unqualified to serve their country as counsellors
merely from a defect of opulence, and wealth is thus made the object of
a wise man's ambition; by these means I say, and such means as these,
riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of accumulated wealth, when
furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other
method to employ the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power.
That is, differently speaking, in making dependents, by purchasing the
liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the
mortification of contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very opulent
man generally gathers round him a circle of the poorest of the people;
and the polity abounding in accumulated wealth, may be compared to a
Cartesian system, each orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who
are willing to move in a great man's vortex, are only such as must
be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose souls and whose education are
adapted to servitude, and who know nothing of liberty except the name.
But there must still be a large number of the people without the sphere
of the opulent man's influence, namely, that order of men which subsists
between the very rich and the very rabble; those men who are possest of
too large fortunes to submit to the neighbouring man in power, and yet
are too poor to set up for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of
mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wisdom, and virtues of
society. This order alone is known to be the true preserver of freedom,
and may be called the People. Now it may happen that this middle order
of mankind may lose all its influence in a state, and its voice be in a
manner drowned in that of the rabble: for if the fortune sufficient for
qualifying a person at present to give his voice in state affairs, be
ten times less than was judged sufficient upon forming the constitution,
it is evident that greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced
into the political system, and they ever moving in the vortex of the
great, will follow where greatness shall direct. In such a state,
therefore, all that the middle order has left, is to preserve the
prerogative and privileges of the one principal governor with the most
sacred circumspection. For he divides the power of the rich, and calls
off the great from falling with tenfold weight on the middle order
placed beneath them. The middle order may be compared to a town of which
the opulent are forming the siege, and which the governor from without
is hastening the relief. While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy
over them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most specious
terms; to flatter them with sounds, and amuse them with privileges: but
if they once defeat the governor from behind, the walls of the town will
be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they may then expect,
may be seen by turning our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the
laws govern the poor, and the rich govern the law. I am then for, and
would die for, monarchy, sacred monarchy; for if there be any thing
sacred amongst men, it must be the anointed sovereign of his people, and
every diminution of his power in war, or in peace, is an infringement
upon the real liberties of the subject. The sounds of liberty,
patriotism, and Britons, have already done much, it is to be hoped that
the true sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more. I have
known many of those pretended champions for liberty in my time, yet do I
not remember one that was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant.'

My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue beyond the rules of good
breeding: but the impatience of my entertainer, who often strove to
interrupt it, could be restrained no longer. 'What,' cried he, 'then I
have been all this while entertaining a Jesuit in parson's cloaths;
but by all the coal mines of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name
be Wilkinson.' I now found I had gone too far, and asked pardon for
the warmth with which I had spoken. 'Pardon,' returned he in a fury:
'I think such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What, give up
liberty, property, and, as the Gazetteer says, lie down to be saddled
with wooden shoes! Sir, I insist upon your marching out of this house
immediately, to prevent worse consequences, Sir, I insist upon it.'
I was going to repeat my rernonstrances; but just then we heard a
footman's rap at the door, and the two ladies cried out, 'As sure
as death there is our master and mistress come home.' It seems my
entertainer was all this while only the butler, who, in his master's
absence, had a mind to cut a figure, and be for a while the gentleman
himself; and, to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most
country gentlemen do. But nothing could now exceed my confusion upon
seeing the gentleman, and his lady, enter, nor was their surprize, at
finding such company and good cheer, less than ours. 'Gentlemen,' cried
the real master of the house, to me and my companion, 'my wife and I are
your most humble servants; but I protest this is so unexpected a favour,
that we almost sink under the obligation.' However unexpected our
company might be to them, theirs, I am sure, was still more so to us,
and I was struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own absurdity, when
whom should I next see enter the room but my dear miss Arabella Wilmot,
who was formerly designed to be married to my son George; but whose
match was broken off, as already related. As soon as she saw me, she
flew to my arms with the utmost joy. 'My dear sir,' cried she, 'to what
happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit? I am sure my
uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they find they have the good Dr
Primrose for their guest.' Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman
and lady very politely stept up, and welcomed me with most cordial
hospitality. Nor could they forbear smiling upon being informed of the
nature of my present visit: but the unfortunate butler, whom they at
first seemed disposed to turn away, was, at my intercession, forgiven.

Mr Arnold and his lady, to whom the house belonged, now insisted upon
having the pleasure of my stay for some days, and as their niece, my
charming pupil, whose mind, in some measure, had been formed under my
own instructions, joined in their entreaties. I complied. That night
I was shewn to a magnificent chamber, and the next morning early Miss
Wilmot desired to walk with me in the garden, which was decorated in the
modern manner. After some time spent in pointing out the beauties of the
place, she enquired with seeming unconcern, when last I had heard from
my son George. 'Alas! Madam,' cried I, 'he has now been near three years
absent, without ever writing to his friends or me. Where he is I know
not; perhaps I shall never see him or happiness more. No, my dear Madam,
we shall never more see such pleasing hours as were once spent by our
fire-side at Wakefield. My little family are now dispersing very
fast, and poverty has brought not only want, but infamy upon us.' The
good-natured girl let fall a tear at this account; but as I saw her
possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a more minute detail of our
sufferings. It was, however, some consolation to me to find that time
had made no alteration in her affections, and that she had rejected
several matches that had been made her since our leaving her part of the
country. She led me round all the extensive improvements of the place,
pointing to the several walks and arbours, and at the same time catching
from every object a hint for some new question relative to my son.
In this manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned us in
to dinner, where we found the manager of the strolling company that
I mentioned before, who was come to dispose of tickets for the Fair
Penitent, which was to be acted that evening, the part of Horatio by
a young gentleman who had never appeared on any stage. He seemed to
be very warm in the praises of the new performer, and averred, that he
never saw any who bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, was
not learned in a day; 'But this gentleman,' continued he, 'seems born
to tread the stage. His voice, his figure, and attitudes, are all
admirable. We caught him up accidentally in our journey down.' This
account, in some measure, excited our curiosity, and, at the entreaty
of the ladies, I was prevailed upon to accompany them to the play-house,
which was no other than a barn. As the company with which I went was
incontestably the chief of the place, we were received with the greatest
respect, and placed in the front seat of the theatre; where we sate for
some time with no small impatience to see Horatio make his appearance.
The new performer advanced at last, and let parents think of my
sensations by their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. He was
going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon the audience, he perceived
Miss Wilmot and me, and stood at once speechless and immoveable.
The actors behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his natural
timidity, attempted to encourage him; but instead of going on, he burst
into a flood of tears, and retired off the stage. I don't know what were
my feelings on this occasion; for they succeeded with too much rapidity
for description: but I was soon awaked from this disagreeable reverie by
Miss Wilmot, who, pale and with a trembling voice, desired me to conduct
her back to her uncle's. When got home, Mr Arnold, who was as yet a
stranger to our extraordinary behaviour, being informed that the new
performer was my son, sent his coach, and an invitation, for him; and as
he persisted in his refusal to appear again upon the stage, the players
put another in his place, and we soon had him with us. Mr Arnold gave
him the kindest reception, and I received him with my usual transport;
for I could never counterfeit false resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception
was mixed with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she acted a
studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed not yet abated; she said
twenty giddy things that looked like joy, and then laughed loud at
her own want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly peep at the
glass, as if happy in the consciousness of unresisting beauty, and
often would ask questions, without giving any manner of attention to the
answers.



After we had supped, Mrs Arnold politely offered to send a couple of her
footmen for my son's baggage, which he at first seemed to decline; but
upon her pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that a
stick and a wallet were all the moveable things upon this earth that he
could boast of. 'Why, aye my son,' cried I, 'you left me but poor, and
poor I find you are come back; and yet I make no doubt you have seen a
great deal of the world.'--'Yes, Sir,' replied my son, 'but travelling
after fortune, is not the way to secure her; and, indeed, of late, I
have desisted from the pursuit.'--'I fancy, Sir,' cried Mrs Arnold,
'that the account of your adventures would be amusing: the first part of
them I have often heard from my niece; but could the company prevail for
the rest, it would be an additional obligation.'--'Madam,' replied my
son, 'I promise you the pleasure you have in hearing, will not be half
so great as my vanity in repeating them; and yet in the whole narrative
I can scarce promise you one adventure, as my account is rather of what
I saw than what I did. The first misfortune of my life, which you all
know, was great; but tho' it distrest, it could not sink me. No person
ever had a better knack at hoping than I. The less kind I found fortune
at one time, the more I expected from her another, and being now at
the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution might lift, but could not
depress me. I proceeded, therefore, towards London in a fine morning,
no way uneasy about tomorrow, but chearful as the birds that caroll'd by
the road, and comforted myself with reflecting that London was the
mart where abilities of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and
reward.

