No More Learning

He would prevent my girls from
going to town, that he may have the pleasure of my youngest daughter’s
company here at home. But whatever happens, she shall chuse better
company than such low-lived fellows as he. ’--‘Low-lived, my dear, do
you call him,’ cried I, ‘it is very possible we may mistake this man’s
character: for he seems upon some occasions the most finished gentleman
I ever knew. --Tell me, Sophia, my girl, has he ever given you any secret
instances of his attachment? ’--‘His conversation with me, sir,’ replied
my daughter, ‘has ever been sensible, modest, and pleasing. As to aught
else, no, never. Once, indeed, I remember to have heard him say he never
knew a woman who could find merit in a man that seemed poor. ’ ‘Such, my
dear,’ cried I, ‘is the common cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But
I hope you have been taught to judge properly of such men, and that it
would be even madness to expect happiness from one who has been so
very bad an oeconomist of his own. Your mother and I have now better
prospects for you. The next winter, which you will probably spend in
town, will give you opportunities of making a more prudent choice. ’
What Sophia’s reflections were upon this occasion, I can’t pretend to
determine; but I was not displeased at the bottom that we were rid of a
guest from whom I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went to my
conscience a little: but I quickly silenced that monitor by two or three
specious reasons, which served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself.
The pain which conscience gives the man who has already done wrong,
is soon got over. Conscience is a coward, and those faults it has not
strength enough to prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse.



CHAPTER 14

Fresh mortifications, or a demonstration that seeming
calamities may be real blessings


The journey of my daughters to town was now resolved upon, Mr Thornhill
having kindly promised to inspect their conduct himself, and inform us
by letter of their behaviour. But it was thought indispensably necessary
that their appearance should equal the greatness of their expectations,
which could not be done without expence. We debated therefore in
full council what were the easiest methods of raising money, or,
more properly speaking, what we could most conveniently sell. The
deliberation was soon finished, it was found that our remaining horse
was utterly useless for the plow, without his companion, and equally
unfit for the road, as wanting an eye, it was therefore determined
that we should dispose of him for the purposes above-mentioned, at the
neighbouring fair, and, to prevent imposition, that I should go with him
myself. Though this was one of the first mercantile transactions of my
life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting myself with reputation. The
opinion a man forms of his own prudence is measured by that of the
company he keeps, and as mine was mostly in the family way, I had
conceived no unfavourable sentiments of my worldly wisdom. My wife,
however, next morning, at parting, after I had got some paces from the
door, called me back, to advise me, in a whisper, to have all my eyes
about me. I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, put my
horse through all his paces; but for some time had no bidders. At last
a chapman approached, and, after he had for a good while examined the
horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would have nothing to say
to him: a second came up; but observing he had a spavin, declared he
would not take him for the driving home: a third perceived he had a
windgall, and would bid no money: a fourth knew by his eye that he had
the botts: a fifth, wondered what a plague I could do at the fair with
a blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be cut up for a
dog kennel. ’ By this time I began to have a most hearty contempt for
the poor animal myself, and was almost ashamed at the approach of every
customer; for though I did not entirely believe all the fellows told me;
yet I reflected that the number of witnesses was a strong presumption
they were right, and St Gregory, upon good works, professes himself to
be of the same opinion.

