What we place most hopes upon
generally
proves most fatal
6.
6.
Oliver Goldsmith
I must remain contented with the slight approbation
of imputed merit; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while
all your serious aims are fixed on fortune.
Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES from behind.
SIR CHARLES. Here, behind this screen.
HARDCASTLE. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him
with confusion at last.
MARLOW. By heavens, madam! fortune was ever my smallest
consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see
that without emotion? But every moment that I converse with you steals
in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger
expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined
simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the
result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue.
SIR CHARLES. What can it mean? He amazes me!
HARDCASTLE. I told you how it would be. Hush!
MARLOW. I am now determined to stay, madam; and I have too good an
opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his
approbation.
MISS HARDCASTLE. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do
you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest
room for repentance? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a
transient passion, to load you with confusion? Do you think I could
ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours?
MARLOW. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your
power to grant me! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having
seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes; and
though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful
assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct.
MISS HARDCASTLE. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our
acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have
given an hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you
think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear
mercenary, and you imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the
confident addresses of a secure admirer?
MARLOW. (Kneeling. ) Does this look like security? Does this look
like confidence? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit,
only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me
continue----
SIR CHARLES. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou
deceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting
conversation?
HARDCASTLE. Your cold contempt; your formal interview! What have you
to say now?
MARLOW. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean?
HARDCASTLE. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure:
that you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public: that you
have one story for us, and another for my daughter.
MARLOW. Daughter! --This lady your daughter?
HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, my only daughter; my Kate; whose else should she
be?
MARLOW. Oh, the devil!
MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you
were pleased to take me for (courtseying); she that you addressed as
the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward,
agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' Club. Ha! ha! ha!
MARLOW. Zounds! there's no bearing this; it's worse than death!
MISS HARDCASTLE. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us
leave to address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the
ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud
confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss
Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning? Ha! ha! ha!
MARLOW. O, curse on my noisy head. I never attempted to be impudent
yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone.
HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was
all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I
tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate?
We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. (They retire, she
tormenting him, to the back scene. )
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and Tony.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not.
HARDCASTLE. Who gone?
MRS. HARDCASTLE. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings,
from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here.
SIR CHARLES. Who, my honest George Hastings? As worthy a fellow as
lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.
HARDCASTLE. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not
taken her fortune; that remains in this family to console us for her
loss.
HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary?
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, that's my affair, not yours.
HARDCASTLE. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry
his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought
proper to wait for his refusal.
Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Aside. ) What, returned so soon! I begin not to
like it.
HASTINGS. (To HARDCASTLE. ) For my late attempt to fly off with your
niece let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back,
to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent,
I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in
duty.
MISS NEVILLE. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to
dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready
to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from
the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a
nearer connexion.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a
modern novel.
HARDCASTLE. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim
their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand
whom I now offer you?
TONY. What signifies my refusing? You know I can't refuse her till
I'm of age, father.
HARDCASTLE. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to
conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire to
keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must
now declare you have been of age these three months.
TONY. Of age! Am I of age, father?
HARDCASTLE. Above three months.
TONY. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. (Taking
MISS NEVILLE's hand. ) Witness all men by these presents, that I,
Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of BLANK place, refuse you, Constantia
Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So
Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his
own man again.
SIR CHARLES. O brave 'squire!
HASTINGS. My worthy friend!
MRS. HARDCASTLE. My undutiful offspring!
MARLOW. Joy, my dear George! I give you joy sincerely. And could I
prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be
the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.
HASTINGS. (To MISS HARDCASTLE. ) Come, madam, you are now driven to
the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm
sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him.
HARDCASTLE. (Joining their hands. ) And I say so too. And, Mr.
Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't
believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow
we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes
of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her;
and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may
never be mistaken in the wife. [Exeunt Omnes. ]
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
A TALE
Supposed to be written by Himself
By Oliver Goldsmith
Sperate miseri, cavete faelices
ADVERTISEMENT
There are an hundred faults in this Thing, and an hundred things might
be said to prove them beauties. But it is needless. A book may be
amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single
absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest
characters upon earth; he is a priest, an husbandman, and the father of
a family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready to obey, as simple
in affluence, and majestic in adversity. In this age of opulence and
refinement whom can such a character please? Such as are fond of
high life, will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his country
fire-side. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his
harmless conversation; and such as have been taught to deride religion,
will laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
CONTENTS
1. The description of the family of Wakefield; in which a
kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons
2. Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to
increase the pride of the worthy
3. A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are
generally found at last to be of our own procuring
4. A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant
happiness, which depends not on circumstance, but
constitution 5. A new and great acquaintance introduced.
What we place most hopes upon generally proves most fatal
6. The happiness of a country fire-side
7. A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be
comical for a night or two
8. An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be
productive of much
9. Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior
finery ever seems to confer superior breeding
10. The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The
miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their
circumstances
11. The family still resolve to hold up their heads
12. Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of
Wakefield. Mortifications are often more painful than real
calamities
13. Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the
confidence to give disagreeable advice
14. Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming
calamities may be real blessings
15. All Mr Burchell’s villainy at once detected. The folly
of being-over-wise
16. The Family use art, which is opposed with still greater
17. Scarce any virtue found to resist the power of long and
pleasing temptation 18. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a
lost child to virtue
19. The description of a Person discontented with the
present government, and apprehensive of the loss of our
liberties
20. The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty,
but losing content
21. The short continuance of friendship among the vicious,
which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction
22. Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at
bottom
23. None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable
24. Fresh calamities
25. No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some
sort of comfort attending it
26. A reformation in the gaol. To make laws complete, they
should reward as well as punish
27. The same subject continued
28. Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than
of virtue in this life. Temporal evils or felicities being
regarded by heaven as things merely in themselves trifling
and unworthy its care in the distribution
29. The equal dealings of providence demonstrated with
regard to the happy and the miserable here below. That from
the nature of pleasure and pain, the wretched must be repaid
the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter
30. Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible,
and fortune will at last change in our favour
31. Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest
32. The Conclusion
CHAPTER 1
The description of the family of Wakefield; in which a
kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons
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.
CHAPTER 2
Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to
encrease the pride of the worthy
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.
CHAPTER 3
A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are
generally found at last to be of our own procuring
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.
of imputed merit; I must have only the mockery of your addresses, while
all your serious aims are fixed on fortune.
Enter HARDCASTLE and SIR CHARLES from behind.
SIR CHARLES. Here, behind this screen.
HARDCASTLE. Ay, ay; make no noise. I'll engage my Kate covers him
with confusion at last.
MARLOW. By heavens, madam! fortune was ever my smallest
consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see
that without emotion? But every moment that I converse with you steals
in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger
expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined
simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the
result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue.
SIR CHARLES. What can it mean? He amazes me!
HARDCASTLE. I told you how it would be. Hush!
MARLOW. I am now determined to stay, madam; and I have too good an
opinion of my father's discernment, when he sees you, to doubt his
approbation.
MISS HARDCASTLE. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, cannot detain you. Do
you think I could suffer a connexion in which there is the smallest
room for repentance? Do you think I would take the mean advantage of a
transient passion, to load you with confusion? Do you think I could
ever relish that happiness which was acquired by lessening yours?
MARLOW. By all that's good, I can have no happiness but what's in your
power to grant me! Nor shall I ever feel repentance but in not having
seen your merits before. I will stay even contrary to your wishes; and
though you should persist to shun me, I will make my respectful
assiduities atone for the levity of my past conduct.
MISS HARDCASTLE. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. As our
acquaintance began, so let it end, in indifference. I might have
given an hour or two to levity; but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you
think I could ever submit to a connexion where I must appear
mercenary, and you imprudent? Do you think I could ever catch at the
confident addresses of a secure admirer?