'Upon my arrival in town, Sir, my first care was to deliver your letter
of recommendation to our cousin, who was himself in little better
circumstances than I. My first scheme, you know, Sir, was to be usher
at an academy, and I asked his advice on the affair. Our cousin received
the proposal with a true Sardonic grin. Aye, cried he, this is indeed
a very pretty career, that has been chalked out for you. I have been an
usher at a boarding school myself; and may I die by an anodyne necklace,
but I had rather be an under turnkey in Newgate. I was up early and
late: I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face by the
mistress, worried by the boys within, and never permitted to stir out to
meet civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a school? Let me
examine you a little. Have you been bred apprentice to the business? No.
Then you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys hair? No. Then
you won't do for a school. Have you had the small-pox? No. Then you
won't do for a school. Can you lie three in a bed? No. Then you will
never do for a school. Have you got a good stomach? Yes. Then you will
by no means do for a school. No, Sir, if you are for a genteel easy
profession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice to turn a
cutler's wheel; but avoid a school by any means. Yet come, continued he,
I see you are a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think of
commencing author, like me? You have read in books, no doubt, of men of
genius starving at the trade: At present I'll shew you forty very dull
fellows about town that live by it in opulence. All honest joggtrot men,
who go on smoothly and dully, and write history and politics, and are
praised; men, Sir, who, had they been bred coblers, would all their
lives have only mended shoes, but never made them.

'Finding that there was no great degree of gentility affixed to the
character of an usher, I resolved to accept his proposal; and having the
highest respect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub-street
with reverence. I thought it my glory to pursue a track which Dryden
and Otway trod before me. I considered the goddess of this region as the
parent of excellence; and however an intercourse with the world might
give us good sense, the poverty she granted I supposed to be the nurse
of genius! Big with these reflections, I sate down, and finding that the
best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write
a book that should be wholly new. I therefore drest up three paradoxes
with some ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but they were new. The
jewels of truth have been so often imported by others, that nothing was
left for me to import but some splendid things that at a distance looked
every bit as well. Witness you powers what fancied importance sate
perched upon my quill while I was writing. The whole learned world, I
made no doubt, would rise to oppose my systems; but then I was prepared
to oppose the whole learned world. Like the porcupine I sate self
collected, with a quill pointed against every opposer.'

'Well said, my boy,' cried I, 'and what subject did you treat upon? I
hope you did not pass over the importance of Monogamy. But I interrupt,
go on; you published your paradoxes; well, and what did the learned
world say to your paradoxes?'

'Sir,' replied my son, 'the learned world said nothing to my paradoxes;
nothing at all, Sir. Every man of them was employed in praising his
friends and himself, or condemning his enemies; and unfortunately, as I
had neither, I suffered the cruellest mortification, neglect.

'As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on the fate of my
paradoxes, a little man happening to enter the room, placed himself in
the box before me, and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to
be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging me to subscribe to
a new edition he was going to give the world of Propertius, with notes.
This demand necessarily produced a reply that I had no money; and
that concession led him to enquire into the nature of my expectations.
Finding that my expectations were just as great as my purse, I see,
cried he, you are unacquainted with the town, I'll teach you a part of
it. Look at these proposals, upon these very proposals I have subsisted
very comfortably for twelve years. The moment a nobleman returns from
his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or a dowager from her
country seat, I strike for a subscription. I first besiege their hearts
with flattery, and then pour in my proposals at the breach. If they
subscribe readily the first time, I renew my request to beg a dedication
fee. If they let me have that, I smite them once more for engraving
their coat of arms at the top. Thus, continued he, I live by vanity, and
laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am now too well known, I should
be glad to borrow your face a bit: a nobleman of distinction has just
returned from Italy; my face is familiar to his porter; but if you
bring this copy of verses, my life for it you succeed, and we divide the
spoil.'

'Bless us, George,' cried I, 'and is this the employment of poets now!
Do men of their exalted talents thus stoop to beggary! Can they so far
disgrace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise for bread?'

'O no, Sir,' returned he, 'a true poet can never be so base; for
wherever there is genius there is pride. The creatures I now describe
are only beggars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every hardship
for fame, so he is equally a coward to contempt, and none but those who
are unworthy protection condescend to solicit it.

'Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indignities, and yet a fortune
too humble to hazard a second attempt for fame, I was now, obliged to
take a middle course, and write for bread. But I was unqualified for a
profession where mere industry alone was to ensure success. I could not
suppress my lurking passion for applause; but usually consumed that
time in efforts after excellence which takes up but little room, when
it should have been more advantageously employed in the diffusive
productions of fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore come
forth in the mist of periodical publication, unnoticed and unknown.
The public were more importantly employed, than to observe the easy
simplicity of my style, of the harmony of my periods. Sheet after sheet
was thrown off to oblivion. My essays were buried among the essays
upon liberty, eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog; while
Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Philanthropos, all wrote
better, because they wrote faster, than I.

'Now, therefore, I began to associate with none but disappointed
authors, like myself, who praised, deplored, and despised each other.
The satisfaction we found in every celebrated writer's attempts, was
inversely as their merits. I found that no genius in another could
please me. My unfortunate paradoxes had entirely dried up that source
of comfort. I could neither read nor write with satisfaction; for
excellence in another was my aversion, and writing was my trade.

'In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was one day sitting on a
bench in St James's park, a young gentleman of distinction, who had been
my intimate acquaintance at the university, approached me. We saluted
each other with some hesitation, he almost ashamed of being known to
one who made so shabby an appearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But
my suspicions soon vanished; for Ned Thornhill was at the bottom a very
good-natured fellow.

'What did you say, George?' interrupted I. 'Thornhill, was not that his
name? It can certainly be no other than my landlord.'--'Bless me,' cried
Mrs Arnold, 'is Mr Thornhill so near a neighbour of yours? He has long
been a friend in our family, and we expect a visit from him shortly.'

'My friend's first care,' continued my son, 'was to alter my appearance
by a very fine suit of his own cloaths, and then I was admitted to his
table upon the footing of half-friend, half-underling. My business was
to attend him at auctions, to put him in spirits when he sate for
his picture, to take the left hand in his chariot when not filled by
another, and to assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when
we had a mind for a frolic. Beside this, I had twenty other little
employments in the family. I was to do many small things without
bidding; to carry the cork screw; to stand godfather to all the butler's
children; to sing when I was bid; to be never out of humour; always to
be humble, and, if I could, to be very happy.

'In this honourable post, however, I was not without a rival. A captain
of marines, who was formed for the place by nature, opposed me in my
patron's affections. His mother had been laundress to a man of quality,
and thus he early acquired a taste for pimping and pedigree. As this
gentleman made it the study of his life to be acquainted with lords,
though he was dismissed from several for his stupidity; yet he
found many of them who were as dull as himself, that permitted his
assiduities. As flattery was his trade, he practised it with the easiest
address imaginable; but it came aukward and stiff from me; and as every
day my patron's desire of flattery encreased, so every hour being better
acquainted with his defects, I became more unwilling to give it. Thus I
was once more fairly going to give up the field to the captain, when my
friend found occasion for my assistance. This was nothing less than to
fight a duel for him, with a gentleman whose sister it was pretended he
had used ill. I readily complied with his request, and tho' I see you
are displeased at my conduct, yet as it was a debt indispensably due
to friendship, I could not refuse. I undertook the affair, disarmed my
antagonist, and soon after had the pleasure of finding that the lady was
only a woman of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. This
piece of service was repaid with the warmest professions of gratitude;
but as my friend was to leave town in a few days, he knew no other
method of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle Sir William
Thornhill, and another nobleman of great distinction, who enjoyed a post
under the government. When he was gone, my first care was to carry his
recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose character for every
virtue was universal, yet just. I was received by his servants with the
most hospitable smiles; for the looks of the domestics ever transmit
their master's benevolence. Being shewn into a grand apartment, where
Sir William soon came to me, I delivered my message and letter, which
he read, and after pausing some minutes, Pray, Sir, cried he, inform me
what you have done for my kinsman, to deserve this warm recommendation?
But I suppose, Sir, I guess your merits, you have fought for him; and
so you would expect a reward from me, for being the instrument of his
vices. I wish, sincerely wish, that my present refusal may be some
punishment for your guilt; but still more, that it may be some
inducement to your repentance.--The severity of this rebuke I bore
patiently, because I knew it was just. My whole expectations now,
therefore, lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of the
nobility are almost ever beset with beggars, all ready to thrust in some
sly petition, I found it no easy matter to gain admittance. However,
after bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I was at last
shewn into a spacious apartment, my letter being previously sent up for
his lordship's inspection. During this anxious interval I had full time
to look round me. Every thing was grand, and of happy contrivance:
the paintings, the furniture, the gildings, petrified me with awe, and
raised my idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, how very great
must the possessor of all these things be, who carries in his head the
business of the state, and whose house displays half the wealth of
a kingdom: sure his genius must be unfathomable! During these awful
reflections I heard a step come heavily forward. Ah, this is the great
man himself! No, it was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard
soon after. This must be He! No, it was only the great man's valet de
chambre. At last his lordship actually made his appearance. Are you,
cried he, the bearer of this here letter? I answered with a bow. I learn
by this, continued he, as how that--But just at that instant a servant
delivered him a card, and without taking farther notice, he went out of
the room, and left me to digest my own happiness at leisure. I saw no
more of him, till told by a footman that his lordship was going to his
coach at the door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my voice to
that of three or four more, who came, like me, to petition for favours.
His lordship, however, went too fast for us, and was gaining his Chariot
door with large strides, when I hallowed out to know if I was to have
any reply. He was by this time got in, and muttered an answer, half
of which only I heard, the other half was lost in the rattling of his
chariot wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched out, in
the posture of one that was listening to catch the glorious sounds, till
looking round me, I found myself alone at his lordship's gate.