I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother clergyman, an old
acquaintance, who had also business to the fair, came up, and shaking me
by the hand, proposed adjourning to a public-house and taking a glass of
whatever we could get. I readily closed with the offer, and entering an
ale-house, we were shewn into a little back room, where there was only a
venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over a large book, which he
was reading. I never in my life saw a figure that prepossessed me more
favourably. His locks of silver grey venerably shaded his temples, and
his green old age seemed to be the result of health and benevolence.
However, his presence did not interrupt our conversation; my friend and
I discoursed on the various turns of fortune we had met: the Whistonean
controversy, my last pamphlet, the archdeacon’s reply, and the hard
measure that was dealt me. But our attention was in a short time taken
off by the appearance of a youth, who, entering the room, respectfully
said something softly to the old stranger. ‘Make no apologies, my
child,’ said the old man, ‘to do good is a duty we owe to all our fellow
creatures: take this, I wish it were more; but five pounds will relieve
your distress, and you are welcome. ’ The modest youth shed tears of
gratitude, and yet his gratitude was scarce equal to mine. I could have
hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevolence pleased me so. He
continued to read, and we resumed our conversation, until my companion,
after some time, recollecting that he had business to transact in the
fair, promised to be soon back; adding, that he always desired to have
as much of Dr Primrose’s company as possible. The old gentleman, hearing
my name mentioned, seemed to look at me with attention, for some time,
and when my friend was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was any way
related to the great Primrose, that courageous monogamist, who had been
the bulwark of the church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture than
at that moment. ‘Sir,’ cried I, ‘the applause of so good a man, as I am
sure you are, adds to that happiness in my breast which your benevolence
has already excited. You behold before you, Sir, that Doctor Primrose,
the monogamist, whom you have been pleased to call great. You here see
that unfortunate Divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me to
say, successfully, fought against the deuterogamy of the age. ’ ‘Sir,’
cried the stranger, struck with awe, ‘I fear I have been too familiar;
but you’ll forgive my curiosity, Sir: I beg pardon. ’ ‘Sir,’ cried
I, grasping his hand, ‘you are so far from displeasing me by your
familiarity, that I must beg you’ll accept my friendship, as you already
have my esteem. ’--‘Then with gratitude I accept the offer,’ cried he,
squeezing me by the hand, ‘thou glorious pillar of unshaken orthodoxy;
and do I behold--’ I here interrupted what he was going to say; for
tho’, as an author, I could digest no small share of flattery, yet now
my modesty would permit no more. However, no lovers in romance ever
cemented a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon several
subjects: at first I thought he seemed rather devout than learned, and
began to think he despised all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no way
lessened him in my esteem; for I had for some time begun privately to
harbour such an opinion myself. I therefore took occasion to observe,
that the world in general began to be blameably indifferent as to
doctrinal matters, and followed human speculations too much--‘Ay, Sir,’
replied he, as if he had reserved all his learning to that moment, ‘Ay,
Sir, the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or creation of
the world has puzzled philosophers of all ages. What a medly of opinions
have they not broached upon the creation of the world? Sanconiathon,
Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, have all attempted it in vain.
The latter has these words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, which
imply that all things have neither beginning nor end. Manetho also,
who lived about the time of Nebuchadon-Asser, Asser being a Syriac word
usually applied as a sirname to the kings of that country, as Teglat
Phael-Asser, Nabon-Asser, he, I say, formed a conjecture equally absurd;
for as we usually say ek to biblion kubernetes, which implies that books
will never teach the world; so he attempted to investigate--But, Sir, I
ask pardon, I am straying from the question. ’--That he actually was; nor
could I for my life see how the creation of the world had any thing to
do with the business I was talking of; but it was sufficient to shew me
that he was a man of letters, and I now reverenced him the more. I was
resolved therefore to bring him to the touch-stone; but he was too mild
and too gentle to contend for victory. Whenever I made any observation
that looked like a challenge to controversy, he would smile, shake his
head, and say nothing; by which I understood he could say much, if
he thought proper. The subject therefore insensibly changed from the
business of antiquity to that which brought us both to the fair; mine I
told him was to sell an horse, and very luckily, indeed, his was to buy
one for one of his tenants. My horse was soon produced, and in fine we
struck a bargain. Nothing now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly
pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me change it. Not being in a
capacity of complying with his demand, he ordered his footman to be
called up, who made his appearance in a very genteel livery. ‘Here,
Abraham,’ cried he, ‘go and get gold for this; you’ll do it at neighbour
Jackson’s, or any where. ’ While the fellow was gone, he entertained
me with a pathetic harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I
undertook to improve, by deploring also the great scarcity of gold; so
that by the time Abraham returned, we had both agreed that money was
never so hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned to inform us, that
he had been over the whole fair and could not get change, tho’ he had
offered half a crown for doing it. This was a very great disappointment
to us all; but the old gentleman having paused a little, asked me if I
knew one Solomon Flamborough in my part of the country: upon replying
that he was my next door neighbour, ‘if that be the case then,’ returned
he, ‘I believe we shall deal. You shall have a draught upon him, payable
at sight; and let me tell you he is as warm a man as any within five
miles round him. Honest Solomon and I have been acquainted for many
years together. I remember I always beat him at threejumps; but he could
hop upon one leg farther than I. ’ A draught upon my neighbour was to me
the same as money; for I was sufficiently convinced of his ability:
the draught was signed and put into my hands, and Mr Jenkinson, the old
gentleman, his man Abraham, and my horse, old Blackberry, trotted off
very well pleased with each other.

