Chapter: I was ever of opinion, that the honest man who married and brought up
a large family, did more service than he who continued single, and only
talked of population. From this motive, I had scarce taken orders a year
before I began to think seriously of matrimony, and chose my wife as she
did her wedding gown, not for a fine glossy surfaces but such qualities
as would wear well. To do her justice, she was a good-natured notable
woman; and as for breeding, there were few country ladies who could shew
more. She could read any English book without much spelling, but for
pickling, preserving, and cookery, none could excel her. She prided
herself also upon being an excellent contriver in house-keeping; tho' I
could never find that we grew richer with all her contrivances. However,
we loved each other tenderly, and our fondness encreased as we grew old.
There was in fact nothing that could make us angry with the world or
each other. We had an elegant house, situated in a fine country, and a
good neighbourhood. The year was spent in moral or rural amusements; in
visiting our rich neighbours, and relieving such as were poor. We had no
revolutions to fear, nor fatigues to undergo; all our adventures were by
the fire-side, and all our migrations from the blue bed to the brown.

As we lived near the road, we often had the traveller or stranger visit
us to taste our gooseberry wine, for which we had great reputation; and
I profess with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew one of
them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even to the fortieth remove,
all remembered their affinity, without any help from the Herald's
office, and came very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no great
honour by these claims of kindred; as we had the blind, the maimed, and
the halt amongst the number. However, my wife always insisted that as
they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit with us at the same
table. So that if we had not, very rich, we generally had very happy
friends about us; for this remark will hold good thro' life, that the
poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is with being treated: and
as some men gaze with admiration at the colours of a tulip, or the wing
of a butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy human faces.
However, when any one of our relations was found to be a person of very
bad character, a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of,
upon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend him a riding coat,
or a pair of boots, or sometimes an horse of small value, and I always
had the satisfaction of finding he never came back to return them. By
this the house was cleared of such as we did not like; but never was the
family of Wakefield known to turn the traveller or the poor dependent
out of doors.

Thus we lived several years in a state of much happiness, not but that
we sometimes had those little rubs which Providence sends to enhance the
value of its favours. My orchard was often robbed by school-boys, and my
wife's custards plundered by the cats or the children. The 'Squire would
sometimes fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, or his
lady return my wife's civilities at church with a mutilated curtesy. But
we soon got over the uneasiness caused by such accidents, and usually in
three or four days began to wonder how they vext us.

My children, the offspring of temperance, as they were educated without
softness, so they were at once well formed and healthy; my sons hardy
and active, my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I stood in the
midst of the little circle, which promised to be the supports of my
declining age, I could not avoid repeating the famous story of Count
Abensberg, who, in Henry II's progress through Germany, while other
courtiers came with their treasures, brought his thirty-two children,
and presented them to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had
to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I considered them as a
very valuable present made to my country, and consequently looked upon
it as my debtor. Our eldest son was named George, after his uncle, who
left us ten thousand pounds. Our second child, a girl, I intended to
call after her aunt Grissel; but my wife, who during her pregnancy had
been reading romances, insisted upon her being called Olivia. In less
than another year we had another daughter, and now I was determined that
Grissel should be her name; but a rich relation taking a fancy to stand
godmother, the girl was, by her directions, called Sophia; so that we
had two romantic names in the family; but I solemnly protest I had no
hand in it. Moses was our next, and after an interval of twelve years,
we had two sons more.

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I saw my little ones
about me; but the vanity and the satisfaction of my wife were even
greater than mine. When our visitors would say, 'Well, upon my word,
Mrs Primrose, you have the finest children in the whole country.'--'Ay,
neighbour,' she would answer, 'they are as heaven made them, handsome
enough, if they be good enough; for handsome is that handsome does.'
And then she would bid the girls hold up their heads; who, to conceal
nothing, were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so very trifling
a circumstance with me, that I should scarce have remembered to mention
it, had it not been a general topic of conversation in the country.
Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of beauty with which
painters generally draw Hebe; open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's
features were not so striking at first; but often did more certain
execution; for they were soft, modest, and alluring. The one vanquished
by a single blow, the other by efforts successfully repeated.

The temper of a woman is generally formed from the turn of her features,
at least it was so with my daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers,
Sophia to secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great a desire
to please. Sophia even represt excellence from her fears to offend. The
one entertained me with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with
her sense when I was serious. But these qualities were never carried to
excess in either, and I have often seen them exchange characters for a
whole day together. A suit of mourning has transformed my coquet into a
prude, and a new set of ribbands has given her younger sister more than
natural vivacity. My eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I intended
him for one of the learned professions. My second boy Moses, whom I
designed for business, received a sort of a miscellaneous education at
home. But it is needless to attempt describing the particular characters
of young people that had seen but very little of the world. In short, a
family likeness prevailed through all, and properly speaking, they
had but one character, that of being all equally generous, credulous,
simple, and inoffensive.




The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly committed to my wife's
management, as to the spiritual I took them entirely under my own
direction. The profits of my living, which amounted to but thirty-five
pounds a year, I made over to the orphans and widows of the clergy of
our diocese; for having a sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless
of temporalities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty without
reward. I also set a resolution of keeping no curate, and of being
acquainted with every man in the parish, exhorting the married men to
temperance and the bachelors to matrimony; so that in a few years it
was a common saying, that there were three strange wants at Wakefield,
a parson wanting pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses wanting
customers. Matrimony was always one of my favourite topics, and I wrote
several sermons to prove its happiness: but there was a peculiar tenet
which I made a point of supporting; for I maintained with Whiston, that
it was unlawful for a priest of the church of England, after the death
of his first wife, to take a second, or to express it in one word, I
valued myself upon being a strict monogamist. I was early innitiated
into this important dispute, on which so many laborious volumes have
been written. I published some tracts upon the subject myself, which, as
they never sold, I have the consolation of thinking are read only by the
happy Few. Some of my friends called this my weak side; but alas! they
had not like me made it the subject of long contemplation. The more I
reflected upon it, the more important it appeared. I even went a step
beyond Whiston in displaying my principles: as he had engraven upon his
wife's tomb that she was the only wife of William Whiston; so I wrote
a similar epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I extolled
her prudence, oeconomy, and obedience till death; and having got
it copied fair, with an elegant frame, it was placed over the
chimney-piece, where it answered several very useful purposes. It
admonished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to her; it
inspired her with a passion for fame, and constantly put her in mind of
her end.