'My patience,' continued my son, 'was now quite exhausted: stung with
the thousand indignities I had met with, I was willing to cast myself
away, and only wanted the gulph to receive me. I regarded myself as one
of those vile things that nature designed should be thrown by into her
lumber room, there to perish in obscurity. I had still, however, half
a guinea left, and of that I thought fortune herself should not deprive
me: but in order to be sure of this, I was resolved to go instantly and
spend it while I had it, and then trust to occurrences for the rest.
As I was going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr Cripse's
office seemed invitingly open to give me a welcome reception. In this
office Mr Cripse kindly offers all his majesty's subjects a generous
promise of 30 pounds a year, for which promise all they give in return
is their liberty for life, and permission to let him transport them to
America as slaves. I was happy at finding a place where I could lose my
fears in desperation, and entered this cell, for it had the appearance
of one, with the devotion of a monastic. Here I found a number of poor
creatures, all in circumstances like myself, expecting the arrival of
Mr Cripse, presenting a true epitome of English impatience. Each
untractable soul at variance with fortune, wreaked her injuries on their
own hearts: but Mr Cripse at last came down, and all our murmurs were
hushed. He deigned to regard me with an air of peculiar approbation,
and indeed he was the first man who for a month past talked to me with
smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for every thing in the
world. He paused a while upon the properest means of providing for me,
and slapping his forehead, as if he had found it, assured me, that there
was at that time an embassy talked of from the synod of Pensylvania to
the Chickasaw Indians, and that he would use his interest to get me
made secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow lied, and yet
his promise gave me pleasure, there was something so magnificent in the
sound. I fairly, therefore, divided my half guinea, one half of which
went to be added to his thirty thousand pound, and with the other half I
resolved to go to the next tavern, to be there more happy than he.

'As I was going out with that resolution, I was met at the door by the
captain of a ship, with whom I had formerly some little acquaintance,
and he agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. As I never chose
to make a secret of my circumstances, he assured me that I was upon the
very point of ruin, in listening to the office-keeper's promises; for
that he only designed to sell me to the plantations. But, continued he,
I fancy you might, by a much shorter voyage, be very easily put into
a genteel way of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow for
Amsterdam; What if you go in her as a passenger? The moment you land all
you have to do is to teach the Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you'll
get pupils and money enough. I suppose you understand English, added he,
by this time, or the deuce is in it. I confidently assured him of
that; but expressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing to
learn English. He affirmed with an oath that they were fond of it to
distraction; and upon that affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and
embarked the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. The wind
was fair, our voyage short, and after having paid my passage with half
my moveables, I found myself, fallen as from the skies, a stranger
in one of the principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I was
unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in teaching. I addressed
myself therefore to two or three of those I met whose appearance
seemed most promising; but it was impossible to make ourselves mutually
understood. It was not till this very moment I recollected, that in
order to teach Dutchmen English, it was necessary that they should first
teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious an objection, is to me
amazing; but certain it is I overlooked it

'This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts of fairly shipping back
to England again; but happening into company with an Irish student,
who was returning from Louvain, our conversation turning upon topics of
literature, (for by the way it may be observed that I always forgot the
meanness of my circumstances when I could converse upon such subjects)
from him I learned that there were not two men in his whole university
who understood Greek. This amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel
to Louvain, and there live by teaching Greek; and in this design I was
heartened by my brother student, who threw out some hints that a fortune
might be got by it. 'I set boldly forward the next morning. Every day
lessened the burthen of my moveables, like Aesop and his basket of
bread; for I paid them for my lodgings to the Dutch as I travelled on.
When I came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneaking to the lower
professors, but openly tendered my talents to the principal himself.
I went, had admittance, and offered him my service as a master of
the Greek language, which I had been told was a desideratum in his
university. The principal seemed at first to doubt of my abilities;
but of these I offered to convince him, by turning a part of any Greek
author he should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly earnest in my
proposal, he addressed me thus: You see me, young man, continued he, I
never learned Greek, and I don't find that I have ever missed it. I have
had a doctor's cap and gown without Greek: I have ten thousand florins
a year without Greek; I eat heartily without Greek, and in short,
continued he, as I don't know Greek, I do not believe there is any good
in it.

'I was now too far from home to think of returning; so I resolved to go
forward. I had some knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now
turned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence.
I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of
the French as were poor enough to be very merry; for I ever found
them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a
peasant's house towards night-fall, I played one of my most merry tunes,
and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next
day. I once or twice attempted to play for people of fashion; but they
always thought my performance odious, and never rewarded me even with
a trifle. This was to me the more extraordinary, as whenever I used in
better days to play for company, when playing was my amusement, my music
never failed to throw them into raptures, and the ladies especially; but
as it was now my only means, it was received with contempt: a proof
how ready the world is to under rate those talents by which a man is
supported.

'In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no design but just to look
about me, and then to go forward. The people of Paris are much fonder of
strangers that have money, than of those that have wit. As I could not
boast much of either, I was no great favourite. After walking about the
town four or five days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I
was preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospitality, when passing
through one of the principal streets, whom should I meet but our cousin,
to whom you first recommended me. This meeting was very agreeable to me,
and I believe not displeasing to him. He enquired into the nature of my
journey to Paris, and informed me of his own business there, which was
to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and antiques of all kinds, for a
gentleman in London, who had just stept into taste and a large fortune.
I was the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon for this
office, as he himself had often assured me he knew nothing of the
matter. Upon my asking how he had been taught the art of a connoscento
so very suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. The whole
secret consisted in a strict adherence to two rules: the one always
to observe, that the picture might have been better if the painter had
taken more pains; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro Perugino.
But, says he, as I once taught you how to be an author in London, I'll
now undertake to instruct you in the art of picture buying at Paris.

'With this proposal I very readily closed, as it was a living, and now
all my ambition was to live. I went therefore to his lodgings, improved
my dress by his assistance, and after some time, accompanied him to
auctions of pictures, where the English gentry were expected to be
purchasers. I was not a little surprised at his intimacy with people
of the best fashion, who referred themselves to his judgment upon every
picture or medal, as to an unerring standard of taste. He made very good
use of my assistance upon these occasions; for when asked his opinion,
he would gravely take me aside, and ask mine, shrug, look wise, return,
and assure the company, that he could give no opinion upon an affair
of so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an occasion for a more
supported assurance. I remember to have seen him, after giving his
opinion that the colouring of a picture was not mellow enough, very
deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, that was accidentally
lying by, and rub it over the piece with great composure before all the
company, and then ask if he had not improved the tints.