After a short interval being left to reflection, I began to recollect
that I had done wrong in taking a draught from a stranger, and so
prudently resolved upon following the purchaser, and having back my
horse. But this was now too late: I therefore made directly homewards,
resolving to get the draught changed into money at my friend’s as fast
as possible. I found my honest neighbour smoking his pipe at his own
door, and informing him that I had a small bill upon him, he read
it twice over. ‘You can read the name, I suppose,’ cried I, ‘Ephraim
Jenkinson. ’ ‘Yes,’ returned he, ‘the name is written plain enough, and I
know the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under the canopy of heaven.
This is the very same rogue who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a
venerable looking man, with grey hair, and no flaps to his pocket-holes?
And did he not talk a long string of learning about Greek and cosmogony,
and the world? ’ To this I replied with a groan. ‘Aye,’ continued he, ‘he
has but that one piece of learning in the world, and he always talks it
away whenever he finds a scholar in company; but I know the rogue, and
will catch him yet. ’ Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my
greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and daughters. No
truant was ever more afraid of returning to school, there to behold the
master’s visage, than I was of going home. I was determined, however, to
anticipate their fury, by first falling into a passion myself.

But, alas! upon entering, I found the family no way disposed for battle.
My wife and girls were all in tears, Mr Thornhill having been there that
day to inform them, that their journey to town was entirely over. The
two ladies having heard reports of us from some malicious person about
us, were that day set out for London. He could neither discover the
tendency, nor the author of these, but whatever they might be, or
whoever might have broached them, he continued to assure our family of
his friendship and protection. I found, therefore, that they bore
my disappointment with great resignation, as it was eclipsed in the
greatness of their own. But what perplexed us most was to think who
could be so base as to asperse the character of a family so harmless as
ours, too humble to excite envy, and too inoffensive to create disgust.



CHAPTER 15

All, Mr Burchell’s villainy at once detected. The folly of
being over-wise


That evening and a part of the following day was employed in fruitless
attempts to discover our enemies: scarce a family in the neighbourhood
but incurred our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for our opinion
best known to ourselves. As we were in this perplexity, one of our
little boys, who had been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case,
which he found on the green. It was quickly known to belong to Mr
Burchell, with whom it had been seen, and, upon examination, contained
some hints upon different subjects; but what particularly engaged our
attention was a sealed note, superscribed, ‘The copy of a letter to be
sent to the two ladies at Thornhill-castle. ’ It instantly occurred that
he was the base informer, and we deliberated whether the note should not
be broke open. I was against it; but Sophia, who said she was sure
that of all men he would be the last to be guilty of so much baseness,
insisted upon its being read, In this she was seconded by the rest of
the family, and, at their joint solicitation, I read as follows:--