MARLOW. (Kneeling. ) Does this look like security? Does this look
like confidence? No, madam, every moment that shows me your merit,
only serves to increase my diffidence and confusion. Here let me
continue----
SIR CHARLES. I can hold it no longer. Charles, Charles, how hast thou
deceived me! Is this your indifference, your uninteresting
conversation?
HARDCASTLE. Your cold contempt; your formal interview! What have you
to say now?
MARLOW. That I'm all amazement! What can it mean?
HARDCASTLE. It means that you can say and unsay things at pleasure:
that you can address a lady in private, and deny it in public: that you
have one story for us, and another for my daughter.
MARLOW. Daughter! --This lady your daughter?
HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, my only daughter; my Kate; whose else should she
be?
MARLOW. Oh, the devil!
MISS HARDCASTLE. Yes, sir, that very identical tall squinting lady you
were pleased to take me for (courtseying); she that you addressed as
the mild, modest, sentimental man of gravity, and the bold, forward,
agreeable Rattle of the Ladies' Club. Ha! ha! ha!
MARLOW. Zounds! there's no bearing this; it's worse than death!
MISS HARDCASTLE. In which of your characters, sir, will you give us
leave to address you? As the faltering gentleman, with looks on the
ground, that speaks just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy; or the loud
confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, and old Miss
Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morning? Ha! ha! ha!
MARLOW. O, curse on my noisy head. I never attempted to be impudent
yet, that I was not taken down. I must be gone.
HARDCASTLE. By the hand of my body, but you shall not. I see it was
all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to find it. You shall not, sir, I
tell you. I know she'll forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate?
We'll all forgive you. Take courage, man. (They retire, she
tormenting him, to the back scene. )
Enter MRS. HARDCASTLE and Tony.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. So, so, they're gone off. Let them go, I care not.
HARDCASTLE. Who gone?
MRS. HARDCASTLE. My dutiful niece and her gentleman, Mr. Hastings,
from town. He who came down with our modest visitor here.
SIR CHARLES. Who, my honest George Hastings? As worthy a fellow as
lives, and the girl could not have made a more prudent choice.
HARDCASTLE. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm proud of the connexion.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, if he has taken away the lady, he has not
taken her fortune; that remains in this family to console us for her
loss.
HARDCASTLE. Sure, Dorothy, you would not be so mercenary?
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, that's my affair, not yours.
HARDCASTLE. But you know if your son, when of age, refuses to marry
his cousin, her whole fortune is then at her own disposal.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Ay, but he's not of age, and she has not thought
proper to wait for his refusal.
Enter HASTINGS and MISS NEVILLE.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. (Aside. ) What, returned so soon! I begin not to
like it.
HASTINGS. (To HARDCASTLE. ) For my late attempt to fly off with your
niece let my present confusion be my punishment. We are now come back,
to appeal from your justice to your humanity. By her father's consent,
I first paid her my addresses, and our passions were first founded in
duty.
MISS NEVILLE. Since his death, I have been obliged to stoop to
dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an hour of levity, I was ready
to give up my fortune to secure my choice. But I am now recovered from
the delusion, and hope from your tenderness what is denied me from a
nearer connexion.
MRS. HARDCASTLE. Pshaw, pshaw! this is all but the whining end of a
modern novel.
HARDCASTLE. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're come back to reclaim
their due. Come hither, Tony, boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand
whom I now offer you?
TONY. What signifies my refusing? You know I can't refuse her till
I'm of age, father.
HARDCASTLE. While I thought concealing your age, boy, was likely to
conduce to your improvement, I concurred with your mother's desire to
keep it secret. But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must
now declare you have been of age these three months.
TONY. Of age! Am I of age, father?
HARDCASTLE. Above three months.
TONY. Then you'll see the first use I'll make of my liberty. (Taking
MISS NEVILLE's hand. ) Witness all men by these presents, that I,
Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire, of BLANK place, refuse you, Constantia
Neville, spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. So
Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, and Tony Lumpkin is his
own man again.
SIR CHARLES. O brave 'squire!
HASTINGS. My worthy friend!