'When he had finished his commission in Paris, he left me strongly
recommended to several men of distinction, as a person very proper for a
travelling tutor; and after some time I was employed in that capacity by
a gentleman who brought his ward to Paris, in order to set him forward
on his tour through Europe. I was to be the young gentleman's governor,
but with a proviso that he should always be permitted to govern himself.
My pupil in fact understood the art of guiding in money concerns much
better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two hundred thousand
pounds, left him by an uncle in the West Indies; and his guardians, to
qualify him for the management of it, had bound him apprentice to an
attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing passion: all his questions on
the road were how money might be saved, which was the least expensive
course of travel; whether any thing could be bought that would turn to
account when disposed of again in London. Such curiosities on the way
as could be seen for nothing he was ready enough to look at; but if the
sight of them was to be paid for, he usually asserted that he had been
told they were not worth seeing. He never paid a bill, that he would not
observe, how amazingly expensive travelling was, and all this though he
was not yet twenty-one. When arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to
look at the port and shipping, he enquired the expence of the passage by
sea home to England. This he was informed was but a trifle, compared
to his returning by land, he was therefore unable to withstand the
temptation; so paying me the small part of my salary that was due, he
took leave, and embarked with only one attendant for London.

'I now therefore was left once more upon the world at large, but then
it was a thing I was used to. However my skill in music could avail me
nothing in a country where every peasant was a better musician than
I; but by this time I had acquired another talent, which answered my
purpose as well, and this was a skill in disputation. In all the foreign
universities and convents, there are upon certain days philosophical
theses maintained against every adventitious disputant; for which, if
the champion opposes with any dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in
money, a dinner, and a bed, for one night. In this manner therefore I
fought my way towards England, walked along from city to city, examined
mankind more nearly, and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the
picture. My remarks, however, are but few: I found that monarchy was the
best government for the poor to live in, and commonwealths for the rich.
I found that riches in general were in every country another name for
freedom; and that no man is so fond of liberty himself as not to be
desirous of subjecting the will of some individuals in society to his
own.

'Upon my arrival in England, I resolved to pay my respects first to you,
and then to enlist as a volunteer in the first expedition that was going
forward; but on my journey down my resolutions were changed, by meeting
an old acquaintance, who I found belonged to a company of comedians,
that were going to make a summer campaign in the country. The company
seemed not much to disapprove of me for an associate. They all, however,
apprized me of the importance of the task at which I aimed; that the
public was a many headed monster, and that only such as had very good
heads could please it: that acting was not to be learnt in a day; and
that without some traditional shrugs, which had been on the stage, and
only on the stage, these hundred years, I could never pretend to please.
The next difficulty was in fitting me with parts, as almost every
character was in keeping. I was driven for some time from one character
to another, till at last Horatio was fixed upon, which the presence of
the present company has happily hindered me from acting.'



My son's account was too long to be delivered at once, the first part of
it was begun that night, and he was concluding the rest after dinner
the next day, when the appearance of Mr Thornhill's equipage at the door
seemed to make a pause in the general satisfaction. The butler, who was
now become my friend in the family, informed me with a whisper, that
the 'Squire had already made some overtures to Miss Wilmot, and that her
aunt and uncle seemed highly to approve the match. Upon Mr Thornhill's
entering, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start back; but I
readily imputed that to surprize, and not displeasure. However, upon our
advancing to salute him, he returned our greeting with the most apparent
candour; and after a short time, his presence served only to encrease
the general good humour.

After tea he called me aside, to enquire after my daughter; but upon
my informing him that my enquiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly
surprised; adding, that he had been since frequently at my house, in
order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he left perfectly well. He
then asked if I had communicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot, or my
son; and upon my replying that I had not told them as yet, he greatly
approved my prudence and precaution, desiring me by all means to keep
it a secret: 'For at best,' cried he, 'it is but divulging one's own
infamy; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty as we all imagine.'
We were here interrupted by a servant, who came to ask the 'Squire in,
to stand up at country dances; so that he left me quite pleased with the
interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His addresses, however, to
Miss Wilmot, were too obvious to be mistaken; and yet she seemed not
perfectly pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the will of her
aunt, than from real inclination. I had even the satisfaction to see her
lavish some kind looks upon my unfortunate son, which the other could
neither extort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr Thornhill's seeming
composure, however, not a little surprised me: we had now continued here
a week, at the pressing instances of Mr Arnold; but each day the more
tenderness Miss Wilmot shewed my son, Mr Thomhill's friendship seemed
proportionably to encrease for him.

He had formerly made us the most kind assurances of using his interest
to serve the family; but now his generosity was not confined to promises
alone: the morning I designed for my departure, Mr Thornhill came to me
with looks of real pleasure to inform me of a piece of service he
had done for his friend George. This was nothing less than his having
procured him an ensign's commission in one of the regiments that was
going to the West Indies, for which he had promised but one hundred
pounds, his interest having been sufficient to get an abatement of the
other two. 'As for this trifling piece of service,' continued the young
gentleman, 'I desire no other reward but the pleasure of having served
my friend; and as for the hundred pound to be paid, if you are unable to
raise it yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me at your
leisure.' This was a favour we wanted words to express our sense of.
I readily therefore gave my bond for the money, and testified as much
gratitude as if I never intended to pay.

George was to depart for town the next day to secure his commission,
in pursuance of his generous patron's directions, who judged it highly
expedient to use dispatch, lest in the mean time another should step in
with more advantageous proposals. The next morning, therefore, our young
soldier was early prepared for his departure, and seemed the only person
among us that was not affected by it. Neither the fatigues and dangers
he was going to encounter, nor the friends and mistress, for Miss Wilmot
actually loved him, he was leaving behind, any way damped his spirits.
After he had taken leave of the rest of the company, I gave him all I
had, my blessing. 'And now, my boy,' cried I, 'thou art going to fight
for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather fought for his
sacred king, when loyalty among Britons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and
immitate him in all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die
with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and if you fall, tho' distant, exposed
and unwept by those that love you, the most precious tears are those
with which heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier.'

The next morning I took leave of the good family, that had been kind
enough to entertain me so long, not without several expressions of
gratitude to Mr Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the
enjoyment of all that happiness which affluence and good breeding
procure, and returned towards home, despairing of ever finding my
daughter more, but sending a sigh to heaven to spare and to forgive her.
I was now come within about twenty miles of home, having hired an horse
to carry me, as I was yet but weak, and comforted myself with the hopes
of soon seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night coming on,
I put up at a little public-house by the roadside, and asked for the
landlord's company over a pint of wine. We sate beside his kitchen fire,
which was the best room in the house, and chatted on politics and the
news of the country. We happened, among other topics, to talk of young
'Squire Thornhill, who the host assured me was hated as much as his
uncle Sir William, who sometimes came down to the country, was loved.
He went on to observe, that he made it his whole study to betray the
daughters of such as received him to their houses, and after a fortnight
or three weeks possession, turned them out unrewarded and abandoned to
the world. As we continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who
had been out to get change, returned, and perceiving that her husband
was enjoying a pleasure in which she was not a sharer, she asked him,
in an angry tone, what he did there, to which he only replied in an
ironical way, by drinking her health. 'Mr Symmonds,' cried she, 'you
use me very ill, and I'll bear it no longer. Here three parts of the
business is left for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished; while you
do nothing but soak with the guests all day long, whereas if a spoonful
of liquor were to cure me of a fever, I never touch a drop.' I now found
what she would be at, and immediately poured her out a glass, which she
received with a curtesy, and drinking towards my good health, 'Sir,'
resumed she, 'it is not so much for the value of the liquor I am angry,
but one cannot help it, when the house is going out of the windows. If
the customers or guests are to be dunned, all the burthen lies upon my
back, he'd as lief eat that glass as budge after them himself.' There
now above stairs, we have a young woman who has come to take up
her lodgings here, and I don't believe she has got any money by her
over-civility. I am certain she is very slow of payment, and I wish she
were put in mind of it.'--'What signifies minding her,' cried the host,
'if she be slow, she is sure.'--'I don't know that,' replied the wife;
'but I know that I am sure she has been here a fortnight, and we have
not yet seen the cross of her money.'--'I suppose, my dear,' cried he,
'we shall have it all in a, lump.'--'In a lump!' cried the other, 'I
hope we may get it any way; and that I am resolved we will this very
night, or out she tramps, bag and baggage.'--'Consider, my dear,' cried
the husband, 'she is a gentlewoman, and deserves more respect.'--'As for
the matter of that,' returned the hostess, 'gentle or simple, out she
shall pack with a sassarara. Gentry may be good things where they
take; but for my part I never saw much good of them at the sign of the
Harrow.'--Thus saying, she ran up a narrow flight of stairs, that
went from the kitchen to a room over-head, and I soon perceived by the
loudness of her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, that no
money was to be had from her lodger. I could hear her remonstrances
very distinctly: 'Out I say, pack out this moment, tramp thou infamous
strumpet, or I'll give thee a mark thou won't be the better for this
three months. What! you trumpery, to come and take up an honest house,
without cross or coin to bless yourself with; come along I say.'--'O
dear madam,' cried the stranger, 'pity me, pity a poor abandoned
creature for one night, and death will soon do the rest.' I instantly
knew the voice of my poor ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue,
while the woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I caught the
dear forlorn wretch in my arms.--'Welcome, any way welcome, my dearest
lost one, my treasure, to your poor old father's bosom. Tho' the vicious
forsake thee, there is yet one in the world that will never forsake
thee; tho' thou hadst ten thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget
them all.'--'O my own dear'--for minutes she could no more--'my own
dearest good papa! Could angels be kinder! How do I deserve so much! The
villain, I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to such goodness. You
can't forgive me. I know you cannot.'--'Yes, my child, from my heart I
do forgive thee! Only repent, and we both shall yet be happy. We shall
see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia!'--'Ah! never, sir, never. The
rest of my wretched life must be infamy abroad and shame at home. But,
alas! papa, you look much paler than you used to do. Could such a thing
as I am give you so much uneasiness? Sure you have too much wisdom
to take the miseries of my guilt upon yourself.'--'Our wisdom, young
woman,' replied I.--'Ah, why so cold a name papa?' cried she. 'This is
the first time you ever called me by so cold a name.'--'I ask pardon, my
darling,' returned I; 'but I was going to observe, that wisdom makes but
a slow defence against trouble, though at last a sure one.