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so often recommended, that
my eldest son, just upon leaving college, fixed his affections upon the
daughter of a neighbouring clergyman, who was a dignitary in the church,
and in circumstances to give her a large fortune: but fortune was her
smallest accomplishment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all,
except my two daughters, to be completely pretty. Her youth, health,
and innocence, were still heightened by a complexion so transparent, and
such an happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze on with
indifference. As Mr Wilmot knew that I could make a very handsome
settlement on my son, he was not averse to the match; so both families
lived together in all that harmony which generally precedes an expected
alliance. Being convinced by experience that the days of courtship
are the most happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen the
period; and the various amusements which the young couple every day
shared in each other's company, seemed to encrease their passion. We
were generally awaked in the morning by music, and on fine days rode a
hunting. The hours between breakfast and dinner the ladies devoted to
dress and study: they usually read a page, and then gazed at themselves
in the glass, which even philosophers might own often presented the page
of greatest beauty. At dinner my wife took the lead; for as she always
insisted upon carving every thing herself, it being her mother's way,
she gave us upon these occasions the history of every dish. When we had
dined, to prevent the ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table
to be removed; and sometimes, with the music master's assistance, the
girls would give us a very agreeable concert. Walking out, drinking tea,
country dances, and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without the
assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gaming, except backgammon,
at which my old friend and I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I
here pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the last time we
played together: I only wanted to fling a quatre, and yet I threw deuce
ace five times running. Some months were elapsed in this manner, till
at last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the nuptials of the
young couple, who seemed earnestly to desire it. During the preparations
for the wedding, I need not describe the busy importance of my wife,
nor the sly looks of my daughters: in fact, my attention was fixed
on another object, the completing a tract which I intended shortly to
publish in defence of my favourite principle. As I looked upon this as a
master-piece both for argument and style, I could not in the pride of my
heart avoid shewing it to my old friend Mr Wilmot, as I made no doubt
of receiving his approbation; but not till too late I discovered that
he was most violently attached to the contrary opinion, and with good
reason; for he was at that time actually courting a fourth wife. This,
as may be expected, produced a dispute attended with some acrimony,
which threatened to interrupt our intended alliance: but on the day
before that appointed for the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject
at large. It was managed with proper spirit on both sides: he asserted
that I was heterodox, I retorted the charge: he replied, and I rejoined.
In the mean time, while the controversy was hottest, I was called out by
one of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised me to give up
the dispute, at least till my son's wedding was over. 'How,' cried
I, 'relinquish the cause of truth, and let him be an husband, already
driven to the very verge of absurdity. You might as well advise me to
give up my fortune as my argument.' 'Your fortune,' returned my friend,
'I am now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The merchant in town,
in whose hands your money was lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute
of bankruptcy, and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound.
I was unwilling to shock you or the family with the account till
after the wedding: but now it may serve to moderate your warmth in the
argument; for, I suppose, your own prudence will enforce the necessity
of dissembling at least till your son has the young lady's fortune
secure.'--'Well,' returned I, 'if what you tell me be true, and if I am
to be a beggar, it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to
disavow my principles. I'll go this moment and inform the company of my
circumstances; and as for the argument, I even here retract my former
concessions in the old gentleman's favour, nor will I allow him now to
be an husband in any sense of the expression.'

It would be endless to describe the different sensations of both
families when I divulged the news of our misfortune; but what others
felt was slight to what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr Wilmot, who
seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off the match, was by
this blow soon determined: one virtue he had in perfection, which was
prudence, too often the only one that is left us at seventy-two.



The only hope of our family now was, that the report of our misfortunes
might be malicious or premature: but a letter from my agent in town soon
came with a confirmation of every particular. The loss of fortune to
myself alone would have been trifling; the only uneasiness I felt was
for my family, who were to be humble without an education to render them
callous to contempt.

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to restrain their
affliction; for premature consolation is but the remembrancer of sorrow.
During this interval, my thoughts were employed on some future means of
supporting them; and at last a small Cure of fifteen pounds a year was
offered me in a distant neighbourhood, where I could still enjoy my
principles without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully closed,
having determined to encrease my salary by managing a little farm.

Having taken this resolution, my next care was to get together the
wrecks of my fortune; and all debts collected and paid, out of fourteen
thousand pounds we had but four hundred remaining. My chief attention
therefore was now to bring down the pride of my family to their
circumstances; for I well knew that aspiring beggary is wretchedness
itself. 'You cannot be ignorant, my children,' cried I, 'that no
prudence of ours could have prevented our late misfortune; but prudence
may do much in disappointing its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings,
and wisdom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let us then, without
repining, give up those splendours with which numbers are wretched, and
seek in humbler circumstances that peace with which all may be happy.
The poor live pleasantly without our help, why then should not we learn
to live without theirs. No, my children, let us from this moment give up
all pretensions to gentility; we have still enough left for happiness
if we are wise, and let us draw upon content for the deficiencies of
fortune.' As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined to send him
to town, where his abilities might contribute to our support and his
own. The separation of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most
distressful circumstances attendant on penury. The day soon arrived on
which we were to disperse for the first time. My son, after taking leave
of his mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with their kisses,
came to ask a blessing from me. This I gave him from my heart, and
which, added to five guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow.
'You are going, my boy,' cried I, 'to London on foot, in the manner
Hooker, your great ancestor, travelled there before you. Take from me
the same horse that was given him by the good bishop Jewel, this staff,
and take this book too, it will be your comfort on the way: these two
lines in it are worth a million, I have been young, and now am old; yet
never saw I the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread.
Let this be your consolation as you travel on. Go, my boy, whatever be
thy fortune let me see thee once a year; still keep a good heart, and
farewell.' As he was possest of integrity and honour, I was under no
apprehensions from throwing him naked into the amphitheatre of life; for
I knew he would act a good part whether vanquished or victorious. His
departure only prepared the way for our own, which arrived a few days
afterwards. The leaving a neighbourhood in which we had enjoyed so many
hours of tranquility, was not without a tear, which scarce fortitude
itself could suppress. Besides, a journey of seventy miles to a family
that had hitherto never been above ten from home, filled us with
apprehension, and the cries of the poor, who followed us for some miles,
contributed to encrease it. The first day's journey brought us in safety
within thirty miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the night
at an obscure inn in a village by the way. When we were shewn a room, I
desired the landlord, in my usual way, to let us have his company,
with which he complied, as what he drank would encrease the bill next
morning. He knew, however, the whole neighbourhood to which I was
removing, particularly 'Squire Thornhill, who was to be my landlord, and
who lived within a few miles of the place. This gentleman he described
as one who desired to know little more of the world than its pleasures,
being particularly remarkable for his attachment to the fair sex. He
observed that no virtue was able to resist his arts and assiduity, and
that scarce a farmer's daughter within ten miles round but what had
found him successful and faithless. Though this account gave me some
pain, it had a very different effect upon my daughters, whose features
seemed to brighten with the expectation of an approaching triumph, nor
was my wife less pleased and confident of their allurements and virtue.
While our thoughts were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to
inform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who had been two days in
the house, wanted money, and could not satisfy them for his reckoning.
'Want money!' replied the host, 'that must be impossible; for it was no
later than yesterday he paid three guineas to our beadle to spare an
old broken soldier that was to be whipped through the town for
dog-stealing.' The hostess, however, still persisting in her first
assertion, he was preparing to leave the room, swearing that he would be
satisfied one way or another, when I begged the landlord would introduce
me to a stranger of so much charity as he described. With this he
complied, shewing in a gentleman who seemed to be about thirty, drest in
cloaths that once were laced. His person was well formed, and his face
marked with the lines of thinking. He had something short and dry in his
address, and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise it. Upon
the landlord's leaving the room, I could not avoid expressing my concern
to the stranger at seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered
him my purse to satisfy the present demand. 'I take it with all my
heart, Sir,' replied he, 'and am glad that a late oversight in giving
what money I had about me, has shewn me that there are still some men
like you. I must, however, previously entreat being informed of the
name and residence of my benefactor, in order to repay him as soon as
possible.' In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my name
and late misfortunes, but the place to which I was going to remove.
'This,' cried he, 'happens still more luckily than I hoped for, as I
am going the same way myself, having been detained here two days by the
floods, which, I hope, by to-morrow will be found passable.' I testified
the pleasure I should have in his company, and my wife and daughters
joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay supper. The
stranger's conversation, which was at once pleasing and instructive,
induced me to wish for a continuance of it; but it was now high time to
retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of the following day.

