No More Learning

’--‘Indeed, Sir,’ cried
Deborah, ‘if you have your reasons, that’s another affair; but I should
be glad to know those reasons. ’--‘Excuse me, madam,’ returned he, ‘they
lie too deep for discovery: (laying his hand upon his bosom) they remain
buried, rivetted here. ’

After he was gone, upon general consultation, we could not tell what to
make of these fine sentiments. Olivia considered them as instances of
the most exalted passion; but I was not quite so sanguine: it seemed to
me pretty plain, that they had more of love than matrimony in them: yet,
whatever they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the scheme
of farmer Williams, who, from my daughter’s first appearance in the
country, had paid her his addresses.



CHAPTER 17

Scarce any virtue found to resist the power of long and
pleasing temptation

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

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

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

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 18

The pursuit of a father to reclaim a lost child to virtue


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

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

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



CHAPTER 19

The description of a person discontented with the present
government, and apprehensive of the loss of our liberties


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER 20

The history of a philosophic vagabond, pursuing novelty, but
losing content


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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