The landlady now returned to know if we did not chuse a more genteel
apartment, to which assenting, we were shewn a room, where we could
converse more freely. After we had talked ourselves into some degree of
tranquillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of the gradations
that led to her present wretched situation. 'That villain, sir,' said
she, 'from the first day of our meeting made me honourable, though
private, proposals.'

'Villain indeed,' cried I; 'and yet it in some measure surprizes me, how
a person of Mr Burchell's good sense and seeming honour could be guilty
of such deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to undo it.'

'My dear papa,' returned my daughter, 'you labour under a strange
mistake, Mr Burchell never attempted to deceive me. Instead of that he
took every opportunity of privately admonishing me against the artifices
of Mr Thornhill, who I now find was even worse than he represented
him.'--'Mr Thornhill,' interrupted I, 'can it be?'--'Yes, Sir,' returned
she, 'it was Mr Thornhill who seduced me, who employed the two ladies,
as he called them, but who, in fact, were abandoned women of the town,
without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. Their artifices,
you may remember would have certainly succeeded, but for Mr Burchell's
letter, who directed those reproaches at them, which we all applied
to ourselves. How he came to have so much influence as to defeat their
intentions, still remains a secret to me; but I am convinced he was ever
our warmest sincerest friend.'

'You amaze me, my dear,' cried I; 'but now I find my first suspicions
of Mr Thornhill's baseness were too well grounded: but he can triumph in
security; for he is rich and we are poor. But tell me, my child, sure it
was no small temptation that could thus obliterate all the impressions
of such an education, and so virtuous a disposition as thine.'

'Indeed, Sir,' replied she, 'he owes all his triumph to the desire I had
of making him, and not myself, happy. I knew that the ceremony of our
marriage, which was privately performed by a popish priest, was no way
binding, and that I had nothing to trust to but his honour.' 'What,'
interrupted I, 'and were you indeed married by a priest, and in
orders?'--'Indeed, Sir, we were,' replied she, 'though we were both
sworn to conceal his name.'--'Why then, my child, come to my arms again,
and now you are a thousand times more welcome than before; for you are
now his wife to all intents and purposes; nor can all the laws of man,
tho' written upon tables of adamant, lessen the force of that sacred
connexion.'

'Alas, Papa,' replied she, 'you are but little acquainted with his
villainies: he has been married already, by the same priest, to six or
eight wives more, whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned.'

'Has he so?' cried I, 'then we must hang the priest, and you shall
inform against him to-morrow.'--'But Sir,' returned she, 'will that be
right, when I am sworn to secrecy?'--'My dear,' I replied, 'if you have
made such a promise, I cannot, nor will I tempt you to break it. Even
tho' it may benefit the public, you must not inform against him. In all
human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure a greater good;
as in politics, a province may be given away to secure a kingdom; in
medicine, a limb may be lopt off, to preserve the body. But in religion
the law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And this law, my
child, is right: for otherwise, if we commit a smaller evil, to procure
a greater good, certain guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of
contingent advantage. And though the advantage should certainly follow,
yet the interval between commission and advantage, which is allowed to
be guilty, may be that in which we are called away to answer for the
things we have done, and the volume of human actions is closed for ever.
But I interrupt you, my dear, go on.'

'The very next morning,' continued she, 'I found what little
expectations I was to have from his sincerity. That very morning he
introduced me to two unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had deceived,
but who lived in contented prostitution. I loved him too tenderly to
bear such rivals in his affections, and strove to forget my infamy in a
tumult of pleasures. With this view, I danced, dressed, and talked; but
still was unhappy. The gentlemen who visited there told me every moment
of the power of my charms, and this only contributed to encrease my
melancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite away. Thus each day
I grew more pensive, and he more insolent, till at last the monster had
the assurance to offer me to a young Baronet of his acquaintance. Need I
describe, Sir, how his ingratitude stung me. My answer to this proposal
was almost madness. I desired to part. As I was going he offered me a
purse; but I flung it at him with indignation, and burst from him in
a rage, that for a while kept me insensible of the miseries of my
situation. But I soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, abject,
guilty thing, without one friend in the world to apply to. Just in that
interval, a stage-coach happening to pass by, I took a place, it being
my only aim to be driven at a distance from a wretch I despised and
detested. I was set down here, where, since my arrival, my own anxiety,
and this woman's unkindness, have been my only companions. The hours of
pleasure that I have passed with my mamma and sister, now grow painful
to me. Their sorrows are much; but mine is greater than theirs; for mine
are mixed with guilt and infamy.'

'Have patience, my child,' cried I, 'and I hope things will yet be
better. Take some repose to-night, and to-morrow I'll carry you home
to your mother and the rest of the family, from whom you will receive
a kind reception. Poor woman, this has gone to her heart: but she loves
you still, Olivia, and will forget it.



The next morning I took my daughter behind me, and set out on my return
home. As we travelled along, I strove, by every persuasion, to calm her
sorrows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to bear the presence
of her offended mother. I took every opportunity, from the prospect of a
fine country, through which we passed, to observe how much kinder heaven
was to us, than we to each other, and that the misfortunes of nature's
making were very few. I assured her, that she should never perceive any
change in my affections, and that during my life, which yet might be
long, she might depend upon a guardian and an instructor. I armed her
against the censures of the world, shewed her that books were sweet
unreproaching companions to the miserable, and that if they could not
bring us to enjoy life, they would at least teach us to endure it.

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up that night at an inn by
the way, within about five miles from my house, and as I was willing to
prepare my family for my daughter's reception, I determined to leave her
that night at the inn, and to return for her, accompanied by my daughter
Sophia, early the next morning. It was night before we reached our
appointed stage: however, after seeing her provided with a decent
apartment, and having ordered the hostess to prepare proper
refreshments, I kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now my heart
caught new sensations of pleasure the nearer I approached that peaceful
mansion. As a bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affections
out-went my haste, and hovered round my little fire-side, with all the
rapture of expectation. I called up the many fond things I had to say,
and anticipated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt my wife's
tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of my little ones. As I walked
but slowly, the night wained apace. The labourers of the day were all
retired to rest; the lights were out in every cottage; no sounds were
heard but of the shrilling cock, and the deep-mouthed watch-dog, at
hollow distance. I approached my little abode of pleasure, and before
I was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff came running to
welcome me.