‘Ladies,--The bearer will sufficiently satisfy you as to the person
from whom this comes: one at least the friend of innocence, and ready to
prevent its being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you have
some intention of bringing two young ladies to town, whom I have some
knowledge of, under the character of companions. As I would neither have
simplicity imposed upon, nor virtue contaminated, I must offer it as
my opinion, that the impropriety of such a step will be attended with
dangerous consequences. It has never been my way to treat the infamous
or the lewd with severity; nor should I now have taken this method of
explaining myself, or reproving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take
therefore the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on the
consequences of introducing infamy and vice into retreats where peace
and innocence have hitherto resided. ’ Our doubts were now at an end.
There seemed indeed something applicable to both sides in this letter,
and its censures might as well be referred to those to whom it was
written, as to us; but the malicious meaning was obvious, and we went no
farther. My wife had scarce patience to hear me to the end, but railed
at the writer with unrestrained resentment. Olivia was equally severe,
and Sophia seemed perfectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it
appeared to me one of the vilest instances of unprovoked ingratitude
I had met with. Nor could I account for it in any other manner than
by imputing it to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in the
country, to have the more frequent opportunities of an interview. In
this manner we all sate ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when
our other little boy came running in to tell us that Mr Burchell was
approaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than
describe the complicated sensations which are felt from the pain of
a recent injury, and the pleasure of approaching vengeance. Tho’ our
intentions were only to upbraid him with his ingratitude; yet it was
resolved to do it in a manner that would be perfectly cutting. For this
purpose we agreed to meet him with our usual smiles, to chat in the
beginning with more than ordinary kindness, to amuse him a little;
and then in the midst of the flattering calm to burst upon him like an
earthquake, and overwhelm him with the sense of his own baseness. This
being resolved upon, my wife undertook to manage the business herself,
as she really had some talents for such an undertaking. We saw him
approach, he entered, drew a chair, and sate down. --‘A fine day, Mr
Burchell. ’--‘A very fine day, Doctor; though I fancy we shall have some
rain by the shooting of my corns. ’--‘The shooting of your horns,’ cried
my wife, in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked pardon for being fond
of a joke. --‘Dear madam,’ replied he, ‘I pardon you with all my heart;
for I protest I should not have thought it a joke had you not told
me. ’--‘Perhaps not, Sir,’ cried my wife, winking at us, ‘and yet I dare
say you can tell us how many jokes go to an ounce. ’--‘I fancy, madam,’
returned Burchell, ‘you have been reading a jest book this morning, that
ounce of jokes is so very good a conceit; and yet, madam, I had rather
see half an ounce of understanding. ’--‘I believe you might,’ cried my
wife, still smiling at us, though the laugh was against her; ‘and yet
I have seen some men pretend to understanding that have very
little. ’--‘And no doubt,’ replied her antagonist, ‘you have known ladies
set up for wit that had none. ’--I quickly began to find that my wife was
likely to gain but little at this business; so I resolved to treat him
in a stile of more severity myself. ‘Both wit and understanding,’ cried
I, ‘are trifles, without integrity: it is that which gives value to
every character. The ignorant peasant, without fault, is greater than
the philosopher with many; for what is genius or courage without an
heart? An honest man is the noblest work of God.

‘I always held that hackney’d maxim of Pope,’ returned Mr Burchell,
‘as very unworthy a man of genius, and a base desertion of his own
superiority. As the reputation of books is raised not by their freedom
from defect, but the greatness of their beauties; so should that of
men be prized not for their exemption from fault, but the size of
those virtues they are possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the
statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity; but shall we
prefer to these the low mechanic, who laboriously plods on through life,
without censure or applause? We might as well prefer the tame correct
paintings of the Flemish school to the erroneous, but sublime animations
of the Roman pencil. ’

‘Sir,’ replied I, ‘your present observation is just, when there are
shining virtues and minute defects; but when it appears that great
vices are opposed in the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a
character deserves contempt. ’ ‘Perhaps,’ cried he, ‘there may be some
such monsters as you describe, of great vices joined to great virtues;
yet in my progress through life, I never yet found one instance of their
existence: on the contrary, I have ever perceived, that where the mind
was capacious, the affections were good. And indeed Providence
seems kindly our friend in this particular, thus to debilitate the
understanding where the heart is corrupt, and diminish the power where
there is the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend even to
other animals: the little vermin race are ever treacherous, cruel, and
cowardly, whilst those endowed with strength and power are generous,
brave, and gentle. ’

‘These observations sound well,’ returned I, ‘and yet it would be easy
this moment to point out a man,’ and I fixed my eye stedfastly upon
him, ‘whose head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, Sir,’
continued I, raising my voice, ‘and I am glad to have this opportunity
of detecting him in the midst of his fancied security. Do you know
this, Sir, this pocket-book? ’--‘Yes, Sir,’ returned he, with a face of
impenetrable assurance, ‘that pocket-book is mine, and I am glad you
have found it. ’--‘And do you know,’ cried I, ‘this letter? Nay, never
falter man; but look me full in the face: I say, do you know this
letter? ’--‘That letter,’ returned he, ‘yes, it was I that wrote that
letter. ’--‘And how could you,’ said I, ‘so basely, so ungratefully
presume to write this letter? ’--‘And how came you,’ replied he, with
looks of unparallelled effrontery, ‘so basely to presume to break open
this letter? Don’t you know, now, I could hang you all for this? All
that I have to do, is to swear at the next justice’s, that you have been
guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket-book, and so hang you all
up at his door. ’ This piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a
pitch, that I could scare govern my passion. ‘Ungrateful wretch, begone,
and no longer pollute my dwelling with thy baseness. Begone, and never
let me see thee again: go from my doors, and the only punishment I wish
thee is an allarmed conscience, which will be a sufficient tormentor! ’
So saying, I threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a smile,
and shutting the clasps with the utmost composure, left us, quite
astonished at the serenity of his assurance. My wife was particularly
enraged that nothing could make him angry, or make him seem ashamed of
his villainies. ‘My dear,’ cried I, willing to calm those passions that
had been raised too high among us, ‘we are not to be surprised that bad
men want shame; they only blush at being detected in doing good, but
glory in their vices.