The next morning we all set forward together: my family on horseback,
while Mr Burchell, our new companion, walked along the foot-path by
the road-side, observing, with a smile, that as we were ill mounted, he
would be too generous to attempt leaving us behind. As the floods
were not yet subsided, we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted
on before, Mr Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We lightened the
fatigues of the road with philosophical disputes, which he seemed to
understand perfectly. But what surprised me most was, that though he was
a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as much obstinacy as
if he had been my patron. He now and then also informed me to whom the
different seats belonged that lay in our view as we travelled the road.
'That,' cried he, pointing to a very magnificent house which stood at
some distance, 'belongs to Mr Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a
large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will of his uncle,
Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman, who content with a little himself,
permits his nephew to enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town.'
'What!' cried I, 'is my young landlord then the nephew of a man whose
virtues, generosity, and singularities are so universally known? I have
heard Sir William Thornhill represented as one of the most generous,
yet whimsical, men in the kingdom; a man of consumate
benevolence'--'Something, perhaps, too much so,' replied Mr Burchell,
'at least he carried benevolence to an excess when young; for his
passions were then strong, and as they all were upon the side of virtue,
they led it up to a romantic extreme. He early began to aim at the
qualifications of the soldier and scholar; was soon distinguished in
the army and had some reputation among men of learning. Adulation
ever follows the ambitious; for such alone receive most pleasure from
flattery. He was surrounded with crowds, who shewed him only one side of
their character; so that he began to lose a regard for private interest
in universal sympathy. He loved all mankind; for fortune prevented him
from knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us of a disorder
in which the whole body is so exquisitely sensible, that the slightest
touch gives pain: what some have thus suffered in their persons, this
gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, whether real or
fictitious, touched him to the quick, and his soul laboured under a
sickly sensibility of the miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve,
it will be easily conjectured, he found numbers disposed to solicit: his
profusions began to impair his fortune, but not his good-nature; that,
indeed, was seen to encrease as the other seemed to decay: he grew
improvident as he grew poor; and though he talked like a man of sense,
his actions were those of a fool. Still, however, being surrounded with
importunity, and no longer able to satisfy every request that was made
him, instead of money he gave promises. They were all he had to bestow,
and he had not resolution enough to give any man pain by a denial.
By this he drew round him crowds of dependants, whom he was sure to
disappoint; yet wished to relieve. These hung upon him for a time, and
left him with merited reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he
became contemptable to others, he became despicable to himself. His mind
had leaned upon their adulation, and that support taken away, he could
find no pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had never
learnt to reverence. The world now began to wear a different aspect;
the flattery of his friends began to dwindle into simple approbation.
Approbation soon took the more friendly form of advice, and advice when
rejected produced their reproaches. He now, therefore found that such
friends as benefits had gathered round him, were little estimable: he
now found that a man's own heart must be ever given to gain that of
another. I now found, that--that--I forget what I was going to observe:
in short, sir, he resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of
restoring his falling fortune. For this purpose, in his own whimsical
manner he travelled through Europe on foot, and now, though he has
scarce attained the age of thirty, his circumstances are more affluent
than ever. At present, his bounties are more rational and moderate than
before; but still he preserves the character of an humourist, and finds
most pleasure in eccentric virtues.'

My attention was so much taken up by Mr Burchell's account, that I
scarce looked forward as we went along, til we were alarmed by the cries
of my family, when turning, I perceived my youngest daughter in the
midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her horse, and struggling with the
torrent. She had sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage myself
in time to bring her relief. My sensations were even too violent to
permit my attempting her rescue: she must have certainly perished had
not my companion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to her
relief, and with some difficulty, brought her in safety to the opposite
shore. By taking the current a little farther up, the rest of the
family got safely over; where we had an opportunity of joining our
acknowledgments to her's. Her gratitude may be more readily imagined
than described: she thanked her deliverer more with looks than words,
and continued to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive
assistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the pleasure of returning
his kindness at her own house. Thus, after we were refreshed at the next
inn, and had dined together, as Mr Burchell was going to a different
part of the country, he took leave; and we pursued our journey. My wife
observing as we went, that she liked him extremely, and protesting, that
if he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into such a family
as our's, she knew no man she would sooner fix upon. I could not but
smile to hear her talk in this lofty strain: but I was never much
displeased with those harmless delusions that tend to make us more
happy.



The place of our retreat was in a little neighbourhood, consisting
of farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to
opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniencies of life
within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of
superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primaeval
simplicity of manners, and frugal by habit, they scarce knew that
temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheerfulness on days of
labour; but observed festivals as intervals of idleness and pleasure.
They kept up the Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine
morning, eat pancakes on Shrove-tide, shewed their wit on the first of
April, and religiously cracked nuts on Michaelmas eve. Being apprized of
our approach, the whole neighbourhood came out to meet their minister,
drest in their finest cloaths, and preceded by a pipe and tabor: A feast
also was provided for our reception, at which we sat cheerfully down;
and what the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in laughter.

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a sloping hill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a pratling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of
about twenty acres of excellent land, having given an hundred pound
for my predecessor's good-will. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my
little enclosures: the elms and hedge rows appearing with inexpressible
beauty. My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with
thatch, which gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside
were nicely white-washed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with
pictures of their own designing. Though the same room served us for
parlour and kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was
kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers, being
well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye
was agreeably relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were
three other apartments, one for my wife and me, another for our two
daughters, within our own, and the third, with two beds, for the rest of
the children.