MRS. HARDCASTLE. My undutiful offspring!
MARLOW. Joy, my dear George! I give you joy sincerely. And could I
prevail upon my little tyrant here to be less arbitrary, I should be
the happiest man alive, if you would return me the favour.
HASTINGS. (To MISS HARDCASTLE. ) Come, madam, you are now driven to
the very last scene of all your contrivances. I know you like him, I'm
sure he loves you, and you must and shall have him.
HARDCASTLE. (Joining their hands. ) And I say so too. And, Mr.
Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't
believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow
we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes
of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her;
and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may
never be mistaken in the wife. [Exeunt Omnes. ]
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD
A TALE
Supposed to be written by Himself
By Oliver Goldsmith
Sperate miseri, cavete faelices
ADVERTISEMENT
There are an hundred faults in this Thing, and an hundred things might
be said to prove them beauties. But it is needless. A book may be
amusing with numerous errors, or it may be very dull without a single
absurdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the three greatest
characters upon earth; he is a priest, an husbandman, and the father of
a family. He is drawn as ready to teach, and ready to obey, as simple
in affluence, and majestic in adversity. In this age of opulence and
refinement whom can such a character please? Such as are fond of
high life, will turn with disdain from the simplicity of his country
fire-side. Such as mistake ribaldry for humour, will find no wit in his
harmless conversation; and such as have been taught to deride religion,
will laugh at one whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH
CONTENTS
1. The description of the family of Wakefield; in which a
kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons
2. Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to
increase the pride of the worthy
3. A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are
generally found at last to be of our own procuring
4. A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant
happiness, which depends not on circumstance, but
constitution 5. A new and great acquaintance introduced.
What we place most hopes upon generally proves most fatal
6. The happiness of a country fire-side
7. A town wit described. The dullest fellows may learn to be
comical for a night or two
8. An amour, which promises little good fortune, yet may be
productive of much
9. Two ladies of great distinction introduced. Superior
finery ever seems to confer superior breeding
10. The family endeavours to cope with their betters. The
miseries of the poor when they attempt to appear above their
circumstances
11. The family still resolve to hold up their heads
12. Fortune seems resolved to humble the family of
Wakefield. Mortifications are often more painful than real
calamities
13. Mr Burchell is found to be an enemy; for he has the
confidence to give disagreeable advice
14. Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming
calamities may be real blessings
15. All Mr Burchell’s villainy at once detected. The folly
of being-over-wise
16. The Family use art, which is opposed with still greater
17. Scarce any virtue found to resist the power of long and
pleasing temptation 18. The pursuit of a father to reclaim a
lost child to virtue
19. The description of a Person discontented with the
present government, and apprehensive of the loss of our
liberties
20. The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty,
but losing content
21. The short continuance of friendship among the vicious,
which is coeval only with mutual satisfaction
22. Offences are easily pardoned where there is love at
bottom
23. None but the guilty can be long and completely miserable
24. Fresh calamities
25. No situation, however wretched it seems, but has some
sort of comfort attending it
26. A reformation in the gaol. To make laws complete, they
should reward as well as punish
27. The same subject continued
28. Happiness and misery rather the result of prudence than
of virtue in this life. Temporal evils or felicities being
regarded by heaven as things merely in themselves trifling
and unworthy its care in the distribution
29. The equal dealings of providence demonstrated with
regard to the happy and the miserable here below. That from
the nature of pleasure and pain, the wretched must be repaid
the balance of their sufferings in the life hereafter
30. Happier prospects begin to appear. Let us be inflexible,
and fortune will at last change in our favour
31. Former benevolence now repaid with unexpected interest
32. The Conclusion
CHAPTER 1
The description of the family of Wakefield; in which a
kindred likeness prevails as well of minds as of persons
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.
CHAPTER 2
Family misfortunes. The loss of fortune only serves to
encrease the pride of the worthy
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.
CHAPTER 3
A migration. The fortunate circumstances of our lives are
generally found at last to be of our own procuring
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.