‘Guilt and shame, says the allegory, were at first companions, and in
the beginning of their journey inseparably kept together. But their
union was soon found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both; guilt
gave shame frequent uneasiness, and shame often betrayed the secret
conspiracies of guilt. After long disagreeement, therefore, they at
length consented to part for ever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone,
to overtake fate, that went before in the shape of an executioner:
but shame being naturally timorous, returned back to keep company with
virtue, which, in the beginning of their journey, they had left behind.
Thus, my children, after men have travelled through a few stages in
vice, shame forsakes them, and returns back to wait upon the few virtues
they have still remaining. ’



CHAPTER 16

Family use art, which is opposed with, still greater


Whatever might have been Sophia’s sensations, the rest of the family
was easily consoled, for Mr Burchell’s absence by the company of our
landlord, whose visits now became more frequent and longer. Though he
had been disappointed in procuring my daughters the amusements of the
town, as he designed, he took every opportunity of supplying them with
those little recreations which our retirement would admit of. He usually
came in the morning, and while my son and I followed our occupations
abroad, he sat with the family at home, and amused them by describing
the town, with every part of which he was particularly acquainted. He
could repeat all the observations that were retailed in the atmosphere
of the playhouses, and had all the good things of the high wits by rote
long before they made way into the jest-books. The intervals between
conversation were employed in teaching my daughters piquet, or sometimes
in setting my two little ones to box to make them sharp, as he called
it: but the hopes of having him for a son-in-law, in some measure
blinded us to all his imperfections. It must be owned that my wife laid
a thousand schemes to entrap him, or, to speak it more tenderly, used
every art to magnify the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea eat
short and crisp, they were made by Olivia: if the gooseberry wine was
well knit, the gooseberries were of her gathering: it was her fingers
which gave the pickles their peculiar green; and in the composition of
a pudding, it was her judgment that mix’d the ingredients. Then the poor
woman would sometimes tell the ‘Squire, that she thought him and Olivia
extremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see which was
tallest. These instances of cunning, which she thought impenetrable, yet
which every body saw through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who
gave every day some new proofs of his passion, which though they had not
arisen to proposals of marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of
it; and his slowness was attributed sometimes to native bashfulness, and
sometimes to his fear of offending his uncle. An occurrence, however,
which happened soon after, put it beyond a doubt that he designed
to become one of our family, my wife even regarded it as an absolute
promise.

My wife and daughters happening to return a visit to neighbour
Flamborough’s, found that family had lately got their pictures drawn
by a limner, who travelled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen
shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a sort of rivalry in
point of taste, our spirit took the alarm at this stolen march upon us,
and notwithstanding all I could say, and I said much, it was resolved
that we should have our pictures done too. Having, therefore, engaged
the limner, for what could I do? our next deliberation was to shew
the superiority of our taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbour’s
family, there were seven of them, and they were drawn with seven
oranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety in life, no composition
in the world. We desired to have something in a brighter style, and,
after many debates, at length came to an unanimous resolution of being
drawn together, in one large historical family piece. This would be
cheaper, since one frame would serve for all, and it would be infinitely
more genteel; for all families of any taste were now drawn in the same
manner. As we did not immediately recollect an historical subject to hit
us, we were contented each with being drawn as independent historical
figures. My wife desired to be represented as Venus, and the painter was
desired not to be too frugal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair.
Her two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side, while I, in
my gown and band, was to present her with my books on the Whistonian
controversy. Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon, sitting upon a bank of
flowers, drest in a green joseph, richly laced with gold, and a whip
in her hand. Sophia was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the
painter could put in for nothing; and Moses was to be drest out with an
hat and white feather. Our taste so much pleased the ‘Squire, that
he insisted on being put in as one of the family in the character of
Alexander the great, at Olivia’s feet. This was considered by us all as
an indication of his desire to be introduced into the family, nor could
we refuse his request. The painter was therefore set to work, and as he
wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less than four days the whole
was compleated. The piece was large, and it must be owned he did not
spare his colours; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. We
were all perfectly satisfied with his performance; but an unfortunate
circumstance had not occurred till the picture was finished, which now
struck us with dismay. It was so very large that we had no place in the
house to fix it. How we all came to disregard so material a point is
inconceivable; but certain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The
picture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we hoped,
leaned, in a most mortifying manner, against the kitchen wall, where the
canvas was stretched and painted, much too large to be got through any
of the doors, and the jest of all our neighhours. One compared it to
Robinson Crusoe’s long-boat, too large to be removed; another thought
it more resembled a reel in a bottle; some wondered how it could be got
out, but still more were amazed how it ever got in.