The little republic to which I gave laws, was regulated in the following
manner: by sun-rise we all assembled in our common appartment; the fire
being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each
other with proper ceremony, for I always thought fit to keep up some
mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys
friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another
day. This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual
industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in
providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed
half an hour for this meal, and an hour for dinner; which time was taken
up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical
arguments between my son and me.

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labours after it was
gone down, but returned home to the expecting family; where smiling
looks, a treat hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our
reception. Nor were we without guests: sometimes farmer Flamborough, our
talkative neighbour, and often the blind piper, would pay us a visit,
and taste our gooseberry wine; for the making of which we had lost
neither the receipt nor the reputation. These harmless people had
several ways of being good company, while one played, the other would
sing some soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, or the
cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was concluded in the manner we began
the morning, my youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of
the day, and he that read loudest, distinctest, and best, was to have an
half-penny on Sunday to put in the poor's box.

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary
edicts could not restrain. How well so ever I fancied my lectures
against pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters; yet I still
found them secretly attached to all their former finery: they still
loved laces, ribbands, bugles and catgut; my wife herself retained a
passion for her crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it
became her.

The first Sunday in particular their behaviour served to mortify me: I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be drest early the next day;
for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of the
congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were to
assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters,
drest out in all their former splendour: their hair plaistered up with
pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up into an
heap behind, and rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling at
their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from whom I expected more
discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my only resource was to order
my son, with an important air, to call our coach. The girls were
amazed at the command; but I repeated it with more solemnity than
before.--'Surely, my dear, you jest,' cried my wife, 'we can walk it
perfectly well: we want no coach to carry us now.' 'You mistake, child,'
returned I, 'we do want a coach; for if we walk to church in this trim,
the very children in the parish will hoot after us.'--'Indeed,' replied
my wife, 'I always imagined that my Charles was fond of seeing his
children neat and handsome about him.'--'You may be as neat as you
please,' interrupted I, 'and I shall love you the better for it, but all
this is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and pinkings,
and patchings, will only make us hated by all the wives of all our
neighbours. No, my children,' continued I, more gravely, 'those gowns
may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery is very
unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know whether
such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we
consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the
indigent world may be cloathed from the trimmings of the vain.'

This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request employed in
cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the
two little ones, and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed
improved by this curtailing.



At a small distance from the house my predecessor had made a seat,
overshaded by an hedge of hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the
weather was fine, and our labour soon finished, we usually sate
together, to enjoy an extensive landscape, in the calm of the evening.
Here too we drank tea, which now was become an occasional banquet; and
as we had it but seldom, it diffused a new joy, the preparations for
it being made with no small share of bustle and ceremony. On these
occasions, our two little ones always read for us, and they were
regularly served after we had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our
amusements, the girls sung to the guitar; and while they thus formed a
little concert, my wife and I would stroll down the sloping field, that
was embellished with blue bells and centaury, talk of our children with
rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health and harmony.

In this manner we began to find that every situation in life might bring
its own peculiar pleasures: every morning waked us to a repetition of
toil; but the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity.

It was about the beginning of autumn, on a holiday, for I kept such as
intervals of relaxation from labour, that I had drawn out my family to
our usual place of amusement, and our young musicians began their usual
concert. As we were thus engaged, we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within
about twenty paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting, it
seemed prest by the hunters. We had not much time to reflect upon the
poor animal's distress, when we perceived the dogs and horsemen come
sweeping along at some distance behind, and making the very path it
had taken. I was instantly for returning in with my family; but either
curiosity or surprize, or some more hidden motive, held my wife and
daughters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, past us with
great swiftness, followed by four or five persons more, who seemed in
equal haste. At last, a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance
than the rest, came forward, and for a while regarding us, instead of
pursuing the chace, stopt short, and giving his horse to a servant who
attended, approached us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want
no introduction, but was going to salute my daughters as one certain
of a kind reception; but they had early learnt the lesson of looking
presumption out of countenance. Upon which he let us know that his name
was Thornhill, and that he was owner of the estate that lay for some
extent round us. He again, therefore, offered to salute the female part
of the family, and such was the power of fortune and fine cloaths, that
he found no second repulse. As his address, though confident, was easy,
we soon became more familiar; and perceiving musical instruments lying
near, he begged to be favoured with a song. As I did not approve of such
disproportioned acquaintances, I winked upon my daughters in order to
prevent their compliance; but my hint was counteracted by one from their
mother; so that with a chearful air they gave us, a favourite song of
Dryden's. Mr Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their performance
and choice, and then took up the guitar himself. He played but very
indifferently; however, my eldest daughter repaid his former applause
with interest, and assured him that his tones were louder than even
those of her master. At this compliment he bowed, which she
returned with a curtesy. He praised her taste, and she commended his
understanding: an age could not have made them better acquainted.
While the fond mother too, equally happy, insisted upon her landlord's
stepping in, and tasting a glass of her gooseberry. The whole family
seemed earnest to please him: my girls attempted to entertain him with
topics they thought most modern, while Moses, on the contrary, gave him
a question or two from the ancients, for which he had the satisfaction
of being laughed at: my little ones were no less busy, and fondly stuck
close to the stranger. All my endeavours could scarce keep their dirty
fingers from handling and tarnishing the lace on his cloaths, and
lifting up the flaps of his pocket holes, to see what was there. At
the approach of evening he took leave; but not till he had requested
permission to renew his visit, which, as he was our landlord, we most
readily agreed to.

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council on the conduct of the
day. She was of opinion, that it was a most fortunate hit; for that she
had known even stranger things at last brought to bear. She hoped again
to see the day in which we might hold up our heads with the best of
them; and concluded, she protested she could see no reason why the two
Miss Wrinklers should marry great fortunes, and her children get none.
As this last argument was directed to me, I protested I could see no
reason for it neither, nor why Mr Simpkins got the ten thousand pound
prize in the lottery, and we sate down with a blank. 'I protest,
Charles,' cried my wife, 'this is the way you always damp my girls and
me when we are in Spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do you think
of our new visitor? Don't you think he seemed to be
good-natured?'--'Immensely so, indeed, Mamma,' replied she. 'I think he
has a great deal to say upon every thing, and is never at a loss; and
the more trifling the subject, the more he has to say.'--'Yes,' cried
Olivia, 'he is well enough for a man; but for my part, I don't much like
him, he is so extremely impudent and familiar; but on the guitar he is
shocking.' These two last speeches I interpreted by contraries. I found
by this, that Sophia internally despised, as much as Olivia secretly
admired him.--'Whatever may be your opinions of him, my children,'
cried I, 'to confess a truth, he has not prepossest me in his favour.
Disproportioned friendships ever terminate in disgust; and I thought,
notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly sensible of the
distance between us. Let us keep to companions of our own rank. There is
no character more contemptible than a man that is a fortune-hunter, and
I can see no reason why fortune-hunting women should not be contemptible
too. Thus, at best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honourable;
but if they be otherwise! I should shudder but to think of that! It
is true I have no apprehensions from the conduct of my children, but I
think there are some from his character.'--I would have proceeded,
but for the interruption of a servant from the 'Squire, who, with his
compliments, sent us a side of venison, and a promise to dine with us
some days after. This well-timed present pleaded more powerfully in his
favour, than any thing I had to say could obviate. I therefore continued
silent, satisfied with just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to
their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which requires to be ever
guarded, is scarce worth the centinel.