It was now near mid-night that I came to knock at my door: all was still
and silent: my heart dilated with unutterable happiness, when, to my
amazement, I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and every
apperture red with conflagration! I gave a loud convulsive outcry, and
fell upon the pavement insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till
this been asleep, and he perceiving the flames, instantly waked my wife
and daughter, and all running out, naked, and wild with apprehension,
recalled me to life with their anguish. But it was only to objects of
new terror; for the flames had, by this time, caught the roof of our
dwelling, part after part continuing to fall in, while the family stood,
with silent agony, looking on, as if they enjoyed the blaze. I gazed
upon them and upon it by turns, and then looked round me for my two
little ones; but they were not to be seen. O misery! 'Where,' cried I,
'where are my little ones?'--'They are burnt to death in the flames,'
says my wife calmly, 'and I will die with them.'--That moment I heard
the cry of the babes within, who were just awaked by the fire, and
nothing could have stopped me. 'Where, where, are my children?' cried
I, rushing through the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in
which they were confined, 'Where are my little ones?'--'Here, dear papa,
here we are,' cried they together, while the flames were just catching
the bed where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, and snatched them
through the fire as fast as possible, while just as I was got out,
the roof sunk in. 'Now,' cried I, holding up my children, 'now let the
flames burn on, and all my possessions perish. Here they are, I have
saved my treasure. Here, my dearest, here are our treasures, and we
shall yet be happy.' We kissed our little darlings a thousand times,
they clasped us round the neck, and seemed to share our transports,
while their mother laughed and wept by turns.

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and after some time, began
to perceive that my arm to the shoulder was scorched in a terrible
manner. It was therefore out of my power to give my son any assistance,
either in attempting to save our goods, or preventing the flames
spreading to our corn. By this time, the neighbours were alarmed, and
came running to our assistance; but all they could do was to stand, like
us, spectators of the calamity. My goods, among which were the notes I
had reserved for my daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except
a box, with some papers that stood in the kitchen, and two or three
things more of little consequence, which my son brought away in the
beginning. The neighbours contributed, however, what they could to
lighten our distress. They brought us cloaths, and furnished one of our
out-houses with kitchen utensils; so that by day-light we had another,
tho' a wretched, dwelling to retire to. My honest next neighbour, and
his children, were not the least assiduous in providing us with
every thing necessary, and offering what ever consolation untutored
benevolence could suggest.

When the fears of my family had subsided, curiosity to know the cause
of my long stay began to take place; having therefore informed them of
every particular, I proceeded to prepare them for the reception of our
lost one, and tho' we had nothing but wretchedness now to impart, I was
willing to procure her a welcome to what we had. This task would have
been more difficult but for our recent calamity, which had humbled my
wife's pride, and blunted it by more poignant afflictions. Being unable
to go for my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, I sent my
son and daughter, who soon returned, supporting the wretched delinquent,
who had not the courage to look up at her mother, whom no instructions
of mine could persuade to a perfect reconciliation; for women have a
much stronger sense of female error than men. 'Ah, madam,' cried her
mother, 'this is but a poor place you are come to after so much finery.
My daughter Sophy and I can afford but little entertainment to persons
who have kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, Miss Livy,
your poor father and I have suffered very much of late; but I hope
heaven will forgive you.'--During this reception, the unhappy victim
stood pale and trembling, unable to weep or to reply; but I could not
continue a silent spectator of her distress, wherefore assuming a degree
of severity in my voice and manner, which was ever followed with instant
submission, 'I entreat, woman, that my words may be now marked once for
all: I have here brought you back a poor deluded wanderer; her return to
duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The real hardships of life
are now coming fast upon us, let us not therefore encrease them by
dissention among each other. If we live harmoniously together, we may
yet be contented, as there are enough of us to shut out the censuring
world, and keep each other in countenance. The kindness of heaven is
promised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the example.
Heaven, we are assured, is much more pleased to view a repentant sinner,
than ninety nine persons who have supported a course of undeviating
rectitude. And this is right; for that single effort by which we stop
short in the downhill path to perdition, is itself a greater exertion of
virtue, than an hundred acts of justice.'



Some assiduity was now required to make our present abode as convenient
as possible, and we were soon again qualified to enjoy our former
serenity. Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our usual
occupations, I read to my family from the few books that were saved, and
particularly from such, as, by amusing the imagination, contributed to
ease the heart. Our good neighbours too came every day with the kindest
condolence, and fixed a time in which they were all to assist at
repairing my former dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last among
these visitors; but heartily offered his friendship. He would even have
renewed his addresses to my daughter; but she rejected them in such a
manner as totally represt his future solicitations. Her grief seemed
formed for continuing, and she was the only person of our little
society that a week did not restore to cheerfulness. She now lost that
unblushing innocence which once taught her to respect herself, and to
seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had taken strong possession of
her mind, her beauty began to be impaired with her constitution, and
neglect still more contributed to diminish it. Every tender epithet
bestowed on her sister brought a pang to her heart and a tear to her
eye; and as one vice, tho' cured, ever plants others where it has been,
so her former guilt, tho' driven out by repentance, left jealousy and
envy behind. I strove a thousand ways to lessen her care, and even
forgot my own pain in a concern for her's, collecting such amusing
passages of history, as a strong memory and some reading could suggest.
'Our happiness, my dear,' I would say, 'is in the power of one who can
bring it about a thousand unforeseen ways, that mock our foresight. If
example be necessary to prove this, I'll give you a story, my child,
told us by a grave, tho' sometimes a romancing, historian.

'Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan nobleman of the first
quality, and found herself a widow and a mother at the age of fifteen.
As she stood one day caressing her infant son in the open window of an
apartment, which hung over the river Volturna, the child, with a sudden
spring, leaped from her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a
moment. The mother, struck with instant surprize, and making all effort
to save him, plunged in after; but, far from being able to assist the
infant, she herself with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore,
just when some French soldiers were plundering the country on that side,
who immediately made her their prisoner.

'As the war was then carried on between the French and Italians with
the utmost inhumanity, they were going at once to perpetrate those
two extremes, suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base resolution,
however, was opposed by a young officer, who, tho' their retreat
required the utmost expedition, placed her behind him, and brought her
in safety to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his eye, her
merit soon after his heart. They were married; he rose to the highest
posts; they lived long together, and were happy. But the felicity of
a soldier can never be called permanent: after an interval of several
years, the troops which he commanded having met with a repulse, he was
obliged to take shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife.
Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was taken. Few
histories can produce more various instances of cruelty, than those
which the French and Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It
was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put all the French
prisoners to death; but particularly the husband of the unfortunate
Matilda, as he was principally instrumental in protracting the siege.
Their determinations were, in general, executed almost as soon as
resolved upon. The captive soldier was led forth, and the executioner,
with his sword, stood ready, while the spectators in gloomy silence
awaited the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the general, who
presided as judge, should give the signal. It was in this interval of
anguish and expectation, that Matilda came to take her last farewell
of her husband and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and the
cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing by a premature death
in the river Volturna, to be the spectator of still greater calamities.
The general, who was a young man, was struck with surprize at her
beauty, and pity at her distress; but with still stronger emotions when
he heard her mention her former dangers. He was her son, the infant for
whom she had encounter'd so much danger. He acknowledged her at once as
his mother, and fell at her feet. The rest may be easily supposed: the
captive was set free, and all the happiness that love, friendship, and
duty could confer on each, were united.'

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my daughter; but she listened
with divided attention; for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity
she once had for those of another, and nothing gave her ease. In company
she dreaded contempt; and in solitude she only found anxiety. Such was
the colour of her wretchedness, when we received certain information,
that Mr Thornhill was going to be married to Miss Wilmot, for whom I
always suspected he had a real passion, tho' he took every opportunity
before me to express his contempt both of her person and fortune. This
news only served to encrease poor Olivia's affliction; such a flagrant
breach of fidelity, was more than her courage could support. I was
resolved, however, to get more certain information, and to defeat, if
possible, the completion of his designs, by sending my son to old Mr
Wilmot's, with instructions to know the truth of the report, and to
deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr Thornhill's conduct in my
family. My son went, in pursuance of my directions, and in three days
returned, assuring us of the truth of the account; but that he had found
it impossible to deliver the letter, which he was therefore obliged to
leave, as Mr Thornhill and Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country.
They were to be married, he said, in a few days, having appeared
together at church the Sunday before he was there, in great splendour,
the bride attended by six young ladies, and he by as many gentlemen.
Their approaching nuptials filled the whole country with rejoicing, and
they usually rode out together in the grandest equipage that had been
seen in the country for many years. All the friends of both families,
he said, were there, particularly the 'Squire's uncle, Sir William
Thornhill, who bore so good a character. He added, that nothing but
mirth and feasting were going forward; that all the country praised the
young bride's beauty, and the bridegroom's fine person, and that they
were immensely fond of each other; concluding, that he could not help
thinking Mr Thornhill one of the most happy men in the world.