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effectually raised more
malicious suggestions in many. The ‘Squire’s portrait being found united
with ours, was an honour too great to escape envy. Scandalous whispers
began to circulate at our expence, and our tranquility was continually
disturbed by persons who came as friends to tell us what was said of us
by enemies. These reports we always resented with becoming spirit; but
scandal ever improves by opposition.

We once again therefore entered into a consultation upon obviating the
malice of our enemies, and at last came to a resolution which had
too much cunning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this: as our
principal object was to discover the honour of Mr Thornhill’s addresses,
my wife undertook to sound him, by pretending to ask his advice in the
choice of an husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not found
sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was then resolved to
terrify him with a rival. To this last step, however, I would by no
means give my consent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances
that she would marry the person provided to rival him upon this
occasion, if he did not prevent it, by taking her himself. Such was
the scheme laid, which though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not
entirely approve.

The next time, therefore, that Mr Thornhill came to see us, my girls
took care to be out of the way, in order to give their mamma an
opportunity of putting her scheme in execution; but they only retired to
the next room, from whence they could over-hear the whole conversation:
My wife artfully introduced it, by observing, that one of the Miss
Flamboroughs was like to have a very good match of it in Mr Spanker. To
this the ‘Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that they who had
warm fortunes were always sure of getting good husbands: ‘But heaven
help,’ continued she, ‘the girls that have none. What signifies
beauty, Mr Thornhill? or what signifies all the virtue, and all the
qualifications in the world, in this age of self-interest? It is not,
what is she? but what has she? is all the cry. ’

‘Madam,’ returned he, ‘I highly approve the justice, as well as the
novelty, of your remarks, and if I were a king, it should be otherwise.
It should then, indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes:
our two young ladies should be the first for whom I would provide. ’ ‘Ah,
Sir!
’ returned my wife, ‘you are pleased to be facetious: but I wish I
were a queen, and then I know where my eldest daughter should look for
an husband. But now, that you have put it into my head, seriously Mr
Thornhill, can’t you recommend me a proper husband for her? She is now
nineteen years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my humble
opinion, does not want for parts. ’ ‘Madam,’ replied he, ‘if I were to
chuse, I would find out a person possessed of every accomplishment
that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, fortune, taste, and
sincerity, such, madam, would be, in my opinion, the proper husband. ’
‘Ay, Sir,’ said she, ‘but do you know of any such person? ’--‘No, madam,’
returned he, ‘it is impossible to know any person that deserves to be
her husband: she’s too great a treasure for one man’s possession: she’s
a goddess. Upon my soul, I speak what I think, she’s an angel. ’--‘Ah, Mr
Thornhill, you only flatter my poor girl: but we have been thinking of
marrying her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately dead, and
who wants a manager: you know whom I mean, farmer Williams; a warm man,
Mr Thornhill, able to give her good bread; and who has several times
made her proposals: (which was actually the case) but, Sir,’ concluded
she, ‘I should be glad to have your approbation of our choice. ’--‘How,
madam,’ replied he, ‘my approbation! My approbation of such a choice!
Never. What! Sacrifice so much beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a
creature insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never approve of
such a piece of injustice And I have my reasons! ’--‘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.