As we carried on the former dispute with some degree of warmth, in order
to accommodate matters, it was universally agreed, that we should have
a part of the venison for supper, and the girls undertook the task with
alacrity. 'I am sorry,' cried I, 'that we have no neighbour or stranger
to take a part in this good cheer: feasts of this kind acquire a double
relish from hospitality.'--'Bless me,' cried my wife, 'here comes our
good friend Mr Burchell, that saved our Sophia, and that run you down
fairly in the argument'--'Confute me in argument, child!' cried I. 'You
mistake there, my dear. I believe there are but few that can do that:
I never dispute your abilities at making a goose-pye, and I beg you'll
leave argument to me.'--As I spoke, poor Mr Burchell entered the house,
and was welcomed by the family, who shook him heartily by the hand,
while little Dick officiously reached him a chair.

I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for two reasons; because I
knew that he wanted mine, and I knew him to be friendly as far as he
was able. He was known in our neighbourhood by the character of the poor
Gentleman that would do no good when he was young, though he was not yet
thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good sense; but in general
he was fondest of the company of children, whom he used to call harmless
little men. He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, and
telling them stories; and seldom went out without something in his
pockets for them, a piece of gingerbread, or an halfpenny whistle. He
generally came for a few days into our neighbourhood once a year, and
lived upon the neighbours hospitality. He sate down to supper among us,
and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went round;
he sung us old songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck
of Beverland, with the history of Patient Grissel, the adventures of
Catskin, and then Fair Rosamond's bower. Our cock, which always crew at
eleven, now told us it was time for repose; but an unforeseen difficulty
started about lodging the stranger: all our beds were already taken up,
and it was too late to send him to the next alehouse. In this dilemma,
little Dick offered him his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would
let him lie with him; 'And I,' cried Bill, 'will give Mr Burchell
my part, if my sisters will take me to theirs.'--'Well done, my good
children,' cried I, 'hospitality is one of the first Christian duties.
The beast retires to its shelter, and the bird flies to its nest; but
helpless man can only find refuge from his fellow creature. The greatest
stranger in this world, was he that came to save it. He never had an
house, as if willing to see what hospitality was left remaining amongst
us. Deborah, my dear,' cried I, to my wife, 'give those boys a lump of
sugar each, and let Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first.'

In the morning early I called out my whole family to help at saving
an after-growth of hay, and, our guest offering his assistance, he was
accepted among the number. Our labours went on lightly, we turned
the swath to the wind, I went foremost, and the rest followed in due
succession. I could not avoid, however, observing the assiduity of Mr
Burchell in assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. When
he had finished his own, he would join in her's, and enter into a close
conversation: but I had too good an opinion of Sophia's understanding,
and was too well convinced of her ambition, to be under any uneasiness
from a man of broken fortune. When we were finished for the day, Mr
Burchell was invited as on the night before; but he refused, as he was
to lie that night at a neighbour's, to whose child he was carrying a
whistle. When gone, our conversation at supper turned upon our late
unfortunate guest. 'What a strong instance,' said I, 'is that poor man
of the miseries attending a youth of levity and extravagance. He by no
means wants sense, which only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor
forlorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flatterers, that
he could once inspire and command! Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio
pander, grown rich by his extravagance. They once praised him, and
now they applaud the pander: their former raptures at his wit, are now
converted into sarcasms at his folly: he is poor, and perhaps deserves
poverty; for he has neither the ambition to be independent, nor the
skill to be useful.' Prompted, perhaps, by some secret reasons, I
delivered this observation with too much acrimony, which my Sophia
gently reproved. 'Whatsoever his former conduct may be, pappa, his
circumstances should exempt him from censure now. His present indigence
is a sufficient punishment for former folly; and I have heard my pappa
himself say, that we should never strike our unnecessary blow at a
victim over whom providence holds the scourge of its resentment.'--'You
are right, Sophy,' cried my son Moses, 'and one of the ancients finely
represents so malicious a conduct, by the attempts of a rustic to flay
Marsyas, whose skin, the fable tells us, had been wholly stript off by
another.' Besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be so bad
as my father would represent it. We are not to judge of the feelings
of others by what we might feel if in their place. However dark the
habitation of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds the
apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess a truth, this man's
mind seems fitted to his station; for I never heard any one more
sprightly than he was to-day, when he conversed with you.'--This was
said without the least design, however it excited a blush, which she
strove to cover by an affected laugh, assuring him, that she scarce took
any notice of what he said to her; but that she believed he might once
have been a very fine gentleman. The readiness with which she undertook
to vindicate herself, and her blushing, were symptoms I did not
internally approve; but I represt my suspicions.

As we expected our landlord the next day, my wife went to make the
venison pasty; Moses sate reading, while I taught the little ones: my
daughters seemed equally busy with the rest; and I observed them for
a good while cooking something over the fire. I at first supposed they
were assisting their mother; but little Dick informed me in a whisper,
that they were making a wash for the face. Washes of all kinds I had a
natural antipathy to; for I knew that instead of mending the complexion
they spoiled it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees to the
fire, and grasping the poker, as if it wanted mending, seemingly by
accident, overturned the whole composition, and it was too late to begin
another.