'Why let him if he can,' returned I: 'but, my son, observe this bed of
straw, and unsheltering roof; those mouldering walls, and humid floor;
my wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my children weeping round
me for bread; you have come home, my child, to all this, yet here,
even here, you see a man that would not for a thousand worlds exchange
situations. O, my children, if you could but learn to commune with your
own hearts, and know what noble company you can make them, you would
little regard the elegance and splendours of the worthless. Almost
all men have been taught to call life a passage, and themselves the
travellers. The similitude still may be improved when we observe that
the good are joyful and serene, like travellers that are going towards
home; the wicked but by intervals happy, like travellers that are going
into exile.'

My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered by this new disaster,
interrupted what I had farther to observe. I bade her mother support
her, and after a short time she recovered. She appeared from that time
more calm, and I imagined had gained a new degree of resolution;
but appearances deceived me; for her tranquility was the langour of
over-wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charitably sent us by
my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse new cheerfulness amongst the
rest of the family, nor was I displeased at seeing them once more
sprightly and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their
satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melancholy, or to burthen
them with a sadness they did not feel. Thus, once more, the tale went
round and the song was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended to hover
round our little habitation.



The next morning the sun rose with peculiar warmth for the season; so
that we agreed to breakfast together on the honeysuckle bank: where,
while we sate, my youngest daughter, at my request, joined her voice to
the concert on the trees about us. It was in this place my poor Olivia
first met her seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness.
But that melancholy, which is excited by objects of pleasure, or
inspired by sounds of harmony, sooths the heart instead of corroding it.
Her mother too, upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept,
and loved her daughter as before. 'Do, my pretty Olivia,' cried she,
'let us have that little melancholy air your pappa was so fond of, your
sister Sophy has already obliged us. Do child, it will please your old
father.' She complied in a manner so exquisitely pathetic as moved me.


When lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can sooth her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To
give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom--is to die.


As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an interruption in
her voice from sorrow gave peculiar softness, the appearance of Mr
Thornhill's equipage at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly
encreased the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous of
shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with her sister. In a few
minutes he was alighted from his chariot, and making up to the place
where I was still sitting, enquired after my health with his usual air
of familiarity. 'Sir,' replied I, 'your present assurance only serves
to aggravate the baseness of your character; and there was a time when I
would have chastised your insolence, for presuming thus to appear before
me. But now you are safe; for age has cooled my passions, and my calling
restrains them.'

'I vow, my dear sir,' returned he, 'I am amazed at all this; nor can I
understand what it means! I hope you don't think your daughter's late
excursion with me had any thing criminal in it.'

'Go,' cried I, 'thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful wretch, and every
way a lyar; but your meanness secures you from my anger! Yet sir, I am
descended from a family that would not have borne this! And so, thou
vile thing, to gratify a momentary passion, thou hast made one poor
creature wretched for life, and polluted a family that had nothing but
honour for their portion.'

'If she or you,' returned he, 'are resolved to be miserable, I cannot
help it. But you may still be happy; and whatever opinion you may have
formed of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to it. We can
marry her to another in a short time, and what is more, she may keep her
lover beside; for I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard
for her.'

I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrading proposal; for
though the mind may often be calm under great injuries, little villainy
can at any time get within the soul, and sting it into rage.--'Avoid
my sight, thou reptile,' cried I, 'nor continue to insult me with thy
presence. Were my brave son at home, he would not suffer this; but I am
old, and disabled, and every way undone.'

'I find,' cried he, 'you are bent upon obliging me to talk in an harsher
manner than I intended. But as I have shewn you what may be hoped from
my friendship, it may not be improper to represent what may be the
consequences of my resentment. My attorney, to whom your late bond
has been transferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent the
course of justice, except by paying the money myself, which, as I have
been at some expences lately, previous to my intended marriage, is not
so easy to be done. And then my steward talks of driving for the rent:
it is certain he knows his duty; for I never trouble myself with affairs
of that nature. Yet still I could wish to serve you, and even to have
you and your daughter present at my marriage, which is shortly to be
solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is even the request of my charming
Arabella herself, whom I hope you will not refuse.'

'Mr Thornhill,' replied I, 'hear me once for all: as to your marriage
with any but my daughter, that I never will consent to; and though your
friendship could raise me to a throne, or your resentment sink me to the
grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once wofully, irreparably,
deceived me. I reposed my heart upon thine honour, and have found its
baseness. Never more, therefore, expect friendship from me. Go, and
possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, riches, health, and
pleasure. Go, and leave me to want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet
humbled as I am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity, and though
thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have my contempt.'

'If so,' returned he, 'depend upon it you shall feel the effects of
this insolence, and we shall shortly see which is the fittest object of
scorn, you or me.'--Upon which he departed abruptly.

My wife and son, who were present at this interview, seemed terrified
with the apprehension. My daughters also, finding that he was gone, came
out to be informed of the result of our conference, which, when known,
alarmed them not less than the rest. But as to myself, I disregarded the
utmost stretch of his malevolence: he had already struck the blow,
and now I stood prepared to repel every new effort. Like one of those
instruments used in the art of war, which, however thrown, still
presents a point to receive the enemy.

We soon, however, found that he had not threatened in vain; for the very
next morning his steward came to demand my annual rent, which, by the
train of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. The consequence
of my incapacity was his driving my cattle that evening, and their being
appraised and sold the next day for less than half their value. My wife
and children now therefore entreated me to comply upon any terms, rather
than incur certain destruction. They even begged of me to admit his
visits once more, and used all their little eloquence to paint the
calamities I was going to endure. The terrors of a prison, in so
rigorous a season as the present, with the danger, that threatened my
health from the late accident that happened by the fire. But I continued
inflexible.

'Why, my treasures,' cried I, 'why will you thus attempt to persuade me
to the thing that is not right! My duty has taught me to forgive him;
but my conscience will not permit me to approve. Would you have me
applaud to the world what my heart must internally condemn? Would you
have me tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer; and to
avoid a prison continually suffer the more galling bonds of mental
confinement! No, never. If we are to be taken from this abode, only let
us hold to the right, and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire
to a charming apartment, when we can look round our own hearts with
intrepidity and with pleasure!'

In this manner we spent that evening. Early the next morning, as the
snow had fallen in great abundance in the night, my son was employed in
clearing it away, and opening a passage before the door. He had not been
thus engaged long, when he came running in, with looks all pale, to
tell us that two strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice, were
making towards the house.

Just as he spoke they came in, and approaching the bed where I lay,
after previously informing me of their employment and business, made me
their prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the county gaol,
which was eleven miles off.

'My friends,' said I, 'this is severe weather on which you have come to
take me to a prison; and it is particularly unfortunate at this time,
as one of my arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and it has
thrown me into a slight fever, and I want cloaths to cover me, and I am
now too weak and old to walk far in such deep snow: but if it must be
so--'

I then turned to my wife and children, and directed them to get together
what few things were left us, and to prepare immediately for leaving
this place. I entreated them to be expeditious, and desired my son to
assist his elder sister, who, from a consciousness that she was the
cause of all our calamities, was fallen, and had lost anguish in
insensibility. I encouraged my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped
our affrighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her bosom in
silence, dreading to look round at the strangers. In the mean time
my youngest daughter prepared for our departure, and as she received
several hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were ready to depart.