When the morning arrived on which we were to entertain our young
landlord, it may be easily supposed what provisions were exhausted
to make an appearance. It may also be conjectured that my wife and
daughters expanded their gayest plumage upon this occasion. Mr Thornhill
came with a couple of friends, his chaplain, and feeder. The servants,
who were numerous, he politely ordered to the next ale-house: but my
wife, in the triumph of her heart, insisted on entertaining them all;
for which, by the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after.
As Mr Burchell had hinted to us the day before, that he was making some
proposals of marriage, to Miss Wilmot, my son George's former mistress,
this a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception: but accident,
in some measure, relieved our embarrasment; for one of the company
happening to mention her name, Mr Thornhill observed with an oath, that
he never knew any thing more absurd than calling such a fright a beauty:
'For strike me ugly,' continued he, 'if I should not find as much
pleasure in choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp under the
clock at St Dunstan's.' At this he laughed, and so did we:--the jests
of the rich are ever successful. Olivia too could not avoid whispering,
loud enough to be heard, that he had an infinite fund of humour. After
dinner, I began with my usual toast, the Church; for this I was thanked
by the chaplain, as he said the church was the only mistress of his
affections.--'Come tell us honestly, Frank,' said the 'Squire, with his
usual archness, 'suppose the church, your present mistress, drest in
lawnsleeves, on one hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on
the other, which would you be for?' 'For both, to be sure,' cried
the chaplain.--'Right Frank,' cried the 'Squire; 'for may this glass
suffocate me but a fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the
creation. For what are tythes and tricks but an imposition, all a
confounded imposture, and I can prove it.'--'I wish you would,' cried my
son Moses, 'and I think,' continued he, 'that I should be able to answer
you.'--'Very well, Sir,' cried the 'Squire, who immediately smoaked
him,' and winking on the rest of the company, to prepare us for the
sport, if you are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am ready
to accept the challenge. And first, whether are you for managing it
analogically, or dialogically?' 'I am for managing it rationally,' cried
Moses, quite happy at being permitted to dispute. 'Good again,' cried
the 'Squire, 'and firstly, of the first. I hope you'll not deny
that whatever is is. If you don't grant me that, I can go no
further.'--'Why,' returned Moses, 'I think I may grant that, and make
the best of it.'--'I hope too,' returned the other, 'you'll grant that
a part is less than the whole.' 'I grant that too,' cried Moses, 'it is
but just and reasonable.'--'I hope,' cried the 'Squire, 'you will
not deny, that the two angles of a triangle are equal to two right
ones.'--'Nothing can be plainer,' returned t'other, and looked round
with his usual importance.--'Very well,' cried the 'Squire, speaking
very quick, 'the premises being thus settled, I proceed to observe,
that the concatenation of self existences, proceeding in a reciprocal
duplicate ratio, naturally produce a problematical dialogism, which in
some measure proves that the essence of spirituality may be referred to
the second predicable'--'Hold, hold,' cried the other, 'I deny that:
Do you think I can thus tamely submit to such heterodox
doctrines?'--'What,' replied the 'Squire, as if in a passion, 'not
submit! Answer me one plain question: Do you think Aristotle right
when he says, that relatives are related?' 'Undoubtedly,' replied the
other.--'If so then,' cried the 'Squire, 'answer me directly to what I
propose: Whether do you judge the analytical investigation of the first
part of my enthymem deficient secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and give
me your reasons: give me your reasons, I say, directly.'--'I protest,'
cried Moses, 'I don't rightly comprehend the force of your reasoning;
but if it be reduced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then have
an answer.'--'O sir,' cried the 'Squire, 'I am your most humble servant,
I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellects too. No,
sir, there I protest you are too hard for me.' This effectually raised
the laugh against poor Moses, who sate the only dismal figure in a
groupe of merry faces: nor, did he offer a single syllable more during
the whole entertainment.

But though all this gave me no pleasure, it had a very different effect
upon Olivia, who mistook it for humour, though but a mere act of the
memory. She thought him therefore a very fine gentleman; and such as
consider what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine cloaths, and
fortune, are in that character, will easily forgive her. Mr Thornhill,
notwithstanding his real ignorance, talked with ease, and could
expatiate upon the common topics of conversation with fluency. It is not
surprising then that such talents should win the affections of a girl,
who by education was taught to value an appearance in herself, and
consequently to set a value upon it in another.

Upon his departure, we again entered into a debate upon the merits of
our young landlord. As he directed his looks and conversation to Olivia,
it was no longer doubted but that she was the object that induced him to
be our visitor. Nor did she seem to be much displeased at the innocent
raillery of her brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah
herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and exulted in her
daughter's victory as if it were her own. 'And now, my dear,' cried
she to me, 'I'll fairly own, that it was I that instructed my girls to
encourage our landlord's addresses. I had always some ambition, and
you now see that I was right; for who knows how this may end?' 'Ay, who
knows that indeed,' answered I, with a groan: 'for my part I don't much
like it; and I could have been better pleased with one that was poor and
honest, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and infidelity; for
depend on't, if he be what I suspect him, no free-thinker shall ever
have a child of mine.' 'Sure, father,' cried Moses, 'you are too severe
in this; for heaven will never arraign him for what he thinks, but for
what he does. Every man has a thousand vicious thoughts, which arise
without his power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion, may be
involuntary with this gentleman: so that allowing his sentiments to be
wrong, yet as he is purely passive in his assent, he is no more to be
blamed for his errors than the governor of a city without walls for the
shelter he is obliged to afford an invading enemy.'

'True, my son,' cried I; 'but if the governor invites the enemy, there
he is justly culpable. And such is always the case with those who
embrace error. The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they
see; but in being blind to many of the proofs that offer. So that,
though our erroneous opinions be involuntary when formed, yet as we have
been wilfully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, we deserve
punishment for our vice, or contempt for our folly.' My wife now kept
up the conversation, though not the argument: she observed, that several
very prudent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and made very
good husbands; and she knew some sensible girls that had skill enough to
make converts of their spouses: 'And who knows, my dear,' continued she,
'what Olivia may be able to do. The girl has a great deal to say upon
every subject, and to my knowledge is very well skilled in controversy.'

'Why, my dear, what controversy can she have read?' cried I. 'It does
not occur to me that I ever put such books into her hands: you certainly
over-rate her merit.' 'Indeed, pappa,' replied Olivia, 'she does not: I
have read a great deal of controversy. I have read the disputes between
Thwackum and Square; the controversy between Robinson Crusoe and
Friday the savage, and I am now employed in reading the controversy in
Religious courtship'--'Very well,' cried I, 'that's a good girl, I find
you are perfectly qualified for making converts, and so go help your
mother to make the gooseberry-pye.'



The next morning we were again visited by Mr Burchell, though I began,
for certain reasons, to be displeased with the frequency of his return;
but I could not refuse him my company and fire-side. It is true his
labour more than requited his entertainment; for he wrought among us
with vigour, and either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself
foremost. Besides, he had always something amusing to say that lessened
our toil, and was at once so out of the way, and yet so sensible, that
I loved, laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose from an
attachment he discovered to my daughter: he would, in a jesting manner,
call her his little mistress, and when he bought each of the girls a
set of ribbands, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but he every day
seemed to become more amiable, his wit to improve, and his simplicity to
assume the superior airs of wisdom.