 Farmer Williams visits the family one day when the squire is there. The farmer's clear passion for Olivia seems to bother Squire Thornhill, and Olivia suggests to her father that the squire must have a reason for delaying in his proposal. The vicar and Deborah then decide to set a date by which Squire Thornhill must act, after which they will give Olivia's hand to Farmer Williams. Slyly, they let the squire know about this date. When the allotted time passes, the disappointed family prepares for Olivia's impending marriage to the farmer. One day, they are having a nice time together, during which the youngest son Bill sings a song entitled "An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog." In the song, a man is bitten by a dog he loved, which saddens his neighbors, who believe he will die of the bite. However, they are happy when the man survives and the dog dies instead. Happy, the vicar notes how grateful he is that his family has such "tranquility, health, and competence" . Suddenly, Dick arrives with news that Olivia has left in a post-chaise with a gentleman who kissed her and said he loved her. Incensed, the vicar demands his pistols and prepares to set out after whomever this man is, but Deborah and Moses chide him for his excessive passion, and he calms down. After settling, he reflects on how he has lost his worldly happiness, and will have to find it in the afterlife. The next morning, the calm and confident vicar prepares to set out after Olivia, whom he will welcome back despite her sin, hoping to guide her to repentance. Chapter XVIII The vicar first suspects Squire Thornhill of the crime, but finds the man alone at home. Thornhill is shocked to learn of what has happened. The vicar then suspects Mr. Burchell, whom he remembers recently seeing in conversation with Olivia. He walks towards the races, where he sees a crowd of people. There, he believes he sees Burchell, but is not certain. After walking about seventy miles from home, the vicar falls into a fever from stress and despair. He is forced to stop at an inn, where he stays for three weeks while recovering. Left to his thoughts, the vicar develops a shame in his pride, since it had caused him trouble. After recovering, he sets off back towards home. On his way, he comes across a company of actors, and enjoys conversing with them as they travel together. However, he is embarrassed to be in their company when they arrive in the village, so he breaks off for an ale-house. There, a man asks him about his relationship to the company, and the vicar denies any association with them. The men then discuss politics for a while, and the man invites the vicar to dine at his home. Chapter XIX The vicar accompanies the man to a magnificent mansion, where they continue to discuss politics over dinner. The man proves to be almost radical in his opinions, boasting that liberty is his ultimate goal. The vicar agrees that liberty is important, but believes that some men are born to rule while others are born to submit. He also argues that the rich are helpful because they diminish monarchial power by trying to claim it for themselves. It is within the middle class that art, wisdom, and virtue may be found. The vicar concludes by saying that he has known of many people who claim to be for liberty even though they are truly tyrants. The man insults the vicar over his opinions, but they are interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Arnold, the house's true master. It turns out that this man was only the butler, pretending to be the master. Mr. Arnold apologizes to the vicar, but the latter is distracted to see Miss Arabella Wilmot, the young woman who was engaged to his son George at the novel's beginning. It turns out that Mr. and Mrs. Arnold are her aunt and uncle. Seeing that his niece cares for the vicar, Mr. Arnold invites him to stay for a few days. The next morning, Miss Wilmot asks after George, and the vicar sadly explains that he has not heard from his son for over three years. They talk through the afternoon, until they encounter the company manager of the theatre troupe, who sells them tickets to the show, in which Horatio will be played by a young man who is perfect for the role even though he lacks any acting experience. At the show that night, Miss Wilmot and the vicar are shocked to realize that this young man is in fact George Primrose. When George sees them in the audience, he bursts into tears and flees the stage. When the vicar later explains the situation to Mr. Arnold and his wife, they send a coach for him so he can join them at the Arnold home. Though seemingly very sad, Miss Wilmot also expresses some happiness at the impending reunion. Chapter XX George joins the Arnolds, his father, and former fiancee. The vicar is surprised to discover that George lives in poverty, since he was supposed to earn money for the family. Eventually, George tells the story of his adventures. He first went to London and met up with his cousin, as planned. He intended to work as an usher at the academy, but the cousin discouraged him from this plan, instead suggesting he become a writer. George liked the idea, but found little success in writing about topics that actually interested him. One day, he ran into a classmate from Oxford - Ned Thornhill, whom the vicar knows as Squire Thornhill. Pitying George, the squire hired him as a personal assistant. Though George performed well in the position, the squire was generally more impressed by a sycophantic marine captain. Over time, George became less impressed with the squire, whom it seemed loved flattery above all else. Eventually, the squire asked George to fight a duel on his behalf, in a matter concerning a lady's honor. Though he felt terribly about it , he performed well. When Squire Thornhill had to leave town and could not take George with him, he suggested George contact his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, to secure a post there. Carrying a recommendation letter from the squire, George bribed one of Sir William's servants to secure an interview with the man. However, Sir William discerned from his nephew's recommendation that George must have fought a duel for the squire, and dismissed him as an unsuitable man. Exhausted and discouraged, George visited a man named Mr. Cripse, who arranges for people to work in America as veritable slaves. Mr. Cripse promised to appoint George as a secretary to a Pennsylvania synod on Indian relations, and though George doubted the man, he was desperate enough to agree. However, an old captain friend learned of George's plan, and instead convinced George to sail to Amsterdam, where he could teach English to the Dutch. George spent his last money on passage, but realized when he arrived in Amsterdam that he could not teach English without first knowing Dutch. He then traveled to Louvain to teach Greek, which he learned at Oxford, but found little demand for it. He turned then to music, but found that France had much better musicians than him. While in France, he reunited with his cousin, who set George up with a job buying pictures for rich people. Though George knew little about paintings, the cousin convinced him that it was more about conning people than actually knowing about the work. After working shortly in this field, George worked as a tutor with a young man traveling through Europe. Eventually, the student left him behind, and George was stranded again. He made his way back to England, where he earned a living by disputation . He intended to make his way back to his family, but along the way encountered the acting company. He knew one of the actors, and was hired by them to play Horatio. Chapter XXI The butler has become a friend to the vicar since the latter convinced Mr. Arnold not to fire him. He informs the vicar that Squire Thornhill has made overtures to Miss Wilmot, and will be visiting. When the squire does arrives to pay his compliments, he is surprised to find the vicar there, and asks after Olivia. It is clear that the squire is pursuing Miss Wilmot, but she does not seem pleased by it, instead mostly devoting her attention to George. One day, the squire happily announces that he has found George an ensign's commission in a regiment traveling to the West Indies. George is pleased, but the rest of the group is sad to see him go. After George leaves, the vicar sets off for his own home. Along the way, he stops at a public-house for a drink, and converses with the affable innkeeper, who tells him how loathed the squire is by his tenants in the area. While they talk, the landlord's wife enters, complaining about a female guest who continues to stay there even though she has no money. The vicar hears the girl pleading for pity, and realizes it is Olivia. He rushes to her, finding her in a wretched state, and forgives her. Olivia tells her story. It was indeed Squire Thornhill who abducted her. It turns out that the fashionable ladies were actually ill-bred tramps from town, who were acting as decoys to get the vicar's permission to send Olivia and Sophia to London. Mr. Burchell's letter - which was actually insulting the reputation of these ladies, and not of the Primrose girls - scared them off, which is why the fake appointment to London spots never went through. Olivia soon after married Squire Thornhill in a secret, Catholic ceremony, but was then removed to a type of brothel where other women lived. She learned soon enough that the squire had married eight other women in a similar manner. Realizing how some of the women had acclimated to their lives as prostitutes, she confronted the squire, who threatened to give her to a friend if she did not behave. She then fled the house, and begged passage on a stage-coach that brought her finally to the inn where the vicar found her. Chapter XXII The vicar and Olivia depart for home, but he leaves her at a nearby inn so he can prepare the family for her return. However, he arrives to find his home violently aflame. The family is distraught outside, with the two youngest boys trapped in the house. The vicar burst inside and rescues them. The family is amazed by their sudden loss, but are happy to be alive and safe. Nobody has been hurt save the vicar, whose arm was scorched in the rescue. Their neighbors prove generous in the aftermath, and the family is more prepared to accept Olivia back in the face of the calamity. When Olivia arrives, Deborah initially acts coldly towards her. The vicar chides his wife, insisting that "the real hardships of life are now coming fast upon us, let us not therefore encrease them by dissension among each other" . Deborah agrees, and warms to her daughter. Chapter XXIII The family works to recover from their calamity. Their neighbors continue to prove helpful, especially Farmer Williams, who cares for Olivia despite her recent shame. Nevertheless, she is not interested in him, and instead stews in her grief. The vicar tries to amuse his daughter with stories, but she only broods on her misfortune. Soon enough, her grief turns to jealousy and resentment of Sophia. The family is further upset to learn that Miss Wilmot has been engaged to Squire Thornhill. The vicar sends Moses to Miss Wilmot with a letter describing the squire's true character, but Moses finds it impossible to gain an audience with her. Therefore, he leaves it with a servant. Eventually, the family manages to find some cheerfulness by reflecting upon the kindness of their neighbors. Chapter XXIV The family regularly breakfasts outside at the honeysuckle bank, even though it makes Olivia melancholy since this is the spot where she first met the squire. One day, they are alarmed to see that man approaching. When he joins them, acting as though nothing has changed, the vicar angrily calls him a "poor pitiful wretch". After attempting to feign ignorance, the squire angrily concedes that he will keep Olivia as wife and allow her to keep a lover. When the vicar more violently insults the squire in turn, the latter threatens that the vicar will soon regret such animosity, and then leaves. The Squire's threat prove to be true. The next morning, a steward arrives to demand rent that the vicar obviously cannot pay. The family begs him to apologize to and negotiate with the squire, but he refuses to "tamely sit down and flatter our infamous betrayer" . The next morning, two officers arrest the vicar for non-payment of rent. He instructs his family to gather their things and prepare to depart immediately.