Our family dined in the field, and we sate, or rather reclined, round a
temperate repast, our cloth spread upon the hay, while Mr Burchell gave
cheerfulness to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two blackbirds
answered each other from opposite hedges, the familiar redbreast came
and pecked the crumbs from our hands, and every sound seemed but the
echo of tranquillity. 'I never sit thus,' says Sophia, 'but I think of
the two lovers, so sweetly described by Mr Gay, who were struck dead in
each other's arms. There is something so pathetic in the description,
that I have read it an hundred times with new rapture.'--'In my
opinion,' cried my son, 'the finest strokes in that description are much
below those in the Acis and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands
the use of contrast better, and upon that figure artfully managed
all strength in the pathetic depends.'--'It is remarkable,' cried Mr
Burchell, 'that both the poets you mention have equally contributed to
introduce a false taste into their respective countries, by loading all
their lines with epithet. Men of little genius found them most easily
imitated in their defects, and English poetry, like that in the latter
empire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination of luxuriant
images, without plot or connexion; a string of epithets that improve the
sound, without carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while I
thus reprehend others, you'll think it just that I should give them an
opportunity to retaliate, and indeed I have made this remark only to
have an opportunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which,
whatever be its other defects, is I think at least free from those I
have mentioned.'


A BALLAD.

'Turn, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way, To where yon
taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray.

'For here forlorn and lost I tread, With fainting steps and slow; Where
wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go.'

'Forbear, my son,' the hermit cries, 'To tempt the dangerous gloom; For
yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.

'Here to the houseless child of want, My door is open still; And tho' my
portion is but scant, I give it with good will.

'Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy
couch, and frugal fare, My blessing and repose.

'No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn: Taught by
that power that pities me, I learn to pity them.

'But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip
with herbs and fruits supply'd, And water from the spring.

'Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong:
Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.'

Soft as the dew from heav'n descends, His gentle accents fell: The
modest stranger lowly bends, And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the
neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch Requir'd a master's care; The wicket
opening with a latch, Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest, The hermit
trimm'd his little fire, And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store, And gayly prest, and smil'd; And skill'd
in legendary lore, The lingering hours beguil'd.

Around in sympathetic mirth Its tricks the kitten tries, The cricket
chirrups in the hearth; The crackling faggot flies.

But nothing could a charm impart To sooth the stranger's woe; For grief
was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spy'd, With answering care opprest: 'And
whence, unhappy youth,' he cry'd, 'The sorrows of thy breast?

'From better habitations spurn'd, Reluctant dost thou rove; Or grieve
for friendship unreturn'd, Or unregarded love?

'Alas! the joys that fortune brings, Are trifling and decay; And those
who prize the paltry things, More trifling still than they.

'And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep; A shade
that follows wealth or fame, But leaves the wretch to weep?

'And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair one's jest: On
earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest.

'For shame fond youth thy sorrows hush And spurn the sex,' he said: But
while he spoke a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd.

Surpriz'd he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view; Like
colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast, Alternate spread alarms: The lovely
stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms.

'And, ah,'forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,' she cry'd; 'Whose
feet unhallowed thus intrude Where heaven and you reside.

'But let a maid thy pity share, Whom love has taught to stray; Who seeks
for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way.

'My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy Lord was he; And all his
wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me.

'To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came; Who prais'd me
for imputed charms, And felt or feign'd a flame.

'Each hour a mercenary crowd, With richest proffers strove: Among the
rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love.

'In humble simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he; Wisdom and
worth were all he had, But these were all to me.

'The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refin'd, Could
nought of purity display, To emulate his mind.

'The dew, the blossom on the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their
charms were his, but woe to me, Their constancy was mine.

'For still I try'd each fickle art, Importunate and vain; And while his
passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain.

'Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride; And sought a
solitude forlorn, In secret where he died.

'But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll
seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay.

'And there forlorn despairing hid, I'll lay me down and die: 'Twas so
for me that Edwin did, And so for him will I.'

'Forbid it heaven!' the hermit cry'd, And clasp'd her to his breast: The
wondering fair one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest.

'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, My charmer, turn to see, Thy own, thy
long-lost Edwin here, Restor'd to love and thee.

'Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign: And shall we
never, never part, My life,--my all that's mine.

'No, never, from this hour to part, We'll live and love so true; The
sigh that tends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin's too.'

While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to mix an air of tenderness
with her approbation. But our tranquillity was soon disturbed by
the report of a gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen
bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he had killed. This
sportsman was the 'Squire's chaplain, who had shot one of the blackbirds
that so agreeably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near,
startled my daughters; and I could perceive that Sophia in the fright
had thrown herself into Mr Burchell's arms for protection. The gentleman
came up, and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirming that he
was ignorant of our being so near. He therefore sate down by my youngest
daughter, and, sportsman like, offered her what he had killed that
morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look from her mother
soon induced her to correct the mistake, and accept his present, though
with some reluctance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a
whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a conquest of the chaplain, as
well as her sister had of the 'Squire. I suspected, however, with more
probability, that her affections were placed upon a different object.
The chaplain's errand was to inform us, that Mr Thornhill had provided
music and refreshments, and intended that night giving the young ladies
a ball by moon-light, on the grass-plot before our door. 'Nor can I
deny,' continued he, 'but I have an interest in being first to deliver
this message, as I expect for my reward to be honoured with miss Sophy's
hand as a partner.' To this my girl replied, that she should have no
objection, if she could do it with honour: 'But here,' continued she,
'is a gentleman,' looking at Mr Burchell, 'who has been my companion in
the task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its amusements.'
Mr Burchell returned her a compliment for her intentions; but resigned
her up to the chaplain, adding that he was to go that night five miles,
being invited to an harvest supper. His refusal appeared to me a
little extraordinary, nor could I conceive how so sensible a girl as
my youngest, could thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one
whose expectations were much greater. But as men are most capable of
distinguishing merit in women, so the ladies often form the truest
judgments of us. The two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and
are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mutual inspection.

 The vicar, Dr. Primrose, narrates the novel. In chapter 1, he tells his backstory. Not long after taking his vow, the vicar decided to marry. He chose a good-natured Englishwoman - Deborah - and they loved each other dearly. They live in an elegant home in a pleasant neighborhood, even though he sometimes laments the rambunctious school-boys and obnoxious kindred who live near them. The vicar and Deborah have six children: in order of decreasing age, George, Olivia, Sophia, Moses, Dick, and Bill. He describes the girls as capable of being both vivacious and serious depending on their moods. The vicar dotes on his children, and proudly explains how his son George studied at Oxford, and intends to pursue a learned profession. Overall, he finds his family "all equally generous, credulous, simple, and inoffensive" . Chapter II The vicar mentions that he has a fortune of his own, and thus donates his small clergyman's salary to orphans and widows. As he keeps no curate , he personally knows everyone in the parish. One of his favorite topics to discuss is that of matrimony. In fact, he has written and published passionate tracts arguing that a husband or wife should never remarry if his or her partner dies. He believes a person should remain chaste in his or her beloved's memory. George, the eldest son, becomes engaged to Miss Arabella Wilmot. Both families are overjoyed, and spend months celebrating, even though the couple has not yet set a date. Together, the families dine, the ladies dance and study, the men hunt, and everyone has a delightful time. One day, unfortunately, the vicar shows Mr. Wilmot his study on matrimony. Mr. Wilmot vehemently disagrees with the vicar's position, and has in fact been married more than once. The marriage agreement is threatened by the intense argument. However, in the midst of the argument, the worst news arrives: the vicar's fortune is gone, embezzled by the merchant who was responsible for guarding it. Faced with this new discovery, Mr. Wilmot definitively refuses to grant Arabella's hand to George. Chapter III Finding themselves poor, the vicar's family has few options. Therefore, he is encouraged by the offer of a vicar job in a distant neighborhood, which would pay fifteen pounds a year and allow the family some farmland to manage. The family is discouraged by the prospect of moving, but he reminds them that they are now poor and much acclimate to fewer luxuries. Before they move, he sends George to town, hoping that the young scholar might find some work through which to support his family. Despite their reticence, the family sets out for their new home. Along the way, they spend the night in an inn. There, the vicar tells the innkeeper about their situation, and the latter tells them about their new landlord, Squire Thornhill, who has a reputation for both the world's pleasures and women. At the inn, the vicar and his family meet Mr. Burchell, a young and intelligent man who is also poor. They pass pleasant conversation together, and the young man rides with them to their new neighborhood, to which he was also traveling. Along the way, the vicar and Mr. Burchell discuss philosophy. At one point, Mr. Burchell points out Squire Thornhill's home, and explains how the squire is dependent on the generosity of his introverted uncle, Sir William Thornhill. The vicar has heard of Sir William, and knows his excellent reputation of "consummate benevolence" . Mr. Burchell confirms this impression, explaining that Sir William was dissolute and foolish when he was young, but has since grown more respectable in penance for those youthful follies. At one point during the journey, Sophia falls from her horse into a stream. Without a moment's thought, Mr. Burchell heroically leaps after her and saves her life. Chapter IV The vicar describes his new neighborhood. It is mostly comprised of middle class farmers who are polite, but lack gentleness and good manners. However, the local citizens are happy to have a new vicar, and welcome the family. The family's new house is located at the foot of a sloping hill, before twenty acres of excellent land for which they are responsible. Soon enough, the family settles into its new life and routine, the ladies maintaining the vestiges of good breeding despite the change in circumstance. For instance, the ladies insist on entertaining new friends and dressing up. On their first Sunday in town, the vicar reprimands them for wearing fancy dresses, insisting they will draw scorn from their poorer, less genteel neighbors. They agree with him, and cut up their fine clothes to make Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill. Chapter V Often, the family spends time outside, in a beautiful area where honeysuckle and hawthorn grow, amusing themselves with reading and song. One day, a young man darts by in pursuit of a stag. He stops to introduce himself as Squire Thornhill, and begs the young ladies for a song. Though it displeases the vicar, Deborah encourages the girls to comply. The vicar notes that the whole family seems taken by the squire, eager to please him. After the squire leaves, Deborah describes the day as "a most fortunate hit" . The vicar discerns that Sophia does not much care for the squire, but that Olivia fancies him. He warns the family against pursuing a friendship with someone outside of their social class, insisting that "disproportionate friendships ever terminate in disgust" . Nevertheless, the family rejoices later that night when the squire sends a gift of venison. The vicar remains silent, believing he has already made his point. Chapter VI While the girls prepare the venison, Mr. Burchell arrives to visit. The vicar is happy to see him, as he respects Mr. Burchell and knows his reputation in the neighborhood as the poor gentleman who frequently moves between friends, relying on their hospitality before traveling to another friend's home. However, the vicar is disconcerted to observe Mr. Burchell's attentions towards Sophia. He later criticizes the man to his family, but is admonished for his harshness by Sophia and Moses. Chapter VII The family holds a party for their landlord and his friends, the chaplain and the feeder. It is a great success. At dinner, the vicar toasts the church, and the chaplain commends him on it. Moses and Squire Thornhill attempt to debate religion, but the squire's arguments are too convoluted and silly for Moses to understand. Throughout the evening, the vicar continues to note how Olivia is taken by the squire. After the Squire and his friends leave, the family discusses him. Deborah is proud to note his attentions towards Olivia, and "exult in her daughter's victory as if it were her own" . The vicar voices his disapproval of the man, insinuating that that the squire is immoral and insisting that no "free-thinker" will ever have his daughter's hand . Moses counters that it is not the squire's opinions, but rather his actions, that should matter. Deborah follows to say that she knows several young women who have happy marriages with "free-thinkers," and that Olivia is well enough versed in modern subjects to manage controversy. Olivia defends herself, insisting she has read a great deal on the subject. Chapter VIII Mr. Burchell visits the house again, but the vicar is less pleased with the man than before because of Burchell's apparent attachment to Sophia. Interestingly, the vicar and his family notice that Burchell's wit and wisdom seems to improve with each visit. One day, the family and Burchell begin to discuss poetry while dining outside. Mr. Burchell believes that contemporary English poetry boasts only a combination of "luxuriant images" at the expense of a plot. It is, he continues, full of "epithets that improve the sound, without carrying on the sense" . He then recites a long ballad, which tells of a hermit who invites a lost traveler to spend the evening in his cell. While they rest by the hermit's fire, the hermit tells the traveler how he is at peace with his surroundings, but notices that the traveler seems heartbroken. As he tries to convince the traveler to forget about his earthly love, the hermit realizes that the traveler is in fact a woman. The woman then tells her story, about how her father once tried to marry her to all the worthwhile suitors in the land, while she loved only a poor but wise man named Edwin. Eventually, a dejected Edwin left to die in solitude, and she now seeks a place to die as he did. The hermit then joyously reveals that he is in fact the very Edwin, and the lovers reunite. The vicar notes that Sophia is taken with the ballad. Suddenly, they hear a gunshot nearby, and Sophia leaps into Mr. Burchell's arms for protection. A moment later, the chaplain appears, having shot a blackbird. After asking pardon, the chaplain sits with them and flirts with Sophia. Deborah whispers her approval to the vicar, noting that Sophia has potentially made a "conquest" as Olivia had with the squire . The chaplain tells them that that the squire intends to throw a ball for the girls on the following night, and then asks Sophia if she will grant him her first dance. However, she refuses, saying that she should grant her first dance to Mr. Burchell. To the vicar's surprise, the young man politely refuses to attend.

